Where's Jason?

Five straight days of Indonesia were tucked safely under our belts and into our cameras; it had been a hell of a trip. Seeing as Friday was our last night in Bali we agreed that it should be dominated on all fronts with undeniable style.

We were gonna party our asses off.

Scott was on a collision course with a few bars down the street that would have too many men in attendance for my liking. Apparently, our hotel was right next to the epicenter of that part of town. Maggie said she would be joining the illustrious Scott to observe him on his crusade for sweaty, gin fueled man-on-man adventures.

Jason and I, surprisingly, agreed to find our own entertainment. We jumped into a cab to check out a local club called Double Six. The grapevine had informed us that it was a good place for a couple of blokes on vacation to find some dancing and probably a girl. Maybe two. We planned to try our luck.

A bottle of Bintang passed between us as we recounted some of the more memorable moments of the week. The air conditioner in the aging taxi labored to bring the temperature to a more tolerable level. Then the taxi driver struck up a conversation with us. It began as all the others do with Where are you from? How long have you been in Bali? Where are you staying?, things like that. But then:

"Are you guys interested in getting a massage?"

Jason looked at me and raised his eyebrows.

"A massage?" I asked.

The driver looked at me in his rear-view mirror.

"A complete massage," he said. "Hotel included."

Ah, a complete massage, I thought. Pretty ballsy offer to two complete strangers; but somehow I didn't think this was the first occasion he had tried to peddle such...services. I politely declined and said I was just looking to go have a few drinks. Jason, however, was brimming with curiosity.

"I don't want the massage, man, but how much would it cost if I did?" was his question.

"Five hundred thousand rupiah," was the answer.

Fifty bucks. It sounded like a deal, but I'm not one to take shady deals with a head full of beer from Friday night cab drivers in foreign lands. We arrived at the club before we had a chance to change our minds.

Double Six is one of 4 night clubs on a dead end street across from an immense beach. We paid the driver and watched him trundle back down the dusty street to find other, more adventurous passengers. A stone wall to my left sat at the border of pavement and sand. Palm trees waved invitingly in the breeze. Waves rolled and broke in the shadows a quarter mile distant. This scene would have been rather peaceful if not for the dance music that was exploding out into the night.

I was immediately approached by one of the doormen. His face was deeply tanned and heavily creased. His hair was oiled and a cigarette was clamped firmly between his teeth. I got the impression he had seem some shit in his time.

"Hey boss, how're doin'?" he asked.

I was unsure what to make of him at first. In a neighborhood like that I assumed that open friendliness had ulterior motives, as I had seen in the cab. As I was about to see again.

"Is this Double Six?" I asked.

"Yes, yes," he said. "Out for a good time?"

I grinned. "That's the plan."

He smiled and stepped closer to me, reached into his pocket and produced a crumpled, plastic baggy. "What do you want?" he asked me. "Marijuana? Ecstasy? I have it all."

My eyes flickered to from the baggy, to Jason, to the doorman, and back to the baggy.

"Ah, no thanks," I said. "I'll stick to beer I think."He shrugged as if to say "Your loss, pal."

The signs at the airport threatening death for drug smugglers flashed through my mind.

I asked him, "Isn't that a dangerous job here? Selling that kind of...stuff?"

His answer was an emphatic no. He seemed genuinely surprised at my query.

Jason and I sat down with the beach at our backs and the night in our faces. I grabbed the beer and took a pull. We hadn't even gone into the club yet and already we'd slugged 4 bottles between us, been offered a small galaxy of drugs, and invited to check out some prostitutes. Which, as the night unfolded, wouldn't be our first encounter with working girls.

As it turned out, Double Six was closed wouldn't open back up until nearly midnight, so we had an hour or two the kill. However, the club next door was pumping dance music at a considerable volume and looked busy enough.

We had been joined by a very polite Frenchman whom I will call, Pierre. Pierre was maybe five foot six, twenty two but looked more like thirty five, and chain smoked Marlboro Reds. The three of us strode into Syndicate like we owned the place and arrowed straight for the bar. This was not as easy task as a private party of sorts was just beginning to wind down and the dance floor was mobbed with revelers.

The place reeked of cigarettes, booze, and sex. We slammed rum and cokes and tore through a few smokes before some girls did a live, walking, fashion show on the bar. It took me a few minutes to pick my jaw up from off the floor and mop the saliva from my face.

