Tag Archives: Lombok

Machetes of Lombok

I could sense that Lombok is a dangerous place as soon as I arrived. The inhabitants of Bali’s dirtier cousin stare at you with angry eyes, yell and swear. And this morning all my suspicions were proven to be true, as I found out just how bad this shining emerald island can be.

No, I wasn’t attacked, but I met someone who was, and found out just how close I’d gone to becoming a victim myself.

I caught a bus to the airport with a young lass who was fleeing Kuta after her and a friend were attacked by machete-wielding maniacs yesterday arvo. They’d scootered to Mawun Beach, spent the day swimming, and scootered back. Halfway home, a couple of deranged bandits came after them on bikes, trying to rip their backpacks off. When the girls stopped, the pieces of shit came after them with their knives, jabbering like fucking gronks, grabbing at them, and generally acting like pork chops. When the girls wouldn’t hand over their things, one of the thugs lashed out with his blade, tearing one of his victims apart and sending blood spraying everywhere.

Thankfully, she wasn’t killed, and both girls got away. The one who was cut got out of town as soon as possible. Her friend left today, vowing never to return.

The attack occurred about 50 metres from where I took this photo
The attack occurred about 50 metres from where I took this photo

I’d walked right past where they were attacked just a day before. I walked through by myself, taking happy snaps on my camera like a dickhead, without a care in the world. I knew people were yelling and swearing at me as I went, but I had no idea just how close I was to being torn apart by the pocerty-stricken arseholes. I went very close to walking back along that road alone, as the sun went down, but was too tired and accepted a lift instead. If I hadn’t, would I have been robbed, or worse? It’s very likely.

I’ve since found out that the outskirts of Kuta are a playground for crims with small dicks and big blades, who pray on carefree tourists. People are regularly getting held up, torn off their bikes, or horribly mutilated, all for a few dollars.

It’s sad, because the landscapes of Lombok are truly beautiful, but it’s just not worth the risk to go there. And with having to constantly fend off beggars, dodge motorbikes, run from dogs and put up with scumbags swearing at you (not to mention listening to South American knob-ends kissing each other), it’s not a relaxing holiday destination, either. It’s more like Mount Druitt with sand.

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Jakarta doesn’t look nearly as shit as you’d expect it to

As I write this, I’m sitting in my room in Jakarta in my undies (form an orderly line, ladies). This place is batshit crazy, surprising, frightening and awesome. There are sections that look identical to Sydney sitting next to the worst slums in existence, and the whole joint smells a bit like a toilet. There are cars and people everywhere, pollution chokes the streets, and there’s almost nothing to indicate this place is in Indonesia – it’s just a global city, and it could be anywhere.

After having my first hot shower in three weeks, and using soap for the first time in as long (oi, ladies! No pushing in!) I ventured out to have a little look at the place just as the sun was setting. Streets run in all directions and all were crawling with traffic. It was such an epic mindfuck after nearly a month of hanging out in villages and on beaches that I couldn’t really take it, and instead grabbed myself a couple of beers and headed back here to watch Bob’s Burgers. That’s not a euphemism for staring longingly at some bloke’s arse, it’s the name of a show.

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One of the few photos I took before running away like a bitch

From what I’ve seen so far, Jakarta isn’t a pretty city (although, from the air, it was surprisingly modern), but I’m gunna have more fun than Rolph Harris in a preschool exploring it. I’ll get a good sleep and just head out into the streets to see what I can find. What’s the worst that can happen?

And for the final word, I’m handing it over to Norman, a small child who I met on the plane today. Take it away, Norm!

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Ayyyyyyy, sit on it!

Male-male-female threesomes are a pain in the arse

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.

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The scene of the crime

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.

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This is also my orgasm face

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.

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At least I wasn’t biting the pillow, right?

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.

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Tell ’em the price, sun!

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.

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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Why I travel alone (or, how I unwittingly became involved in sex tourism)

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Apart from swimming with a three-metre-long python, not a lot happened today (afterwards, I joked to a French girl that it wasn’t the biggest python on the island, and she told me to leave here alone. The French, hey? Can’t live with ’em, can’t go back in time and let the Germans take their country). The weather has been silly here in Meno, meaning that sitting on my balcony and reading a book has been the best option. Yes, I know, what happened to that dude who used to spew on bouncers in Manchester and get into street fights in San Diego? I’m here to relax, motherfuckers, so I thought I’d share the story of why I like to travel alone.

Back in 2010 I was (counts fingers) 27, poor as shit, and had never been outside of Australia. I received a small amount of money for writing stories about women who are allergic to clothes, and decided to spend it on a short holiday to the rarely-visited land of Thailand. Too scared to go by myself, I somehow ended up  organising to go with a chum from high school, who I hadn’t seen for around 11 years. We’ll call him Pencil, for no reason other than I would laugh my arse off if I ever met someone who was actually named Pencil.

You can already see this isn’t gunna end well, right?

So I carefully picked out a hotel to stay in at the far-flung, off-the-beaten-track town of Patong, and we headed off. When we got there my eyes were as wide as dinner plates, and we headed out into the town to see what was going on. I rarely had a Chang out of my hand (I mean the beer; I wasn’t holding hands with a Chinese man) as we weaved our way through the streets, so I believed, without direction.

It wasn’t without direction. Before long I was sitting on a stool in a grubby bar at the end of a dark street, and every girl there was a hooker. And not good-looking ones, either. They were well-worn, lacking in the tooth department and not necessarily 100 per cent female. I didn’t know where we were, but Pencil did. He’d researched it beforehand, and within three hours of landing he had himself a prostitute for the tidy sum of $40.

So that was it for my interaction with Pencil. He didn’t want to see Thailand, he wanted to fuck sluts. He needed the room for the night, so I went out and got on the sauce till 6am, riding around on the back of bikes and flashing my dick to girls in clubs in a desperate attempt to impress them. Then I got beaten up by three ladyboys. When i finally got back to the room, Pencil was still porking his prossie, so I buried my head under my pillow and cried myself to sleep. When he asked me to film his pop shot, I gave up and went for a swim. I still have nightmares about that.

He kept her for the next week. So here’s me, wide-eyed and ready to explore the world after getting out of the closest thing I’ve ever had to a long-term relationship, and I’m sharing a room with a fucking street walking southeast Asian prostitute. And when we flew to Koh Samui and Bangkok, Pencil missed his call girl so much he just slept the days away. So there I was, far from home, and forced to do everything by myself. it was fucking scary, and I wanted to toss it all in and run home on more than one occasion. But, after a while, I realised it wasn’t too bad. I enjoyed not having to rely upon other people. I had great times, met some lovely women (who didn’t ask me to pay. Well, one did, and she’s one of the hottest women I have ever met, but I wished her a good night and stumbled away), and grew as a person. I didn’t think I could do it, but I could.

I was a bit upset, however, that Pencil didn’t offer me a go. I didn’t want one, but it’s just good manners. It’s like going over to a mate’s house with a case of beer and not offering him one.

So, from then on, it’s just been me. It means I can go where I want, spend as long as I want to there and do what I want. Does it get lonely sometimes? Sure. There’s not a situation in the world that can’t be improved by having a pretty girl there. But I’ve met people I never would have if I was with someone else, and I’ve found out things about myself while sitting on deserted beaches or hanging out in cities of 25 million that I never would have if I was tied to another person.

But I still haven’t grown up.

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