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.
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.
Next time: Justin's disappearance and the insanity of a Friday night in Bali.
Stay safe, you crazy kids. N