Here's the second part of the reprint of Shards Still Falling, an article I wrote back in 2003 when I was young and relatively idealistic.  (Read part one here.) My life was in shambles when I did this piece.  I had just spent 9 months writing a novel while muddling through the disintegration of various aspects of my personal and professional life - deaths, business failures, break-ups, rejections, etc.  Then I spent 3 months surfing G-land and Desert Point and decided my life was pretty great after all, especially compared to lives more effected by still recent tragedies such as the Bali Bombings, War in Afghanistan, and 9/11.

G-Land. Photo: Dave Collyer/ Sickshots.com

The Aftermath of the Bali Bombings: Part 2 (Read part one here.)

The return trip from Grajagan to Kuta Beach takes about nine hours.  There isn’t much to do, once you become used to the beautiful and monotonous rice paddies and Balinese temples that stream by outside the car window.  You can listen to music.  You can talk to your companions.  And you can drink.  When I traveled back to Kuta in late September, the trip was particularly long.  By the time we reached the main street of Jalan Legian, the sun was setting beyond all the cells of commerce, and my Australian companions had been drinking long-neck Bintang beers for 11 hours.  They had started shortly before breakfast.  It’s always a strange feeling; returning to Kuta after weeks spent in the wilderness, surfing with monastic focus.  Nearly everything looks out of place in Kuta — garish, oversimplified, culturally insensitive.  But Kuta isn’t about style.  It’s about supply and demand, convenience and availability.  Driving down the main drag, one is mostly struck by how plentiful everything is — just how many stores there are, how many people, t-shirts, tattoos, restaurants, taxis, how many places where one might sit and drink with girls.  The girls, of course, are just as plentiful as anything else — Australian girls, Balinese girls, European girls, Japanese girls.  Shy tourist girls, wild party girls, two-week vacation girls and working girls.  As we drove into the heart of Kuta, already well and truly demolished from 11 hours of drinking, the consensus seemed to be that we should check into a hotel, and then regroup and proceed directly to more drinking, and the company of women.  I had a dim feeling at that point that any night so drenched in alcohol would eventually end poorly.

Javanese port on the boat from G-Land. Photo: Shayne Ferber

We checked into a hotel.  I remember being faintly aware that if we’d been there one year previously, we surely would have ended up at the Sari Club.  Blaine’s story of the bombing still rang true and raw in my head.  I wondered where it fit in the world of surfing and fun that I waded through.  The Sari Club gone now, mostly replaced by the Bounty, a very popular joint that has filled the cultural void left by the Sari Club.  That’s where we chose to go. Directly adjacent to the Bounty is the new Paddies Irish Pub, a few hundred yards from where its bombed predecessor stood.  The signs have chosen to refer to the new incarnation of the popular bar as “Paddies Reloaded” — a pop-culture homage to the Matrix Reloaded.  The Bounty is set well back from the street, while Paddies has an open-air feel with low surrounding walls; low enough walls that you could easily climb over them if you needed to.  Both bars also have security that is strict by Indonesian standards.  A gaggle of Balinese in blue and white sailor uniforms mill about on the street in front of the Bounty (named after HMS Bounty; one can only hope that employees of the bar are more loyal than the crew of the actual ship.)  The Balinese “sailors” mostly seem to stand around and look silly in their uniforms.  But, I infer that they also act as lookouts for suspicious activity.  In addition, a gentleman in fatigues searches backpacks and intimidates drunks with his quasi-army uniform.  As with most anti-terrorist measures, the new policies put in place at the Bounty and Paddies don’t preclude the chance of another attack.  However, they put some worries to rest, for at least some patrons.  By the time I staggered past the row of Balinese sailors, who looked like overgrown babies dressed by cruel grandparents, I was past the point of worrying about anything.