A serious buzz was climbing over my brain like a rabid baboon, but it was hard to slow down. Once that fire started in my veins it was tough to quench. I watched Jason moonwalk across the empyting dance floor. Pierre was trying to make conversation with a local bombshell in a tight red dress. She had a plastic tag hanging around her neck that said she did PR for the club. She was convincing Pierre to bring his friends (us), and his money next door to Double Six.

She didn't have to try very hard.

Yet, strange vibes were all around. There was an odd brand of energy going around the room that was starting to make my hackles rise. And Jason was completely fucked. His eyes looked glassy and his grin was perpetual and impish. Uh oh, I thought.

We shuffled back outside into the night. The palm trees were still waving their hellos and Double Six had sprouted several more hard looking men in dark t-shirts and pants. A pair of women wearing several pounds of make-up sat at a folding table at the front door. I suggested to Jason that considering his current state that maybe we ought to make an exit and return to the Galaxy, our hotel. But, he was not to be persuaded, and somehow slurred and glad-handed his way past the sentries and into Double Six.

I paid for both of us at the door. The bouncer at the front looked like I could have broken rocks on his face and he would have smiled before he ripped out my spleen. He was not amused that Jason insisted on repeatedly getting highfives and babbling at him in English, which I don't think he spoke a word of.

Outside the actual club there was a wide courtyard with a rectangular pool. Above the pool was tower that had to be over a hundred feet high. Another vacationer was bobbing up and down on a bungee cord and giggling feverishly. Pierre told me the pool was to dunk your head after you jumped. Apparently they would light your head on fire before you took the plunge.

People do odd things late at night.

The darkness inside the club was cut with pulsing lasers and intermittent strobes. The music was good, really good, and my head was bobbing before I reached the bar. Jason slapped his credit card down for all of our drinks and then started dancing. But not alone.

And man, she was built. Some women's underwear is longer than her shorts were and her "shirt" covered little more than her bra. Add four inch heels and the exotic edge of an Asian woman and you have a potent combination. She was laughing quite a bit either with, or at, Jason, and Pierre and I looked on over our drinks in envy.

He was a lucky son of a gun, that Jason. Who wouldn't want to have wandering hands on a girl like that? She knew exactly what to wear to the club to get the blood moving in any man, woman, or particularly precocious monkey. She could dance, too. Bumping and grinding like a real pro.

Hold on a second.

I waited for the love birds to take a break from dancing and hit the bar. Then I threw an arm around Jason's shoulders and leaned in close.

"Dude, I think that girl you're dancing with is a hooker."

He looked at her, then at me. His brows knitted together.

"Really?"

I nodded. "Definitely. Look at her."

I reminded him that he had no cash and working girls didn't take credit cards. At least, not that I knew of.

Now, when I said she was a hooker I didn't mean she was that decrepit street prowler that just ambled through your synapses. This particular girl seemed more like the type that had the looks, and the wardrobe, to hit the clubs and mooch drinks off tourists like us. If they seemed alright maybe she would return to their hotel for a few party favors; provided she received adequate monetary compensation.

And, despite my good-natured protests to the contrary, that very situation seemed to be happening. Jason's hands got busier and busier and he bought drink after drink. Then he was ready to leave with said girl in tow. I pulled her aside and assured her that Jason's wallet was very, very empty.

She smiled, and shrugged me off. Then they left.

I watched them walk out of Double Six hand in hand. This would not end simply.

Pierre and I nursed our drinks and smoked a few more cigarettes. That rum-crazed baboon was running wild inside my head. Maybe he was dancing, it was hard to tell.

The two of us approached a pair of girls and got them onto the dance floor. I remember the one I danced with had a ruffled, red, strapless dress, and big hoop earrings. The music had me firmly in its grip, there was no denying that. I had the dance fever and my condition was terminal. She frequently had to stop to get her breath back but I refused to stop moving. I normally don't dance very well and with a head full of booze I did what I could and I had a damn good time doing it; despite how absurd I probably looked to everyone else.

And much to my chagrin, I failed to heed my own advice.

Red-dress said we should go to another party in the next town over. I checked the time and was mildly dismayed to see it was nearly five in the morning. Having already gone through the panic of ordering drinks and barely having enough money I decided it was time to leave.

