bali dao

In Chinese, Bali is called 'ba li dao' (Bali, the island) in order to differentiate it from ba li, France. Because I would be traveling as part of the annual LongYang / TScale corporate holiday tour, this was not to be the rough-and-tumble solitary spin I'd grown rather fond of in Thailand. I'd have to suffer homely hostels and swindled swims another time; here, there be five-star hotels (two) and organized water sports (a catalog).
I left Shanghai with my aunt Cassandra, who was invited along as well. We did a fine job of alienating the other employees by having as many exclusive, nepotistic dinners and massage sessions as we could with the CEOs. Aunt Cass was a jewel, as far as roommates go. She's this winsome, mild-mannered polyglot, who's got a marvelous understated elegance. She plays tennis. She windsurfs. She's soft-spoken and articulate and knows botany in three languages. I observed her at the Pro Lambda holiday dinner (where a tanked Frank kind of came onto her), a paradigm of the corporate first lady, full of the demure confidence of a woman who grew up in Asia and raised kids in the United States. Here's us waiting for the diving boat to depart:

It was my first time, and a little bit frightening. I kept reminding myself that any second now I'd get accustomed to suppressing the urge to swim and hyperventilate while descending in deep water and inhaling through a bit-gag.
Aunt Cass was also the only one to surf with me. We rented longboards and wiry local coaches, and spent an afternoon being wave-whipped, sand-skinned, and hauled under. Hard. When I stood up for the first time after what felt like hours of abuse by the sea, I wanted to roar with primal glory. I thought, 'this must be what testosterone-fueled feels like.'
Aside from the recreational sports, there was some sight-seeing as well. Here, some dramatic, sea-splooshed scenery:


It was a gratifying not to have to worry about transportation or board, but this came at the cost of being entirely at the mercy of the itinerary, which had been tailored for wealthy tourists. It therefore included too much time at the duty-free malls, and not enough ethnic food or walking for my taste. Aunt Cass loaded up on local goods; soaps, sarongs, spices (saffron) - if it could be alliterated, she had its number. I collected seashells on the beach, and renewed my suntan and digestive discord. There was a big, beautiful sprawling oasis of a swimming pool at the hotel, in which I spent my mornings and after-dark hours, grateful for reprieve from some of the more dynamic members of the tour group. There was Mary, an alert and charming five-year-old, who learned to delete photos from my camera and reset my ipod settings with stunning dexterity;

Aboele, who had what I commonly term a high-perceived fun factor on account of her glittering pumps, low tolerance for liquor and supersonic whine, which the Republic of Indonesia was privy to each time she saw a spider or broke a fingernail;

Nelon, who looked almost cool, but didn't engage another soul in the group on account of the endless stream of cigarettes he smoked;

And a supremely pesky co-guide, whose fascination with my height compelled him to plague me with questions ranging from whether I had to buy men's clothing to whether I'd been birthed by aliens.

We threaded back through Jakarta. I felt bloated on seawater and coconut juice. I had eaten a cow brain on the last day, an act committed to defend the fearlessness of the American people to my squeamish travel companions. My patriotism didn't sit too well with the ten-hour flight, during which I had the misfortune to be seated in front of the garrulous guide and behind a stupifyingly playful Mary. Luckily, the hum of running engines have always lulled me into deep sleep, and I dreampt soundly of moonlit swims until we landed in Shanghai.