Kuta Cowboys and the Search for Misheard Lyrics | Kuta, Bali, Indonesia

After reading the breakfast menu on Qantas flight QF75 from Perth and ordering the mile high mixed grill, I was eagerly awaiting one of those implausible, vegetarian nightmares, which generally come accompanied by a flaccid lettuce leaf, a block of cheese and a flock of chips. The sort of feed that some overweight lovely called Doreen serves up in just about any Australian country pub you care to visit. "Go on sweet, a little more salt never killed no-one" she'd say, before licking a dollop of pigs lard from her forearm and sniffing an armpit.

What I got was a chipalata - whatever the hell that is - an anemic egg, and a piece of breakfast bacon. Hardly the mountain of cholesterol laden, farm yard tissue I was hoping for.

Half an hour passed and I was still so distraught about my pathetic excuse for a breakfast that I almost missed the outer lying islands of the Indonesian archipelago. Chunks of green so small they fitted neatly into my window.

Indonesia is a fair clump of real estate in anybody's terms. Not in the sense of one gigantic landmass such as China or Australia but more like a colossal, spilt bag of Twisties. It consists of some thirteen thousand, seven hundred islands and occupies an area of roughly 1.9 million square kilometres - that's 62 Belguims, about six and a half Italys or almost 15 Englands for those who require a little perspective.

It lazily meanders in an arc from a northern point roughly parallel with - but off the East Coast of - peninsular Malaysia's border with Thailand, to Irian Jaya in the east - the land bordered neighbour of Papua New Guinea. And farther north of the arc lie the substantial land masses of Kalimantan and Sulawesi and the lesser sprinklings of the Leti, Tanimbar, Kai, Sula and Babar Islands to name but a few.

But not content with being a big mother of a place geographically, Indonesians chat in a staggering 365 tongues and represent almost 300 different ethnic groups. Just to substantiate the size theory a little further, we're talking three different time zones from east to west and a trip of 5,000 kilometres for those rugged enough to try it. Whatever way you look at it this was a place with some serious exploration potential. But for the moment at least, we were on our way to Bali, the most renowned of the Indonesian tourist hotspots.

Like the Costa Del Sol to the English, Bali - well Kuta at any rate - holds a very special place in the hearts of Australian holiday-makers. It caters for the whole sweep, from the five star hotel dweller, to the beach-sleeping surfer. They all come at some point. It's like a pilgrimage. A fact not lost on the Australian Folk Band Redgum, who penned a song titled "I've been to Bali too", which hit the heady heights of the Australian pop charts in 1984.

It's not a big island in comparison to its eastern cousins, Sumatra or Java, measuring roughly 100 by 60 kilometres at its furthest points, but it crams a fair bit in. It had its period of Dutch rule as part of the East Indies from the early 1900's until the Japanese occupation in 1942, and then fought for its Independence following the Japanese surrender. When you throw in a massive volcano eruption in 1963 and the presidential coup in 1965, which saw President Soharto take the Indonesian reigns amidst a massive slaughter of Chinese and it can safely be concluded that the Balinese are a hardy stock of folk. In recent years the island has enjoyed a period of relative prosperity balanced on the blade of the two edged sword known as tourism. A fact I was soon to discover first hand.

The humidity in the walkway from the plane through to customs was crippling. My cotton shirt clung to my chest as I breathed heavily and lugged my backpack up to a militarily dressed customs official. Trying my hardest to look suave, important and in no way like a drug smuggler I handed over my documents. Hard to do with a wardrobe like mine and the tendency to break into a sweat operating the remote control. But with a stamp in the passport and a wave of the hand we were through and met by the madness reserved solely for the domain of holiday destination airports.

Counter bound foreign exchange clerks screamed for my attention. Determined departees cut swathes through the crowd using their trolleys as rams. Taxi drivers pulled at my sleeve. Chaos reigned. I loved every minute of it.

We took a moment to gather our thoughts then headed out onto the taxi concourse to flag down a fare. All around us package tour groups mingled. Exchanging small talk and checking each other out in a sort of, "I don't know you yet, but chances are that later on this week, I'll dribble my well researched views on pleasing a woman to you, in a drunken stupor at the Krakatoa bars' happy hour", kind of way. I momentarily felt the urge to join them. With their welcoming parties, matching complimentary backpacks and no sense of confusion it would have been the easy option to take.

