‘Hanuman, White Monkey. Hanuman.’

The shopkeeper’s persistent words pleased me as I gazed at the brass statue of the Monkey-God Hanuman. I was pleased that even here, at the western edge of the Lesser Sundra’s, they knew of my honorific.

‘White Monkey!,’ he repeated, voice growing louder over the chaos of the marketplace.

‘Yes,’ I replied ‘…that is what they call me.’

There was no way this Hanuman would fit in my bag. It was two-and-a-half feet of simian glory, clutching a mace, its face a rictus of rage.

‘Hanuman, White Monkey!’

“Yes, yes,’ I said, turning. I was beginning to feel irritated. ‘I know Hanu’ – the words died in my throat as he pointed at the statue. He wasn’t saying Hanuman, White Monkey; he was saying Hanuman: White monkey! But I was the White Monkey! It appeared my legend was unknown. Perhaps I could send a cease-and-desist. How does one launch legal action against a deity? I’d have to go through a Brahman, and I doubted they would undertake such a thing willingly. What if I kidnapped one…?

‘Hanuman!’ The shopkeep cried.

‘No, no,’ I said, thoroughly dejected. ‘It won’t fit in my bag.’

3 Adventurers’ Tales…

There are a lot of things I thought of writing about during our time in Bali, but, really, what is there to say? There’s not much I can write about this pretty little island that you can’t find elsewhere on the internet; namely, splattered on the ‘gram as a tropical paradise upon which tourists can descend like Olympians alighting from the heavens (do note I refrain from the term Westerners. This is due to the fact that, after the Australians, the most common visitors are from India, China, Singapore, and South Korea. Perhaps we should start using the term Northerners, to make awareness of the Global South in this brave new century we inhabit. Perhaps not. I don’t care.) If you see the pictures, it’s a perfect little paradise. In reality, a passerby will find a stream of the idiotic and narcissistic in random places, waiting in line while another Super Unique Person strikes the Ten Required Instagram Poses and achieves enlightenment because they’ve traveled so much and are better then all the other tourists, etc. etc. etc. Anyway, those people can go to hell. When I am Supreme Dictator, they will be first to participate in the show trials. Perhaps second. I’ve lost my list of grievances somewhere…

But I digress.

If you go to Bali expecting instagram, you’re gonna have a bad time. If you expect Southeast Asia, you’ll have a great time. This is because it’s in Southeast Asia. Pro tip.

With all of my emotion now exhausted, and in lieu of having anything intelligent to say, I’ve compiled three adventurer’s tales from the island…

Tale the First: The Taxi Driver

On our second day on the island, we headed up to central Ubud to see whatever it was we needed to see. Monkeys, Nasi Goreng, cheap linen clothes: anything and everything in this artery of humanity. This was accomplished, however, through a Grab ride that provided no small amount of inter-cultural dialogue. Our driver was Wayan. This, in Bali, means he was the first born. They have a numeric naming system for children that starts with Wayan and goes up to Ketut – child four – after which it repeats. So I suppose he could have been the fifth born, but none of that matters and you can look it up on your own time. Wayan asked where we were from. We replied America, and he nodded quickly. He asked if I needed to hire a driver while I was here, which I declined. ‘Your sister?’ he asked, looking at the two of us. I realized we didn’t clarify which part of America we were from. ‘Wife,’ I corrected. This sent him into ecstatic giggles. Then he asked our ages. ‘31,’ I said. I figured he was about to ask for my social security number or passport number after that. Instead, he looked through the mirror at Christa. ‘And you?’ he asked.

‘******,’ she answered (Censored by Editor – Ed.)

‘Oh – you’re old!’ he replied. He tittered again. He was the same age, he divulged.

Suddenly, I was in the most tense international diplomatic situation since the time I helped Jack Kennedy in October ‘62.

‘You have children?’ he asked. No, we do not. He slapped my knee. ‘If you have a baby, you must name it Wayan.’ Sure. ‘Because it is M-A-B: Made in Bali!’ he laughed and laughed. I ventured a confused laugh. ‘That is what we say,’ he explained. ‘Made in Bali!’

It is only with the benefit of hindsight and many more cab rides that I can say, firmly, that no-one says that. Finally, our cab ride came to an end and we emerged on Jalan Hanoman, into the sweltering humidity and bustling soup of humanity.

‘How come he didn’t call you old?’ Christa asked.