The Bali that used to be. Photo: Shayne Ferber

Alcohol has certainly done its fair share of work in assuaging the fears of partying tourists in Bali.  We entered the throb of music and writhing flesh that made up the Bounty’s dance floor.  It struck me that people in high-risk zones are much less concerned about the probability of a bombing when the likely target they are standing in serves strong mixed drinks.  I took a good look around.  I drank deeply from my beer and studied the faces of the people surrounding me.  No one looked worried about terrorism.  Most of the people were young and smiling, and many were clearly drunk, like myself.  People from all over the world — as there had been on the night of October 12, 2002, at the Sari Club.  People from 22 different countries died that night.  Although most of the patrons at the Bounty were young, it seemed to me that they shared very few qualities, beyond that — they did not speak the same languages, worship the same gods, or believe in the same political systems.  They were not soldiers or activists.  All they really seemed to share was a cheerful commitment to hedonism, for at least one night.  As they danced and laughed and drank and swooned, it seemed very strange to me that anyone would sanely earmark this group for extermination; make targets out of these happy people.  It seemed so futile, in that drunken moment; the concept of trying to kill them.  There I was, a year later, and people were having the time of their lives, sweating and dancing and living, just as they had been on the night of the bombing.  Perhaps the masterminds behind the bombing had decided to declare a futile war against a concept, like their adversaries.  Instead of a War on Terrorism, they had decided to declare a War on Fun.  A war on dancing and surfing and drinking; a war on the evil sins that spring from commercialism.  Watching everyone dance, it occurred to me that the story of the Bali Bombing was in truth much closer to the 80’s film Footloose than anyone had previously acknowledged.  It seemed such a strange and tragic thing.  I decided that talking to girls might bolster my spirits.

Homogenous art. Photo: Shayne Ferber

Too many choices can be a harrowing thing.  The Balinese seem to understand this well; most restaurants and shops do not try to be unique, instead they provide consistent options, usually serving the same food and selling the same trinkets as the store next door.  This consistency pervades Kuta beach; makes the town seem as if it’s built from lego blocks of stores, miles of alleys and vending stalls that are all nearly identical.  In darker moments, it makes Kuta seem like a cancerous growth, each cell of commerce repeated, replicated, growing always larger, the same faces streaming by on the same packs of motorbikes, the same t-shirts and hair braids on the same sun-burnt tourists.  I try to respect the oneness of Kuta for what it is; ordering the same dishes at different restaurants, buying the same Conello ice cream from a million different Circle K convenience stores.  That night, at the Bounty, as I looked out on the dance floor, I was harrowed and confused by the diversity of women.  I therefore decided to simplify matters by speaking only to European girls.

Girls at the Bounty. Photo: Shayne Ferber

The evening went well for me and my Australian friends, at least for the first four or so hours (these being the hours from 11pm to 3am, the 15th through 19th consecutive hours of drinking, for my companions).  In that golden little window, the whole scheme and culture of Kuta, this intricate socio-cultural dance laid before me, made an immense amount of sense.  Everyone seemed very happy.  When I finished a beer, one of my friends would appear soon enough with a fresh cold one.  Occasionally I was overwhelmed with gratitude, impressed by these Australians and their commitment to mateship; how they took me in and made me part of their cabal with so little trepidation.  I would then stagger to the bar and purchase a round, shocked as always by the convenient availability of alcohol and its corresponding low price.  All around me were beautiful tan young women.  I bounced from one group to the next, mindful to concentrate my efforts on the European women.  Inversely, my companions seemed to be focusing on Asian girls.  Two were committed to passing the time with Balinese girls.  Another, having recently learned how to say “hello” in Japanese, danced and gestured almost exclusively with Japanese girls.  The music was very loud and I found myself screaming incoherently at Swedish and German tourists with blissful names like Sophie and Hilda.

