Stinkbeard

Best read in a foreign tongue

English books can be difficult to come by at the local book exchange, and what’s here ain’t exactly top shelf. There are however some gems to be found:

I can’t read Dutch, but here’s what I think Sylvester Stallone’s literary debut is about. Vinny is a down and out dockworker still living with his cliché Italian American parents Ma and Pop. He dropped out of high school like most of the guys in his neighborhood and took the first job that came along. Ironically; the name of the street he grew up and lives on is Paradise, though it is not an alley and to an outsider, not paradise. With no hope of climbing the corporate ladder he spends his free time walking ruefully down the dirty sidewalks with his hat pulled low staring at his feet. His piers blow their earnings at the local watering hole; O’Malley’s, but Vin steers clear of temptation, though every time he walks by the patron’s; friends from work and lusty women, try to lure him in. Ma and Pop are getting older and their health is diminishing, so it’s on him to support them in their golden years. The only sparkle in his existence is Vicky. A woman he’s known all his life, been in love with, but never known it and wanted to do something about it, but not known what it was or what to do. Vicky grew up across the street and used to be the aspiration of every male on the block, she played along of course, but always had her sights set on Vinny. She also dropped out of high school, only rather than the docks, her employer was the local chocolate factory. That was six years ago, she’s gained 200 pounds since and slowly became less popular with the opposite sex. Night after night Vinny lays by a smudged widow, his closet sized room illuminated by the city lights. Stretched, hands behind his head, on a cot in boxer shorts and a white undershirt, Vicky occupying his every thought, kind of. It’s not that he thinks he’s not good enough for her, he’s just not that bright and has no grasp on the mechanics of women or what they mean to a man. One day on his way home from the docks, he passes a crowd of men in a circle passionately arguing and exchanging currency. He stops and is beckoned by a coworker. For some reason he’s not surprised when he finds himself pitted against a humongous, overly confident, Ukrainian oaf in a kitten-hurling bout (two men each throw a kitten as far as they can off the dock, whoever throws their kitten furthest wins, duh…). After much speculation as to the newcomer’s ability, bets are made with Vinny being the heavy underdog. Surprisingly to everyone (except Vinny, who we’re learning never has any grasp of what’s happening and is incapable of showing any emotion of any kind) our hero hurls his fluffy little kitten more than 200 yards, twice as far as his rival. The onlookers go freakin’ nuts. The few who bet on Vinny clean up on their wagers, the Ukranian is banished from the docks, and a dark well dressed figure cloaked in cigar smoke on the outskirts of the betting circle takes note of Vinny’s kitten hurling prowess. The next day, Vinny finds out that Ma and Pop have the black plague and without a costly plague removal operation, stand no chance of survival. Vinny (more confused and emotionless than ever) takes to wandering the streets after getting the bad news. Obviously the Dark Figure pulls up beside him in a shiny pink convertible Mazda Miada. After explaining his proposal four times the Dark Figure, an apparent gangster of some kind, convinces Vinny to be his new kitten hurler. Vinny easily wins all his matches, he’s a kitten hurling phenomenon. As his niche fame grows he, with the help of Vicky, slowly uncover the truth about the Dark Figure: he’s an evil guy and he’s exploiting Vinny. When Vinny rebels the Dark Figure threatens him and his voluptuous unknown love interest. Rebelliously, Vinny takes an intentional dive in his next match costing the Dark Figure a ton of money. Soon after, Vicky is kidnapped after a short chase through the sewers that ends with her being stuck headfirst ass out in a large pipe. Vinny for the first time in his life forms a plan and with a trash bag full of kittens soaked in gasoline storms the dark figures compound hurling flaming baby cats at anyone who stands in his way. He manages to rescue Vicky before the whole place explodes in a shower of kitty fur and when he gets home he’s relieved to find out that Ma and Pop had Pink Eye, not the Black Plague.

This would make an excellent video game.

Note: I’ve learned that Sly actually wrote Rocky and Rambo V, so he is already an accomplished screenwriter though this is his first novel.

For Sale

Tourists have money. Many of those who visit Indonesia do so with the intent of buying some souvenirs, probably something they could get on the internet, but because it reminds them of their trip, it is special. This is old news and as such walking down the streets in many villages feels a lot like Tijuana (the only place I’ve ever felt the same tension before) vendors and salesmen compete for the attention of anyone of fairer skin. Residents who might not have anything are also out for a quick sale, they’ll run off to buy what you “need” and bring it back to you at an slightly inflated rate. Sales tactics include, but are not limited to: grabbing, being friendly, extreme persistence, playing to your pity, begging and being rude. I’m a visitor in their land and where I come from we have a lot more money, so to them I look like a big cartoon bag with a big dollar sign on it. I get it, I accept it, but it gets old and you end up walking with  your eyes down. It’s like this unless you really venture outside of the common tourist path to spots that have not yet been corrupted by the western presence. There the people are earnest, kind, and real. If however you plan to stay in the popular sightseeing zones and maybe even buy something; be prepared to be offered everything. Here are a few of the more interesting services or products that are obtainable as quotes by those doing the selling.