"I really like you," she said. "Do you have a hotel room?"

I grinned and said yes.

"But, if I go back with you, you should give me a present."

Her gaze was a intense and it took several seconds for this statement to slog its way through my brain.

"A present?" I asked.

"You should give me some money."

"Oh," I said. "I thought you said you liked me. Why do I have to give you money?"

"Well I don't have a job," she said.

I frowned. "That's not my problem."

"Maybe I should just go home and you should go back to your hotel, then." She looked agitated.

"Yea," I told her. "Maybe you're right."

She sniffed her disappointment and then stalked off. I shook my head trying to clear some of the fumes. Did that just really happen?

As I walked away from the club she tried to give me one last chance but got interrupted. Her less attractive, more intoxicated friend was waving her arms at me. Death was in her eyes and profanity poured from her mouth like dirty water from a drain pipe. I caught Pierre's name amid the deluge. I jerked my thumb over my shoulder and told her he was still inside.

This was not the answer she was looking for her tirade continued, increasing in intensity. People were starting to stare, including the hard-faced bouncers. So, in the words of the great Hunter S. Thompson, It was time, I felt, for an agonizing re-appraisal of the whole scene.

I ran.

A scooter taxi saw me coming and offered a ride for 10,000 rupiah. I told him five. He repeated ten.

"Five or I walk."

Leave it to me to haggle for a 3 minute scooter ride with hell's fury rattling her bracelets at my heels.

Thankfully the ride back was uneventful. I nearly kicked in the door for Maggie and Scott's room. Maggie had been sleeping and Scott was off somewhere gallivanting with shirtless men, or something. I paced back and forth in her room and drunkenly recanted the tale of Jason's disappearance. She listened to my rant and then gently suggested I get some sleep. I consented but then stood on the balcony outside our rooms and watched the sun rise.

I woke up a few hours later, in a chair on the balcony outside my room. I pounded some water and then moved inside to bed. The air conditioner rattled to life and I sank into unconsciousness. My sleep was dreamless and my waking was unpleasant. I felt like an army of cudgel wielding midgets had danced across my body and then mistaken my skull for a piñata. I was sore, thirsty, tired, and probably still drunk.

Jason's bed was empty.

Where's Jason? Jagged pieces of the night before clawed their way up through the haze. One was a vivid image of Jason and the girl leaving the club.

Shit.

I stumbled next door and found Maggie and Scott laying in bed. Maggie looked sleepy, but ok. Scott looked as though the same army of midgets had come his way, only they had been wielding bazookas.

"Where's Jason?" he asked.

I shrugged and gave him the short version of my night. He nodded weakly and agreed we could give him an hour or two before we could start to worry.

I went back to my room and packed Jason's bag, and then my own. Maggie and I had lunch in the bar, surrounded by more Aussie tourists. I could scarcely stand to look at their beers. I settled for ginger ale.

Scott paid for a few extra hours in one of the rooms we had just checked out of and slunk back upstairs to lick his wounds in the comfort of darkness and air conditioning. I watched the start of an AFL game and then started to get that nagging feeling of worry.

Maggie called Chris, who was still in Ubud an hour to the north, and asked his advice. He said give him some more time, if he wasn't back by 3pm he would drive down and help us sort it out. I drove Maggie and I back to Double Six and spent ten minutes or so grilling the barmen for any information.

No dice.

Where's Jason?

We went back to the Galaxy and checked on Scott. He was still suffering and now had the added burden of beginning to worry about our missing chum. Three o'clock came and went and Maggie phoned Chris. Scott and I collected our baggage and brought it downstairs before returning our rented bikes and then limping to the Starbucks in Kuda.

It was agreed that if Maggie and Jason didn't show up there by seven, Scott and I were to go to the airport and wait for everyone to show up for our 1am flight back to Taipei. Scott was still pretty worse for wear and spent most of those hours napping. I spent most of it grappling with worst case scenarios.

To our credit, we had avoided being consumed by the blind panic that can be birthed by situations like this. But how long would that last? This was exactly the kind of thing you read about but never think will happen to you. Even paradise can be wrought with nightmares. I tried to convince myself that he was fine, but couldn't. I imagined him face down in a rice paddy, or bleeding in an alley, or any of a dozen things that could have happened.

