Last night, I was kept up by an epic combination of explosive diarrhea and brutal group sex – and, for a change, I wasn’t directly involved in either. No, I was just a tired, teary-eyed observer to the whole sorry mess.
Alright, so some background on this one: the place I’m staying at here in Kuta is basically a series of connected bamboo bungalows, built in the traditional Lombokian style. They’re lovely and rustic, but to say that they have thin walls is to say Julia Gillard has a fat arse – it’s an understatement so huge that the person making the understatement should be slapped so hard their teeth fall out. The walls between the units are made of palm leaves (I assume) and are only a couple of millimetres thick. Because of that, you can hear everything. Everything.
If the person next door coughs, it’s like they’re right there with you. You can hear them moving in bed, or wanking (let’s make that they can hear me wanking). And, of course, you can hear every time someone goes to the toilet one metre from your head, with only a few blades of dead grass as a barrier. It’s an uncomfortable situation that makes staying here feel more like staying in a hostel.
Right, so last night I wanted to have an early one after my epic walk through hillbilly territory. Then I heard the door to the toilet of the bungalow to my left swing open, and three seconds later it was like someone had emptied a swimming pool into the brasco. And there was screaming, lots of screaming. The avalanche finally stopped, I finished gagging, and then closed my eyes again.
And I could hear moaning coming from the bungalow to my right. A couple of South American chaps who are apparently allergic to shirts are staying in there, and from the sound of it they were rooting up a storm! But then I heard a third voice – one of a young spunk who was obviously the meat in that Colombian sandwich.
They were fucking going for it, too, pounding the shit out of here an arm’s distance from where I lay. I could even see them through the cracks in the palm fronds, and it was like watching a massive, deformed spider dancing.
And then the toilet door opened to my left again, and the bloke in there was shitting. And the Latino heartthrobs were fucking. And I was stuck in the middle of it, just wanting to go to sleep. I could hear Eduardo and Dustin (that’s a South American name, right?) high-fiving as they went for it, and the girl was either having the best time of her life, or the worst, I really couldn’t tell.
I stuffed my head under my pillow and yelled out in terror as shit came from one direction and demented doinking from the other. The sound grew from both sides until it all came to a crashing crescendo. The Vomitron sounded like he’d finally succeeded in coughing up that lung, and the Latin lovers sounded like they blew their loads at the same time, probably while staring into each other’s eyes. I, meanwhile, decided to always book hotel rooms with fucking walls from now on.
And to make it worse, bizarre Islamic chantic is blasted through loud speakers all day here, and this warbling makes Meatloaf’s VFL performance sound like, well, a normal Meatloaf concert in comparison.
Despite that, I managed to get up early to watch a grouse sunrise, then spent the whole day doing nothing on the beach except swatting off beggars. Tomorrow I’m leaving the beach scene and heading to Jakarta, which is both the end of my Indonesian adventure and the start of my time exploring cities, rather than small, tourist-oriented villages. I’m really looking forward to it. To be honest, I’m bored of what Bali and Lombok have to offer. While I enjoy nothing better than stuffing around on the beach all day, when I’m overseas I like to explore, and cities are the best place to do that.
Plus, people in cities don’t usually build their walls out of fucking leaves.