To leave the slumming it until tomorrow, to drink Pina Coladas by an Olympic sized pool, to dine on Lobster Mornay whilst someone massaged my feet. Alas, this time at least, it wasn't to be. We found a driver.

A mad dash to Kuta followed, highlighted by two close misses, a lot of hand gestures from our wannabe chauffeur and more than one attempt at placing us in accommodation that provided him with a decent kickback. We were dropped at the beach end of the ominously named, Poppies Gang II, a tourist Mecca, full of hawkers, the cheapest of the cheap, budget accommodation and a representative from just about every race of riff raff known to South East Asia. I tipped the cabby handsomely and suggested he not put off for long, the filling in of those organ donor cards. He smiled a tobacco-stained grin as he pointed repeatedly down Poppies Gang II.

We set off and were immediately accosted by another local more than intent on showing us his interpretation of the best accommodation in our price range. I declined his offer, but he clung on like cat shit to carpet. I felt vulnerable, like everyone knew I was fresh from the tin. I longed to feel well travelled. To have these types treat me with respect. Maybe it would come with time - maybe not. We took the first place we found with a pool.

Our accommodation lacked the panache of some of the five star establishments, lacked the practicality of some of the three star establishments, but most worryingly, lacked the electricity that I'd kind of expected from its one star status.

Bamboo was definitely the theme. The walls, the bed, what there was left of the furniture, were all made of the stuff. I was kind of expecting Gilligan and the Skipper to burst in at any moment and bumble their way through some silly misunderstanding. It was quaint enough in a stereotypical tropical kind of way. At the end of the day it was simply a place to lay your head, but for now, I was keen to explore.

The ingenuity and cunning of the Balinese street hawker is legend in Australia. A legend I was ready to take on. I had a plan. I strutted confidently from my lodgings via the pool with its U.S. Navy occupants, flexing pecs and blasting out cheesy tunes from a portable stereo, past the restaurant and out onto to Poppies Gang II, where I was immediately accosted by my first victim. The poor bastard, he probably didn't even see it coming.

'Wanna buy a watch mister?'
'Straight up', I said, in a, I'm not about to be done over by no timepiece peddlin, sonofabitch kinda tone.
I looked at the fine articles of South East Asian craftsmanship laid out before me. Their dodgy intestines no doubt ready to give way moments after the completion of our transaction.
'Wan hunred pa cent original mister. I got Wolex, Tag, Swatch. You got beeeeg muscles.'
I wasn't about to fall for his fake compliments. I picked out a silver Tag number that could fool the masses.

'Woz the damage on that fat piece bro?' I asked, pointing at the watch I'd chosen.
'Sowwy?'
'The damage, mullah, rocks, dinero, brass, capeesh?'
'Wan hunred an firty fousand.'
'Get the…...'
'What choo pay?'
'Seventy Gee, all I got, my man.'
'You ruin me. I have three children. I do you special deal. For you mester muscles, one hundred fousand.'
' I'll do you a special deal. Kiss that.' I turned my back, pointed at an ass cheek and walked away. He chased after me.
'Your pwice, your pwice.'

He knew where he stood. The competition was thick. Mission accomplished.

If you hadn't guessed already, my plan was to talk like a black, Los Angeles based pimp, and therefore, throw him out of sync completely. For a total of a minute and a half I walked tall. And to think, the boys back home had doubted my tactic. Just wait till I get my Colombian drug baron guise on the go. Then we'll see the real bargains. I didn't have long to wait.

'How much you pay? How much you pay?' another little hawker with an eagle tattooed on his forearm asked whilst grabbing at my wrist.
'Seventy thou, amigo'
'I sell you one for your brotha for forty fousand.'
'Shit!'

I declined his offer, figuring the thing was probably worth no more than ten. I laughed at myself out loud, my naiveté, my stupidity. It was blatantly obvious now, my simple-mindedness brazenly mocking me. I should have gone the Colombian drug baron straight off the bat. How foolish could I be? I'd know next time.

