Merriment, Muumuus and Motorbikes

Mosquitos probably should have been an added to the above alliteration as well.  Apparently intaking my body weight in fresh fruit juice everyday has made my sweet, sweet blood irresistible to the local mosquitos.  They are impervious to bug spray, citronella candles and my fierce hatred for them.  Bastards.  I look like a festering leper.  No offense fellow lepers, but when the biters have become bold enough to get you in the stomach, titties and EYELIDS, it starts to take a toll on a lady.  It also doesn't help that I have exactly 0% self control; scratching the bites into highly irritated volcanos of red flesh.  That's why I am glad to announce that I have officially replaced the nutritious fruit juices for Johnny Walker Red Label.  

We are abundantly fortunate this Christmas since our friend Jade flew all the way from the motherland to meet us in Bali.  I was not previously aware of the bet, but I guess a special award goes to Jade for beating our other friend Nicolle to the blog.  A very prestigious accomplishment indeed.  You people need a hobby.  I suppose the draw of two hot females, a tropical beach and the birthday celebration of Sweet Baby Jesus was too much for her to resist. And how do you celebrate Christmas in a hot, Hindu land?  Muumuus.  Jade was the glowing recipient of a smoking, chartreuse muumuu from Saint Nicholas this morning.  I guess she narrowly escaped the Naughty List this year.  

Donning our new muumuu uniforms, we set out on motorbikes this morning to Dream Beach on Nusa Lembongan island.  In general, I am against putting my body on a motorbike in a country where there are almost as many motorbikes as people (unlike many of my statements, is not an exaggerated statistic).  The dense motorbike traffic is enough to intimidate me, especially when half of the operators are under twelve years old (a slightly exaggerated statistic) and motorbikes being the leading cause of hospital visits for tourists in this country (absolutely true).  Being the more economic way to travel, due to the superb gas milage, often you will see an entire family traveling down the freeway on a motorbike.  Dad drives with the baby on his lap, mom sits in modest and fancy side saddle position on the back, while the toddler stands up between them, clinging onto dad's back; no one is wearing a helmet.  I guess when you start driving these machines in primary school you tend to be pretty comfortable skirting around in this bustling metropolis.  Luckily the island of Nusa Lembongan is sparsely populated and prohibits any motorized vehicles besides the motorbikes.  Despite all this, it is still a Christmas miracle that I came home without any road rash or collision damage to pay for.  Hallelujah.  

I will admit, a touch of homesickness has crept into our tropical adventure.  I genuinely miss my family and friends during the holidays.  That said, I have zero complaints about spending Christmas getting a sunburn, breezing around on motorbikes and toasting Johnny Walker with some my favorite people on this earth.  

Merry Christmas!

Location: Wouldn't You Like to Know, Bali

Let me say upfront that I know most (all) of my posts are usually non-serious in nature and have a somewhat (really) sarcastic tone.   I've been struggling to compose this latest entry but I really have nothing to be facetious about.  There are no particularly funny stories or humorous tidbits.  My life has just been good.  Really good.  

The lack of funny stories may or may not directly correlate with our lack of drinking in this country.  After single handedly boosting the cider market in New Zealand, we have unintentionally taken a break from the liver abuse.  It was never a conscious or stated attempt to dry out, we just naturally found ourselves shuddering and curled up in the fetal position underneath the table when the waiter asked if we wanted a beer.  So naturally we do what most ten year olds would do while their parents are ordering poolside margaritas by ordering delicious, thirst quenching, fresh squeezed juice at EVERY meal (and Kelly couldn't figure out why she hasn't had a solid bowel movement in a week, ha!).  

While I may have sounded slightly overwhelmed when describing our first week here in Bali (ok, I was definitely overwhelmed), I am totally on the Bali train now.  As previously predicted, our lives have mainly been occupied with swimming in the ocean several times daily, eating to our hearts content for less than $10 a day, reading on the beach, yoga, tea time, cooking classes, daily massages and afternoon siestas.  How to make that into a funny story?  It's beyond me.  How to make this into a permanent lifestyle?  I'm working on it.  

The sole difficulty has been the inability to blend in.  Being overly pasty, sweaty and at least half a foot taller than everyone else, we just scream tourist.  Fundamentally rejecting the Teva-wearing tourist, we are clearly cultural scholars, it has been hard to accept that moniker.  Then you see your puffy reflection in the Starbucks' window and realize that you look exactly like every other camera toting ass-hat (Disclaimer: under no circumstances have we actually patronized a Starbucks).  So much so that everyone thinks we're sisters; the locals even make bets on whether or not we are twins.  We get the twin question at least three times a day.  At a minimum.  Yep, big, brunette, amazonian twins.  Thanks to our scholarly backgrounds and our refined optical sense for detail, we have never confused one asian person for another.  Never.