Where's Jason?

Scott and I waited until nearly eight-thirty. The the finality of going to the airport and admitting something horrible happened was too much for us in our current state. Then, I saw Maggie.

And walking in front of her, perfectly fine and wearing a sheepish grin, was Jason.

I walked over to him and hugged him, happy to see he was okay.

"Good to see you, you cunt," I said. And meant it.

Scott stared at him with disapproval, hugged him, and then blasted him with a clenched fist right in his solar plexus. I held his arms.

I had to ask him.

"Where the fuck were you, man?"

And he told me. He woke up with an exploding headache next to the girl from the bar, totally confused as to where he was. He remembered walking down numerous sketchy alleys with her and then taking a cab to her house. He agreed he easily could have been beaten, knifed, or otherwise maimed by a jealous boyfriend or angry older brother, and was extremely lucky to come through no worse for wear.

After the girl woke up she said Jason should pay her because maybe they did "something" the night before. He said there was no way he was paying for maybe. That was the only good decision he made that day.

But then did he simply leave? Did he mutter excuses and run out the door? Did he lock himself in the bathroom and then escape through a window? Nope.

He spent 4 hours walking around with her to different jewelry stores.

She suggested he buy her a ring of some sort and showed him quite a few that she liked. Did he make a run for it then? No, sir.

Then, as they walked past another shop, she paused.

"You could by me one of those," she said.

Jason said he looked in through the shop window and weighed his options. Finally, he saw a way out.

When Jason related this story to us we were in a cab on our way to dinner. Scott was up front and Maggie was sitting between us. I looked across the backseat at him.

"What did you buy her?"

He hesitated, and looked out the window.

"A hot plate," he said.

I blinked once. Twice.

"You paid a hooker, with a kitchen appliance?"

"Yea."

He looked at us with a mixture of disbelief and wry amusement. We couldn't help but laugh so hard we almost forgave him.

Almost.

Bali

Admittedly, before I went to Indonesia I knew very little about it. The name itself conjured images of komodo dragons, and of dark haired beauties carrying immense baskets of fruit atop their heads. I knew it was a chain of multiple islands, it was the biggest Muslim country in the word, and that it took five hours to fly there from Taipei.

The rest was up for speculation.

We arrived at our resort somewhere around 2 or 3 o'clock in the morning on a Sunday. After several Bintang beers we thought it prudent to take an after-hours, starlit swim in the pool before bedding down for the night.

I awoke on my first morning in Bali to sunshine and blinding heat. Palm fronds waved lazily in the ocean breeze over the thatched roofs of the huts next door, and fishing boats muttered their out in the waves. Everything seemed to be made of greens and blues. The sky was crystal clear and studded with sleepy clouds.

Ahh, paradise.

Clint and I were first to the pool and spent the majority of the day lounging next to the water, sipping cocktails with straw hats and beers from frosted mugs. Boisterous Australian tourists chugged their own drinks and guffawed and swam and watched their pudgy offspring wave red flags to order colas. "Pest Control" for the small army of bees assailing people's drinks consisted of a resort employee walking around with his bee swatter; which was a flap of cardboard smeared with glue. As the sun sank toward the trees we found dinner down the street and sampled some of the local fare. It was an interesting joint, open air dining in the shade, the floor was rough wooden planks, and the bar was big. We grabbed a table and I conquered some amazing (and incredibly spicy) curried chicken and rice wrapped in banana leaves, then ordered my third drink. My head was swimming with good food and a few hours of liquor. It was early for such a heady buzz, the sun being where it was, but I was on vacation.

Our dilemma was what to do with our first night out in Bali. Chris laid out our options. Door number one: a local sports bar with good drinks for good prices; Door number two: a well known dance club in Seminyak named Club 66; And door number three was something else that happened to catch our interest.

Boy George.

We decided to walk back towards the resort and at least check out the beach party where Sir Boy of George was supposedly going to attend. We passed numerous posters with his make up laden face plastered all over them and the more we walked, the better an idea it seemed. Indeed, how many times would we get to witness such a spectacle of a person in such an ideal location?

Red and white striped tents squatted at the entrance and event staff armed with official looking t-shirts and bored faces manned the front table. The admission price was 150,000 rupiah; which translated to a paltry fifteen US dollars.

"Fuck it." I said. "Let's do it."