I wandered around for the next two hours in a state of sensual overload. Western brand surf gear hung next to vibrantly coloured, local sarongs. The high pitched revving of scooters, the cry of hawkers, the thud of bass. Calvin Klein versus hand made carvings. Kuta was indeed a place of contrast. The relentless heat, the inevitability of rain. The smells, the sights, the sounds, everything was so different, so diverse, yet there was a strange familiarity to it all.

I rounded the corner into Jalan Legian for the second time - the main drag - where the aroma of chicken satay momentarily overpowered the stench of dog-shit and open sewers. Men in black had just begun at the Batu Bulong where a dozen tired looking tourists slouched in cane chairs sipping Bintang Beer and snacking on jaffles or baguettes. A row of mobile street vendors selling soft drinks and satay on a stick spoke with boisterously loud voices. I walked a little farther and found a German Restaurant called Mama's, ordered a San Miguel and took a table close to the road.

On the table next to mine sat a broad set Australian woman with jet-black hair and a penchant for heavy makeup. She was clearly well into her forties and had the leathery complexion of someone who had worshipped the sun gods for decades. Close enough to feel her breath sat a slim, almost feminine, Balinese man, not far out of puberty. Hmmm, a strange coupling, I thought to myself as I took a sip of ice cold beer.

Ever since I was ten and my mother thrust a copy of Body Language by Alan Pease into my eager palm, I've had a fascination for watching people in any manner of social situation. Not in a voyeuristic, pants down peeping through windows kind of way, but strictly in a social sense. Watching reactions, how people hold their glass, flick their hair, touch their face, adjust their clothing. I'd made it an undeclared hobby. And to be good at it took a little patience, a lot of cunning and the occasional use of props.

I took another mouthful of beer and glanced carefully over the top of my menu.

She was doing most of the talking and stroking his palm in an almost maternal fashion, although there was nothing motherly about the look in her eye. He read directly from the script, telling her how beautiful her eyes were, stroking her hair. Six empty bottles of Bintang sat on their table.

I'd read of the legend of the Kuta Cowboy in Australia. Young Balinese men who prey on older Australian women offering them love, sex, companionship, whatever their bits desire. In its simplest form it's a no lose situation - a week of uncomplicated sex and simple conversation in return for meals, drinks and a bed in a room without a dirt floor. In practice though, rarely is it that simple.

The anonymity of a place like Kuta, coupled with an abundance of sexually voracious young locals can add up to a hedonistic cocktail for women who may have been made to feel past their prime back home. From the seedy clubs, to a massage on the beach, to the boom of dance tunes, Kuta simply oozes sex if you're that way inclined. And our black haired beauty definitely looked up for it.

Ten minutes passed in a blur of cheesy compliments and roaming digits before our couple took their leave. I resisted the urge to follow them thinking this may be pushing the limits of good taste. Not long afterwards I headed off myself, four of five bottles of beer had passed my lips ensuring I had the mettle to tackle my first real test of the trip. I had to wake Jude from her afternoon slumber, a duty that was often met with a flurry of fists and a torrent of abuse that would embarrass a Turret's Syndrome case worker.

Thankfully, my attempts were fruitful. She was almost chirpy. Must have had something to do with the tropical clime. The power had come back on during the afternoon so the air conditioning was now living up to its title and the fridge finally left behind those cruel, functionality comparisons with the bed side cabinet.

Later that evening with the heat from a batch of chili prawns I'd just shoveled down my neck at the night markets still playing havoc with my sinuses we hailed a bemo and headed back toward the neon strip of Jalan Legian. A late afternoon storm had cooled the tarmac and lent the back streets an uncustomary freshness. It was still early, so the plan was to catch a movie and maybe hit a club a little later on.

We opted for Tubes, an open air venue, with cane lounges, a henna tattoo parlour and an awfully impressive movie screen for showing surf flicks during the day and Hollywood's latest offerings after the sun goes down. It was aimed at your average Australian grommet -young surfy type - who was looking for a place to chill after a hard session in the green room.

Jude got the beers in and I made comfort my mission as I spied and then pounced on an empty cane lounge in a perfect position for the upcoming attraction. The beer was cold, we were comfortable but things were about to take a turn for the worse. Yes, a Stallone film was about to begin. Daylight, in which Sly saves the day (really, I hear you say) when he and an unlikely bunch of misfits and stereotypes are trapped in some broken tunnel under some river or something. We didn't take too much notice, preferring to chat about the days events and our plans for the upcoming weeks. We'd left Australia with a loosely formed strategy to get to London over land - but that's where it started going gray and that's they way we liked it.