Most recently, Kelly and I found ourselves in a random, sleepy beach town.  I hesitate to even tell you where it is, because it is one of the few unspoiled areas in Bali (since this blog is so widely read, I wouldn't want the burden of being held personally responsible for the tourist boom).  It has yet to be overrun by tourists, the prices are incredibly low and the people are fantastic, hospitable and put up with the likes of us.  We are staying in the above pictured beachfront bungalow that we have nicknamed the "Honeymoon Sweet" for obvious reasons.  Kelly gets major points for finding this piece of paradise.  The look on the owners face when two ladies showed up to check in was not judgmental, but perhaps a little confused as why we would have choose such a romantic little get away rather than your typical, action packed, bar filled backpacker destination.  So we are politely asked the less awkward, and hopeful, segue question, "Are you sisters?"  

The hotel owner's sister in-law even makes house calls to our bungalow every morning.  They send over two masseuses after breakfast so Kelly and I can ease into our stressful day of lounging.  Again, I don't know why they'd get the impression that we're on our honeymoon.  Can't two girls just rent a romantic beach bungalow because it's cost effective?  What we call hobo-ing gets misconstrued as homo-ing these days.  I digress.  The massages, for the price of your frappaccino (yuck, another Starbuck reference!), are ultra thorough.  Perhaps too thorough?  Or maybe I'm just underestimating this culture's lack of boundaries.  Prior to this week, I didn't know butt crack tension existed nor do I know how one develops tension in this particular crevasse.  They, however, seem to dedicate some serious time to this condition during each session.  I'm not complaining, it feels nice-ish and I have to give it to them for their keen sense of adventure.  Kelly after proof-reading this would like me to add, for the record, that her masseuse has not entered her most holy of cracks and she remains untarnished in that respect.  Lucky me.  At least they use delicious coconut oil that keeps that area nicely scented and greased (too much?).  It's more than enough to convince us that a mid-morning swim is absolutely necessary.  There goes the two twin, oaf-sized, lovers taking a swim again.  

Cooking Class in Ubud

One of the billions of rice paddies here in Bali

Bali Bali Bali

To your obvious shock, Bali is vastly different from the Kiwi land we've come accustomed to in the past few months.  It is sizzling, humid and densely populated.  It feels busier than even Auckland during the World Cup finals.  Ok, a slight exaggeration, but I haven't been able to walk 50 feet without being asked if I need a taxi or a massage; sometimes both questions coming from the same person.  This description may initially sound like complaining, however, I assure you it is not.  We are, after all, in a tropical paradise.  The sun and beaches do wonders for your mood and skin.  Plus, who doesn't want a five dollar massage?  

It is definitely taking some adjustment though.  For example, the money situation is about as confusing as calculous is to a kindergartner (or your average grown adult).  Roughly $1 US is about 10,000 Rupiah.  I can't figure out how I feel about having a wad of 2.5 million in currency in my pocket; I go between feeling like a baller and just incredibly uncomfortable.  Other Balinese things that are taking some getting used to include: the food, the exhausting ritual of haggling for everything and monkeys.

We are currently in Ubud, which is home to the Monkey Forest.  Fairly self explanatory.  You are warned, repeatedly, not to have any food on you or in your bag; the sharp fanged and sometimes rabies harboring primates will not hesitate to take your Lunchable.  Of course, a fair number of camera toting morons will still bring in bananas in hopes to capture that Kodak moment where the monkey rips your face off.  Kelly was understandably wary and guarded upon entering the forest, whereas I was blissfully unaffected and entertaining myself by taking pictures of all the monkeys with oversized balls.   Don't worry, I've attached a picture below, you perverts.  

Monkey Forest, not just a clever name, is jammed packed with these vine swinging fur balls; you often have to step around a mother feeding her baby, one brother picking the lice out of the other brother's butt or the occasional monkey fight (monkey fights are just inherently funny, even if they do seem a little dangerous in person).  We had to cross a bridge that, not surprisingly, was a prime location to quite a few loitering monkeys.  To my shock, one of the big males suddenly snatched my upper arm in one of his eerily human like hands.  When I tried to pull away, he simply gave me a defying look and then latched on with his other hand as well.  Their faces are also too human like, the fact that I can say his expression was defiant is creepy simply because it is absolutely accurate.  So what do you do with a monkey who has now claimed your arm?  Well, I can tell you that yelling at it like you would your yellow lab is not effective.  "No", "bad monkey" and "get the fuck off my arm!" were definitely ignored.  I'm such a tourist to assume this guy was bilingual, but hell if I speak a word of Malay.  After quite sometime of arm tug-of-war, all the while I was thinking, "please don't bite me or climb on my hair", he finally relinquished my arm without leaving so much as a scratch.  Good thing, since I don't think I'm up to date on my rabies vaccination.  In the end, I think the miscommunication was that he simply thought he smelled food on me.  In actuality, I probably just smelled like a garlic laden Indian curry due to my deodorant's substandard effectiveness in this climate.    

