A list of things which make you a rock star:1. Jet-setting around the world
2. Staying in beautiful and unique hotels
3. Eating, drinking and cavorting to excess
4. Being really, really sick
5. Drugging up the world in a smokey haze
Well, I'd like to say I've been doing all of these things recently, but the reality is ever-so-very-slightly different from the list. Isn't it always? To be honest - and as I've always said, that's something I continually strive to be - the list is a little misleading about what I've been up to. Number one is about right and definitely number two, since my beautiful girlfriend arrived just before Christmas, but that, frankly, put the kibosh on any cavorting/drugging plans I might have had which would eventually lead to number four. Don't worry though, I have been really, really sick recently, but that was far more a consequence of slimy chicken than wanton abandon - although I did very much abandon myself to that chicken. And she broke my bloody heart.
Indonesia was tough-going, I believe I've made that clear in the forerunning posts, but Bali was outstanding. Being the Australian destination of choice for revellers, jivers and fuckers, there are some none-too-discreet areas, like Kuta, but our first destination on the island was a far gob from there. Meeting up with Nabila at Bali Airport after so long was a definite highlight on this mammoth trip. I couldn't sleep the night before, despite drinking and masturbating myself into near-palsy, so when the morning arrived I simply rolled out of bed, unrested, hungover and enflamed, got my things together and limped into the taxi I'd booked. People talk about butterflies in the stomach, but the sensations I felt were more akin to a team of epileptic break-dancers performing on a bouncy castle at the national strobe fanciers ball while each holding a plastic bag filled with electric toothbrushes, dildos and butterflies. My tum-tum went all squiggly!
She didn't disappoint. She very rarely (but not unquestionably) does. The little black number brought glamour, elegance and beauty to the airport, but I have to say, it wasn't the most expensive shirt I've ever worn. (Do you see? Took you one way, then, BAM! It was about me, not Nabila!) She scrubbed up pretty well too and looking as good as she did was no mean feat after 36 hours travelling. I'd been travelling for 2,160 hours at that point and as such looked about as slick as - well, somewhere between Gandhi and any Italian man, but that didn't seem to matter to Ol' Ms Busy Hands. Honestly; I'm not just a piece of meat. In truth, it was surreal to see her after all that time and every episode we have where we don't see each other for a long time I almost forget how dazzling she is. Lights up any room she enters. Even the baggage reclaim ones. Not as easy as it sounds with brown skin.
This is where my old adventure finished and a brand new one began. We pulled into the Four Seasons Resort in Bali and I felt like Julia Roberts in that film where she's a whore - Eat, Pray, Love, I think it's called. Or any of them, really. The servitude was something I was not used to or indeed ready for at all; the bowing, the curtseying, the endless cheek-bulging grins, this was a different world for me. I had spent many weeks avoiding being ripped off, bartering, sleeping in flea-ridden despair holes gasping for breath, touching anything in the rooms suspiciously between thumb and forefinger and now I was in paradise.
We had our own villa complete with infinity pool which looked out onto the ocean, that I treated like a massive nappy, and spectacular views from the room into the natural beauty created by the Four Seasons (TM). The food was delicious and worry-free and any time you wanted to venture outside your villa, beaming porters arrived in little golf buggies to transport you from place to place. We spent an incredible few nights there, including Christmas and Boxing Day, that made me almost forget I was away from home for the first time during this period. Not that it was any great hardship - we had presents, spoke to the family on Skype (including an ostentatious bomb into the pool - just cos I could - first and only time the pool was spared my nudity) and enjoyed an unbelievable feast at the Coconut Grove Club for dinner. Father Christmas couldn't have brought anything better [insert joke about sack here]
After a teary and awkward Sophie's Choice style unfastening from the Four Seasons we made our way to the next location on Nabila's itinerary of magnificence - the island heaven (used paradise too much already) of Nusa Lembongan. Tucked in between other resorts, you could only reach Waka Nusa by boat and when we arrived it ticked all the boxes. Crystal blue waters, white sands, perfect snorkelling conditions, cast of Cocoon reunion, everything was present and correct. Our hut was just behind the sea, but you could still hear the waves as you drifted off to sleep - just before the fucking fireworks began - but I'm over that now. Soooo over that. Not being able to swim, Nabila had never been in water over her boobs, but when we went snorkelling I insisted she came in to just hold onto the back of me, and we shared some of the greatest, most pure waters I have ever seen. Fish everywhere and just the occasional terrified squeal from my new turtle shell. Look carefully and I'm sure you would have seen a little turtle's head as well.
Back to the mainland for our last Balinese resort - Alila, in the Uluwatu region of the island. Something so different from what we had been used to up to this point, Alila was a contemporary dream with wooden installations and clear symmetrical lines. It incorporated all the elements of earth, wind, water and fire into the concepts behind each room and villa and having another private pool out the back meant I could emphasize and build on most of these elements myself while taking a skinny dip.
New Year's Eve and Nabila's birthday were met with the now customary extravagance and after a beachside meal at Bali's number one restaurant we took in the new year and the final hours of the missus's birthday at the disastrously named Potato Head. A great club - just too many people. Midnight was outstanding though and the only time I haven't been pissed off to see fireworks. We took a crazy motorbike ride back to Alila, sharing it between three of us, and jumped in the pool when we got back because how many times are you gonna be able to have a midnight swim (or bob, in Nabila's case) on the 31st December? After a couple of days to recover in luxury we were off again, this time to another country - number six on my South East Asian tour.
So, as with all good franchises - and make no mistake, English Bitcherature is a franchise - the last part always comes in two parts. So what to expect from the last post? Traditionally there's a resolution, a twist, a massive battle and the stones/ring/force/world order is brought into a new equilibrium. Well, I won't ruin it, but it could be the best thing that's ever happened to you when you tune in next week. Just saying. Of course, if you choose not to read you'll never know. And we can't be friends anymore.
No comments:
Post a Comment