The Bounty - Gates of Hell. Photo: Shayne Ferber

There was a pole with a round table around it in the middle of the club, and girls delighted in dancing around this pole, above the crowd, all eyes on them.  A beautiful, tall Balinese girl in tight jeans and a small top danced provocatively with a blond girl from Australia.  Even though their dance seemed choreographed, and attracted a large crowd of appreciative men, it didn’t occur to me until later that these girls were employed by the Bounty.  One of my Australian friends, Jezza,  jumped up on the table and placed himself between the two girls.  The girls played along for a few moments, and Jezza looked down at us, gave a knowing nod that seemed to express his certainty that he had seized a rare opportunity, and his boldness would shortly be rewarded.
There were a fair number of Balinese men on the dance floor, mostly young and tattooed, many with long hair and styles straight out of 1980’s MTV videos.  Of the rest of the men, about ninety percent were surfers, or at least dressed as if they were.  Everyone seemed to be drinking the house punch, a lethal mixed-drink made with syrupy fruit juices and Arak, a local hard liquor.  The Bounty served its potion in tall, thin, brightly colored plastic containers that were unbreakable and the size of a thermos.  I danced with a stunning Swedish college student, and she made me drink some of hers.  I should have grown suspicious at the fact that the potion no longer tasted horrible to me, as it would of on any sober night.  When the Swedish girl went to the restroom, I danced with her friends, one after another.   When the whole group reconvened I couldn’t remember for the life of me which girl I liked and which one liked me, although I was sure at this point that at least one of them was madly in love with me.  When certain recognizable songs came on, everyone became very excited and the energy on the dance floor seemed to increase.  I kissed one of the Swedish girls for awhile, only to become distracted by unintelligible gibberish screamed at me by some deranged Israeli surfer I had met in Java.  The night went on like this for awhile.

Sari Club Memorial. Photo: Lewis Samuels

By 4am I felt terrible.  Although still cripplingly drunk, I was somehow able to survey the interior of the Bounty with a more sober, critical eye.  The club had largely emptied out.  In particular, very few tourist girls were left.  The humanity that remained consisted of weary Bounty employees in their sailor uniforms, very drunk men (including my friends) and local girls.  It suddenly seemed obvious to me that the Balinese girls still in attendance were undoubtedly prostitutes;  prostitutes who were having a slow frustrating night.  Among them were many obvious transvestites, referred to as benchongs.  These she-males are a common sight in Bali, and the more difficult to distinguish amongst them are legendary for surprising their clients.  The music still blared.  People were still dancing.  My head hurt.  I felt sick to my stomach.  It seemed only fitting to abandon my Australian mates and commence staggering home.
Escaping the Bounty proved to be a more difficult task than I had imagined.  As I stumbled towards the exit, prostitute after prostitute grabbed at my arms, hoping to close a last-minute deal.  My friends started screaming at me to come back, shouting that the night was still young.  They had the courage and fortitude that comes when you reach your 20th consecutive hour of drinking.  Men in ridiculous blue and white sailor uniforms with hats equally as silly implored me to have another drink.  I fended them all off and walked towards the street.  That was when the packs of benchongs descended, some of them such lazy benchong prostitutes that they hadn’t even bothered to shave their wispy mustaches.  How drunk did they think I was?  I tried to rush through their throng with a sense of purpose and a dour expression that conveyed my unwavering heterosexuality.  Once I got past them, the taxi drivers started harassing me with their usual cries of “transport, hallo mister, transport?”  Beyond them were another group of silly sailors, who incongruously bid me good evening and ended our exchange with that alone.  Now came the street hustlers, with their lists of possible wares: “Transport?  Motorbike?  Hashish?  Girl? You need girl?”  They all lowered their voice and spoke the last phrase in a sinister monotone, as if their refrain of “you need girl” was an apocalyptic prediction, instead of a question.  The last figures to approach me were beggars, impossibly impoverished mothers, holding babies with scabbed faces.  Their older children reached out and grabbed at the fabric of my shorts.  I gave them some rupiah coins, escaping finally into the narrow alley that led to my hotel.  My head still hurt, and my stomach felt terrible.  It struck me that there might be nothing worse than seeing reality with sober eyes when you are horribly, horribly drunk.  The whole place seemed sickeningly wrong to me now.  Immoral and depraved and definitely not worth dying for, as 202 people had the previous October.  These poor Balinese used to grow rice in majestic fields, and worship their Hindu gods in peace.  Look at them now.  In that moment I wanted to die surfing or saving innocent children or defending my family.  I wanted to undo what we surfers had done over the last 30 years in Bali.  Dying for a night at the Sari Club seemed to me to be an incalculably tragic thing.  I suddenly understood exactly what had made Blaine so sad the previous October.  Even worse, as I stumbled down the last stretch of that Kuta alley, I could almost understand how a devout Muslim could look at the Sari Club and believe that it needed to be struck down in the name of God.  I didn’t agree with that notion, but for a sick drunken moment, I understood.
(To be continued in future post…)