End of an Era

Pig Organ Soup...mmmmmmmmm


If you happen to be reading this with an adult beverage in hand ('tis the season after all!) please pour one out for our dear friend whom we've recently deserted.  New Zealand, you may be the love of my life and I'm not sure I'll ever get over you.  The land of bountiful green landscapes, where the cheap cider flows like water and the compliments from the people (ah hem, men) massage even the most fragile egos into the most confident, arrogant ass holes (ah hem, us).  After two and a half months in the En Zed, I will miss it dearly for many reasons, largely because I don't think the men in South East Asia will adopt the Kiwi men's tradition of referring to me as "tiny".  

We found ourselves on the Equator this week.  A warm, sticky contrast to southernly New Zealand, Singapore is vastly different from our Kiwi comfort zone.  Whereas Kelly and I previously may have blended into the New Zealand countryside, here we stick out like a couple of turds in the public swimming pool.  

We arrived on a late flight and worried there would be no open place to dine at that time of night.  Because of the face melting humidity, it is actually more common for locals to tuck into their meals late when the sun isn't causing you to sweat into your pig organ soup.  Which, by the way, is delicious.  In attempts to impress myself, or to get a raging case of diarrhea, I ventured to try some of the more "authentic" local cuisine.  We were in town for such a short duration, I rationalized the spicy fish soup and pig organ soup as the cliché "When in Rome" motive.  I'm happy to report that all of the delicacies were some of the best food I've ever had, cost around $2 and did not give me a case of the boot scooting boogie...yet.  

The key take aways from our brief stint is that Singaporeans are food-aholics (there are more freaking food centers than people here), there are even more bats than food centers and it's hotter than Hade's balls; the one exception being our very, very air-conditioned hostel.  Kelly ended up wearing long pants, long sleeves and her HAT to bed.  Only then to wake up in the middle of the night to commandeer extra blankets from the closed reception desk in the wee hours of the morning.  The irony is not lost on us either.  

Today we are off to Bali to spend the duration of the year, in what we imagine, sipping umbrella festooned cocktails on lazy beaches, occasionally breaking to surf, swim and do yoga.  Can you say Namaste?  

Summer Camp

Ok kids, the Kiwi word of the day is "dagging".  A very important part of sheep farming, it is the bi-annual task of chasing down and then sheering off all the shit caked wool from the asses of your entire stock.  It is indeed as glamorous as it sounds.  Just when we thought our minds we done being blown here on the farm, we returned just in time for summer dagging.  Sexy.  

It is very sad to write that we have finally left the farm, for real this time.  As we are now faced with the reality of having to catch our flight to the next destination on our around the world ticket.  Our departure is filled with mixed emotions and I've spent a lot of time contemplating why leaving here is so difficult.

The best explanation I can surmise is that this place has been like adult summer camp.  All the same ridiculous activities (horseback riding, canoeing, bonfires), but without the booze bans, curfews or kumbaya.  In fact, drinking is encouraged, highly encouraged.  Stark improvements over my childhood summer getaways.  Even the activities themselves have been suped up for our adult enjoyment.  For example, midnight capture-the-flag is now midnight capture-the-pig.  Night time is apparently particularly conducive for pig hunting.  

Luckily Kelly and I actually followed some of the travel book's advice (no, not the part where they suggested only bringing three pairs of underwear) and brought headlamps.  I originally imagined using them for reading books or urgently trying to find the outhouse at night in a drunken stupor.  My baby blue and pink REI head lamp may have looked pansy in comparison to our hunting compatriot's high powered, gun metal head torch, but let me assure you it worked brilliantly for the rugged pig expedition.  I hesitate to mention that I had to jimmy rig it with duct tape to keep the batteries in place, piece of shit REI plastic.  

Pig hunting is largely just hiking into the rain forest and quietly waiting for the pig dogs to pick up a scent.  We were instructed  to wait quietly, not Kelly's strong suit, and listen for the high pitched squealing indicating the dogs had cornered some swine.  At such time we were supposed to take off like Rambo, bounding over fallen trees and sprinting through stinging nettles, to relieve our faithful hounds.  The first couple to reach the boar are supposed to grab it's hind legs, all the while avoiding be impaled by their gnarly tusks, and flip the porker onto it's back.  Oh sure.  The next person then runs in to "stick" the pig.  "Stick" is always the term that is used, but I'm not really sure why they try to soften the reality which is just stabbing them in the neck.  This is truly hands on combat hunting.  No guns, no bows and arrows.  

Alas the pig hunt was unfruitful and I never got the chance to actually grapple with a wild boar.  It was too still of a night and the dogs never were able to pick up a fresh trail.  I guess that's how summer camp goes sometimes.  It was still pretty satisfying to trek around in the pitch dark, looking for pig tracks and following the signs their routing like the early Native Americans, or so I imagine.

It is not hard to see why we are so devastated to leave our New Zealand playground.  With only one week left, we'll be making our way back to Auckland where we fly out to Bali.  I'm not sure we'll be able to top the shenanigans we've been getting into at the farm, but I'm sure we'll try...