“Transport”

“Women”

“Men”

“Men like women”

“Dreadlocks”

“Dreadlock Repair”

“Crystal Meth”

“Charley”

“Magic Mushroom”

“Ticket to the Moon”

“Ticket to Hell”

“Coconut”

“Pineapple”

“Something”

“Rooster”

“You want” (said while pointed at whatever they are standing next at the time)

Gay Cop

Matti was lined up for the standard shakedown from the local cops. We had a late start, a flat tire and were burning daylight fast, driving across the northern expanse of Lombok to a ferry for Sumbawa that night. Our motorbike caravan was five and Matti was at the caboose, thus the obvious candidate for a traffic bribe. The standard shakedown takes about five minutes and usually ends with an exchange of between 100,000 and 20,000 rupiah ($10-$2). Matti’s felt lucky when the cop didn’t demand money. He was confused when the cop asked what his hobbies were. It was bad timing that I pulled over and called him just as the cop was asking if he had a phone. When the cop began rubbing Matti’s arm, he finally grasped the situation. The next few moments were awkward, but he got on his bike and eventually caught up to the rest of us, feeling a bit more like a piece of meat than he had at the start of the day. A half hour later he began receiving text messages, they got more and more graphic as the night wore on. Indonesia is a devoutly Muslim country; it’s not strange to see a man with his hand on another man’s leg or other simple signs of affection amongst men. Homosexuality is explicitly forbidden, so what would be perceived as “gay” in western cultures can only be simple friendship because “gay” is absolutely out of the question. It’s been 3 days and Matti has received more than 30 text messages and dozens of calls. He thought he was to be the target for another bribe, he ended up being the target of a super horny cop who can’t tell anyone in his country how he feels. These are a few of the tamer messages.

Here I am: Mawi Lombok 4.26.2011 12:47pm

Here I am laying down the Magenta Menace (my moped, with surfboard in tow ) for a quick break on a muddy tracked road in a rice field near Mawi Beach in Lombok Indonesia. There were a lot of water buffalos around here, so i suspect some of this mud was their shit. I was going exactly zero kilometers (like miles only shorter?) per hour when this happened so nothing was damaged except a bit of pride. Really beautiful place, really shallow reef at low tide, really slippery ride.

(“Here I am” will be a regular installment of the blog. Typically a photo of me, so you don’t forget I actually exist and brief text explaining the image.)

The American

We are vile. Or that is what you would gather if this example was the first American you were ever to meet. Originally from the Midwest, she’s been calling Pacific Beach San Diego home for the last few years, a “vortex” I called it, “paradise” she called it. There are thousands of girls just like her in PB. I was glad to have another American to share some American connections with, that faded. She had been drinking Bintang all day in the sun. She said “It isn’t how old you are, it’s how old you fuck”. It made me blush. Then I decided to observe her for the rest of the evening. She informed me it was our duty as Americans to teach people American sayings. She couldn’t think of any American Sayings. She took a lot of pictures.  She showed me pictures of her and her roommates wearing funny hats and drinking in her living room on a weekend afternoon. She talked about how much weight she’d gained since she started her vacation. She kept screaming “Bintang!”, even when we weren’t drinking Bintang. We went hunting for ice cream, unsuccessfully, she cut her hand trying to to break open a cooler at a hotel that had ice cream in it, but was locked.  She didn’t go home with any of the suitors she had captivated though the night. That, I did not expect.

Sleepers

Indonesians do not snore. If they did the cities, the villages, the beaches, the countryside (the islands) would echo throughout the day with the sounds of slumber. These dudes are nap savvy. The landscape is dotted with small nap shelters designed to offer salvation when the sand man comes calling. But they don’t over do it. It’s common nap knowledge that too much can be the kiss of death, leaving you groggy for the rest of the day plus overly rested come nighttime. The ideal nap doesn’t cross the line into heavy REM sleep, but just to the edge, perhaps not even truly sleeping, a rest for the eyes. Indonesians are aware of this, more aware than me and most of the west, and their nap shelters reflect the strict principles of conservative napping. They are not too comfortable, no pillows or blankets. Usually just a wooden platform approximately 8’x8’ elevated to the height of a table on four bamboo legs that stretch up and support a thatch roof. It’s simple. It’s shade. It’s a place to sit or lay with a few friends and just high enough to avoid interruptions from dogs, roosters, cats and most other wandering wildlife. Being that they aren’t that comfortable, at the end of your nap you don’t mind getting up and back to whatever your day consists of. The most common naptime appears to be when the sun is at it’s highest, this is when you’ll find three, four, or five humans occupying a shelter. I can’t tell if you only bed down with those you’re acquainted with or if it’s common to sleep a few inches from a stranger. I suppose I’ll have to have a go in order to understand. When a quick snooze is necessary and the shelter is full, most Indonesians are resourceful, and will find a worthy location. Shade is paramount, so long as there is shade, anywhere seems to suffice. On the four hour ferry ride from Bali to Lombok I was one of 2 white people aboard among some 200. My presence was also marked by being the only person (captain excluded) who didn’t get some shut eye.  The bench seating was the first to go, then people got creative, the pros didn’t have to get creative, they had planned well for this. A mat on the roof of your truck with the breeze running through the garage level of the boat looked pretty good to me. A lot to learn from these people.

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