‘Perhaps he noticed my child-bearing hips,’ I replied. ‘Or my all-encompassing sexual energy – my overmastering virility!’

She rolled her eyes, but in their depths I saw a flash of that oldest and dearest neighbor of marital bliss: premeditated violence.

Tale the Second: The Epic of The Christayana

Early on we decided to go to the monkey forest just to the north of the villa. I shan’t explain the monkey forest: its description is beautifully contained in the two words of its title. Early on I warned Christa: ‘You must guard yourself around monkeys: they are glorious and free, but they are tricksters and thieves.’

The monkey forest is a wonderful experience to see how much better we could have it if we just stopped with this whole ‘society’ horsecrap. We wandered through the jungle, across stone bridges and through ancient temples, all of it overrun by monkeys.

Two of the monkeys even engaged in a little premarital directly next to a bewildered Korean tourist. They stole up next to him on the hand rail and then made aggressive eye contact with him for the whole 30 seconds it takes those little critters. He laughed. We made eye contact. I laughed. What else can you do?

Later, Christa and I went back to some shops to buy some cheap linen clothes. We walked a few miles up to the palace and circled back, stopping for lunch at some tiny warung along the way. It is at this point I must relate the trail leading past the monkey forest: it is a foot path, wide enough for one person at a time. But this is Southeast Asia: it encompasses two directions of scooter traffic in addition to pedestrians and the occasional crossing monkey that leaves the forest. We headed back along the footpath, crowded against a steep drop-off on one side. I carried the two bags of clothing we had purchased, in addition to a water bottle. We had just reached the bend in the road, almost at the end, when it happened. We were squished against the edge, scooters roaring past, when a monkey who had left the forest hopped onto the road in front of me. I paused, waiting for him to cross. This was a mistake. He looked at me, and I saw in his face only treachery. He seized one of the bags with his sneaky little monkey hands. I pulled vainly at the handles. He hissed ferociously, fangs bared. It was at this moment Christa intervened:

She seized the bag by the body, and no hissing or pulling by the monkey could stop her: she snatched back our clothes. At this moment, as if sensing the distress of their ally, four monkeys emerged from the forest to attack. They jumped, they climbed, they skittered across the ground; but all of them she defeated. The moped drivers were stopped, in awe, as monkeys flew through the air around them, sailing back over the fence, struck to the ground, fleeing for their lives. One final monkey attacked me and seized the water bottle: this she swung mightily at and it fled into the bush with its plastic prize. ‘There’s no time,’ she cried, scooping me up in a fireman’s carry.

Ambrose Bierce remarked that ‘no country is so wild and difficult but men will make it a theatre of war.’ Monkeys are related quite closely to men…

Tale the Third: Anthropological Remarks on the Enlightened Ones

Bali is a place on earth, a place of physical reality, and as such is subject to all of the rules governing the natural universe. One of these rules is that, as soon as enough trust funds are gathered within close proximity, a location becomes a ‘spiritual center.’ This brings with it a variety of characters, most of whom have lost their shaving razors and don’t understand textiles outside of hemp. More concisely: a convention could be staged for messiahs here, from your Christ-looking types to the guy I saw who looked like John Lennon dodged the shot. All of them are, of course, far more enlightened than myself. I know this, because they can charge for enlightenment. We received a warning over dinner from our friend Greg: ‘there’s a lot of these guys that think they achieved ego-death because they OD’d on ketamine at a festival. You’ll see ‘em around here, they look like Jesus and they’re always offering women tantric massages.’

There is also an anthropological angle here that I was able to discover. A hierarchy in enlightenment/sex cults seems to be formed by the man bun – it stands in for the Freudian Phallus, and the larger the man bun, the more concubines they possess. This by the by.

A few curiosities we’ve been able to find include a Jesus looking DJ named Tikka Masala (this is not fiction), a Jesus looking guy named Dharma who offers ‘de-hypnosis,’ and a poster advertising a men’s retreat with the phrase: ‘it’s time to reactivate our masculine instincts and unlock our true potential.’ I believe – and I understand I may be wrong – that if you only feel masculine hanging out with ten dudes in the wilderness, all of them telling you how butch you are – you may be beyond saving. A final, glorious representative: a poster advertising tantric massage, with some Manbun named Ananda.

More to come as soon as I descend back into the Veil of Maya. TTFN.