And in we went.

The Dj tent was the big affair of speakers, steel framework, and sound equipment to the left as soon as we entered. It looked like it could pound out some serious decibels. The crowd was in a horseshoe facing the DJ tent with the bar sitting outside the curve. A t-shaped stage sat smack in the middle for the initial entertainment.

I fell in love as soon as I walked started for the bar.

No, not with Boy George.

A group of locals on stage sporting loin cloths and body paint were demonstrating some of the most kick-ass fire spinning I've ever witnessed. Half girls and half guys, they sat on each other shoulders, got spun around with their legs wrapped around each other, and other various gymnastic moves while spinning rods, fans, or balls and chains of fire. The apple of my eye was the girl in the front, the one with the braids.

I might still be drooling.

After the fire spinners was a trio of trannies traipsing their way around the t-shaped stage to some kind of music that either was or at least sounded like Beyonce (not that I would know). Then a dance DJ took over and a few of the courageous, or drunk, took the stage to bust a move in front of the 2,000 or so in attendance.

Chris met up with a pal of his from his residential days in Bali and introduced me. Denton Hockley had moved to Bali from Canada a couple years ago. He traded stocks all on his own in a niche market in eastern Canada and as such, he could work almost anywhere provided he had access to the Internet. I agreed that Bali was a damn good choice.

"So, Denton," I began. "You think this is gonna be tragic or awesome? I mean, Karma Chameleon on the beach in Bali could go either way."

Denton grinned. "I think it's going to be epic, either way. It's Boy George."

I laughed with agreement and shuffled off to find another beverage. I found Clint instead and he produced a bottle of Jim Beam from his pocket and I saved a few bucks and a walk.

And then, we saw him. A growing cheer spread through the crowd and necks craned to see the stage. The dancing crowd spilled forward and collected in front of the DJ tent like penitents for a late night mass.

And there he was, Boy George, in all his has-been, pudgy glory. He walked out onto the stage and tipped his flourescent pink, rhinestone studded cowboy hat to the crowd. But he didn't have a microphone, and there was no band behind him. Interesting.

The dance music continued to improve. Then the previous DJ left the stage and Mr. George stepped forward. He fiddled with knobs and all the what-nots that DJ's play with and chain smoked cigarettes as if he were afraid they might become illegal.

Boy George was spinning beats at a beach front party in Bali, Indonesia. Not only that, the music he was DJing was fucking awesome. As many know I've never been much of a dancer, but this music was relentless. Ten minutes was all it took to crack my resolve and I switched from the head-nod-bounce-my-leg thing and just started tearing up the sand with everyone else. 3 hours shot past like a high-powered train of light and noise and then the sky opened up.

It was no surprise that the change in weather had little effect on the exultant hordes. And still the music thundered on. We churned up the sand, laughing in amazement, in disbelief every time we looked at the stage. There was Boy George preaching his sermon of drum and bass to the masses, wreathed in smoke, clothed in black, pink, and rhinestones, and standing next to a locally appointed body guard. A body guard with an AK-47. I guess that explains why no one had rushed the stage.

I also happened to see Boy George as he left the party. He's way chubbier up close.

Photo courtesy of Miki Pan

Next time: Justin's disappearance and the insanity of a Friday night in Bali.

Stay safe, you crazy kids.

N

Well, I can safely say that when I initially embarked on my adventure to Asia I never thought I would be writing a blog entry for my two year anniversary. It occurred to me over the weekend that it has been over a year since my last post and, well...that's too bloody long. My last post was about my motorcycle wreck and I have my scars to remind me of that, so I think a new post would do some good.

Where to begin? A year is a long time, especially here; despite the fact that here it seems like someone has their finger on the fast-forward button. I suppose from the beginning(ish) is as good a place as any.

Directly after I wrecked my bike I spent a week in Singapore, for work, as a counselor/teacher for an English summer camp for Taiwanese kids. I don't think I have ever been that tired in my entire life. I was in teacher/buddy mode all day, teaching lessons, singing and dancing on the bus, corralling 22 kids and getting them to speak as much English as possible, eating once in a while, and averaging 4-6 hours of sleep a night.

Oh, and I was completely hoarse on day two of 6. Fun.

