Tag Archives: Kuta

Eating, fucking and sleeping: Ekka’s guide to the galaxy

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Yesterday, my journey moved on to Kuta. No, I didn’t go back to that rubbish shithole with all the roid midgets and fat fucks on scooters, I came to Kuta Lombok, a similarly-named but completely different place that is actually quite stunning.

But it was a memorable trip here…

My driver was Ekka, a lovely chap who revealed the secret to a happy life: “Eating. Fucking. Sleeping,” he explained, while spending a bit too much time grinning at me and not nearly enough time watching the road. “You have good sleep last night?”
“Not bad.”
“Ekka get no sleep. He up all night making fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, all night. If Ekka fall asleep while driving, you wake him.”

Thankfully, Ekka no fall asleep.

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Ekka went on to tell me that he didn’t waste time with girlfriends, he just had fuck friends, and he didn’t mind paying for it. Javanese girls apparently make the best fuck, and his favourite position is doggy style. “Not chicken style,” warned Ekka. “Never chicken style.”

I didn’t ask what chicken style is, but I’ll never be able to go past a KFC without imagining Ekka furiously fucking a Zinger burger.

Kuta is heaps different to its Balinese namesake. There’s very little development here, the beaches are wide and relatively clean (by Indonesian standards – I’d still advise keeping an eye out for syringes) and the scenery is jaw-dropping. Steep mountains jut out of the ocean, palm trees roll off in every direction – it truly is a paradise.

The town is little more than two streets, and there are no hotels on the water… yet. In fact, the only thing close to the beach is a small, run-down village full of peasants and chickens, with all the accommodation and restaurants set a little way back. The tourism industry will change this place, but for now I suspect it like the other Kuta was 30 or so years ago.

Of course, most people are here to surf, and even the scooters have little racks for boards. But I, uh, don’t surf, so ah… Some of the mountains round here look bloody good for paragliding, though.

While Kuta Beach is pleasant enough, the real star of the show is Mawun Beach, around 9km by road to the east. I, of course decided to walk it, not realising that the road ran up and down a series of mountains. I was sweating like a fat chick at a David Hasselhoff concert by the time I got there – and it was worth it.

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Mawun stands heads and shoulders above any other beach I’ve seen over here, and even gets pretty bloody close to Maitland Bay in beauty. The most noticable thing was the lack of rubbish on the sand – an anomaly for Asia – and the palm-fringed cliffs, storming out of the clear blue water. There’s a couple of shacks at one end of the beach and nothing more than that. It’s a pretty, quiet, relaxing place that is certainly out of the way and definitely worth visiting.

Just don’t get on the wrong side of the small number of hawkers – one called me an arsehole!

Which brings me to my next point. I can’t wholeheartedly recommend Kuta for two reasons, and they both have to do with its current status as a developing tourist destination. The first problem is the dogs. The place is crawling with them, most of them look malnourished, they don’t have a problem aggressively chasing a person and THEY’RE FUCKING DINGOES. Dingoes are bad arse. The ones here are domesticated, but they’re still fucking dingoes, and they make walking around scary and dangerous.

The second problem concerns the locals. At best they’re overenthusiastic in trying to get you to buy whatever crap it is they’re selling, at worst they’re openly racist and angry. Of course there are lovely people here, but during my walk today I was called every name in the Sasak language, and most of the English ones, too. I was yelled at and sworn at just because of my ethnicity, and that’s something that, thankfully, doesn’t happen in most tourist destinations and which would definitely come as a shock to most. I get it, the people here are extremely poor and probably resent the rich Aussies who come here (even if that rich Aussie has no job and a fucking mortgage to pay for), but it still sucks to walk around and know you’re seen as the enemy.

Still, it’s pretty bloody nice here…

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There’s a fat guy on a scooter around every corner

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It was as wet as a fat chick in a chocolate shop when I landed, and I was very happy that the angry-looking chaps at customs didn’t suspect that I had 48 bootleg copies of Hanson’s Three Car Garage stashed up my arse. I soon got the full South-East Asian experience by getting ripped off with the taxi to my luxurious $27-a-night hotel. Some people would call it a shithole, I call it authentic.

Alright, I just wrote that for comic effect. It’s actually very nice, close to the beach, has a pool that’s not full of tattooed muscle-dudes or the annoying side-effects of other people’s sexing (I mean children, not pool-spoof. There’s probably plenty of pool-spoof in there and, if not, it’s only my first day here.

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I don’t need to get into the specifics of Bali. If you’re Australian, you’ve been here, and if you’re not, but you’ve met an Australian, they’ve told you about it. If you’re not Australian, have never met one, but have a great set of tits, we’re lovely people.

I decided to wrap myself in the local culture by getting on the cans at 10:15am and laying around on the beach (the verdict of the patch of sand at Legian: A million times better than the sliver of dirt and rocks that the Europeans call a beach, but dirty, crowded and full of tourists, like Bondi.

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I was lying there in my undies, sucking back the cans when an old lady who looked like she probably went to school with Noah approached me and asked if I wanted her to masturbate me. After throwing up a bit, I said yes, then lay back and waited for her to do her magic. Imagine my surprise when she she started rubbing every part of my body other than my penis. And imagine her surprise when I made up for the shortfall in service.

(This didn’t actually happen, although I wish it did)

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And what’s the deal with fat Aussie dudes on scooters? They’re everywhere, their crap tatts and bald heads shining in the sun. I would bet money that most of these dudes would rather have a length of barbed wire roughly inserted up their wee hole than be seen riding one of these things in Australia, but they love it over here. They’ve often got attractive Asian women on the back, and I’m starting to suspect they may even be paying for them.

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After a long day of doing fuck all, I’m taking a break and drinking cheap beer on my balcony while listening to Marcy Playground and eating prawn-flavoured chips. It’s a tradition I have since my time in Samoa. I have good memories of sitting on the steps of my fale, eating honey twists, when a heavy-set woman asked me to drive her to the next village. She thanked me with oral sex, and by the look on her face I had the smallest taro she’d ever seen.

Alright, fuck this, I’m off to get drunk and finger sunburnt chicks from Adelaide.