But overall I had a fantastic experience and I got to see some of the most touristy spots in one of the most unique places on Earth. For the record, you cannot purchase chewing gum in Singapore and can still be publicly flogged for serious offenses. But it is certainly one of the cleaner places I have ever been and on the whole people were quite friendly (see Facebook for my photos of the trip).

My return to America in December of last year was a...curious experience. I certainly suffered from reverse culture shock, and that made the first few days rather interesting. Everyone (almost everyone) looked very generously proportioned, I understood everything people said, I could read menus and street signs, I was once again part of the masses and not something to be regarded with reserved novelty if not with outright amazement.

I was home.

It was so good to see the people I did and I hope next time I can catch a few more faces when I'm around. It's a lot of the little things that I missed the most, and I think there were just as many big things I did not. I got almost everything I wanted to do done, including lots of nothing. But, I do not have another return trip planned in the foreseeable future so just hold on to your butts, kiddos.

Chinese New Year brought one of the most bad-ass road-trips of all time, and definitely of my life (see Facebook for photos). That trip deserves its own entry and any blurb I put here just wouldn't do it justice. Check back for a future posting.

Oh yea, I got promoted. Quite soon I will be the Head Native Speaking Teacher at my branch and will be, officially, middle management. Hooray. I'll make schedules, observe other NST's classes for pay appraisals, things like that.

I'll be the bossman, of sorts. Not too shabby, eh?

To answer that question that just popped into your head, yes, I still really, really enjoy my job. I consider myself lucky that I can say that so often and actually mean it. Not to be a snot, but I'm pretty damn good at what I do and I'm more experienced than most Hess teachers in Taichung. Now, I say that out of genuine pride, not arrogance. I do not mean to say "Haha I'm better than you, chumps!" It's just that I've worked really hard and overcome a lot of obstacles to get here, and I'm damn proud of that. Teaching is such a public job because of that simple reason that you are always working with people. Mostly kids but also parents, other teachers, my superiors, my co-teachers. You're always in the limelight. Its a daily fact of life that a lot of people don't think about. But, I've had the privilege to branch out from the everyday teaching. I've judged spelling bees at junior high schools all over Taichung, Taichung county, and even as far as Miaoli and Changhua, which are both an hour away. I've made encouraging speeches to audiences of over a thousand students and faculty after listening to them sing songs in English (for three hours) and made them laugh to boot.

Most days I did that before I went to work and made an ass of myself for the benefit of keeping a baker's dozen of children amused enough to learn some English.

I found out a few weeks ago that my Head CT (Chinese Teacher) did a presentation on one of our curricula that is geared for kindergarten aged students (usually 4-7 years old). Unfortunately, I'm quite familiar with it because I've taught the first two levels of it twice.

I am not a fan.

But that is not the point. The point is that she showed a five minute video of me teaching some of these monsters to everyone in attendance, which consisted of pretty much all the branch managers and head CT's in Taichung; about 80 people all told. Pretty cool. I talked to some people that were there and they loved it, especially the part when I pretend to be covered in feces and chase the kids around the classroom.

I'm still studying Chinese and it's recently become a daily habit to sit down and learn more. I can read a bit, but mostly simple food items. My spoken is much stronger and I still get a good feeling when I have entire conversations in Chinese. I'm finally becoming bilingual, or at least heading in that direction. Lots of people throw out the word "fluency" and I have a hard time applying it. It's a difficult word to define, language learning being such an amorphous thing. I prefer the term "expressive." I feel that in most situations I could express myself, explain myself, or at least talk around something I don't know the exact words for. Which, I can tell you, is hard in any second language, especially Chinese.

Hard to figure that two years ago I couldn't speak any Chinese at all. It's such a big part of everyday life that it feels weird to think about not being at the level I'm at. Which makes me excited to learn more!

As far as my other travels are concerned, in June I spent a week in Bali, Indonesia.

Wow.

Indonesia is a hell of a place, and, like my Chinese New Year trip, deserves its own post (see Facebook for photos), which I will be writing soon. It was a strange trip. Fun, but odd in many ways.

Especially the last day.

Anyway, I think this is enough for now. You hooligans will have to wait a few days (cross your fingers) for another post. The next won't feel like such a summary, but I just came back to this so have a heart. I hope you are all doing well and enjoying the lives you lead; they're too short for anything else.

So, until next time...Long days and pleasant nights, friends.

Nik