It really is a joy travelling without an agenda. Knowing that if you like a place you can stay a while or if you hear of some exalted destination on the traveler's grapevine, just through the desert on the right, you can pack your bags and take the next overnight camel. I implore you all to try it at least once in your lives. Obviously it helps if you have an employer with an appalling sense of memory, as seven month holidays are hard to swindle. From personal experience I also know work-mates are only willing to fake your timesheets for so long. I'd quit my job and Jude had spent the last three years working casually so leaving presented no real problems for either of us. In fact, leaving employment for an indefinite term is a truly uplifting experience.

Our conversation had swung around to Middle Eastern politics as it is want to do when Jude is at the helm, when a wild looking bloke poked his head in between us and asked if he could share the couch. He caught me well off guard and startled me a little to say the least.

"Goanna", I replied.
"Sorry?" he returned.
"Ahhhh, yeah, sure, sorry, go ahead." I regained my composure and the ability to communicate.

Reg, as his name turned out to be was one strange looking mammal. His arms were adorned with home made Indonesian tribal tattoos, his body was a jingling shrine to piercing. He wore a stick through his ear and a metal plate took up a good proportion of his septum - where I suspect a bone would fit quite nicely, for those more formal occasions. His teeth were chipped and he had a wild, almost feral look in his eye. To top it all off he had what appeared to be a cocktail stick jutting out of his nose at a dangerous angle, making him look a little like the worlds largest and strangest party snack.

With Daylight now a distant dark memory, we were joined by a bespectacled American shipping guru named Mike. He was slight and softly spoken, and in appearance if nothing else he was the antipode of Reg.

'So Reg, what is it you do?' I asked with a genuine interest. I was expecting an answer like venom extractor or shark tester.
'I'm a pediatric nurse', he replied.
'As in with kids?' Mike chimed in at world record pace.
'That's the one.' By the look on his face he'd been here before. A stony silence reigned for what seemed an eternity as everyone took in this new information.
'I'm an intensive care nurse Reg.' Jude offered in an attempt to get the conversation back on track. And so we were off.

After playing the 'where are you heading?' game we got down to some serious drinking. And before long we had added Arak - a nasty local concoction that tastes a little like Malibu but with a working mules' kick - to the equation.

'With a good batch, you can actually see vapor trails when it's poured.' Reg commented.

This should have been just the warning I needed but I pressed on regardless. Feeling slightly more worldly than I had earlier in the day, I felt it time to sample some of the more upbeat of the Kuta nightspots.

The air was cool and the streets livelier than they had been in the early afternoon. My head spun just a little as I stepped out onto Poppies Gang II. The choice of nightspots was extensive. We opted for the Sari Club based mainly on its close proximity and found a table close to the road.

The place was heaving. I cut a path to the bar and ordered a round of something called Jungle Juice. It came in big plastic bottles and was obviously the Sari Club's poison of choice as the hundreds of uncollected bottles that littered every splinter of available table space attested.

Back at the table Reg was being accosted by half a dozen local boys, trying to sell him cigarettes from over the fence. He played them off against each other, occasionally chatting in local Bhasa then switching back to English. In the end they arrived at a price and the transaction was completed.

"Cheeky little pricks, I know a few of them and they still try and rip me off every time I see them. Good kids though, just a pity that they'll probably be selling more than cigarettes soon, if they're not already."
"How long have you have spoken the local lingo for Reg?" I asked, following the obvious line of questioning.
"I must have been to Indonesia fifteen times. I pick up bits and pieces here and there. It's not all that hard to learn. None of the usual crap that you get with languages, like masculine and feminine words. See this" he asked, picking up Jude's Lonely Planet. "That's buka and if I had another one instead of two books I'd have buka buka. I can't hold a great conversation but I can get by. It's amazing how they'll cut the crap if you ask for something in Bhasa." I made a point of learning the Bhasian word for crazy which was pronounced gila, thinking it might come in handy in finding suitable adjectives for local taxi drivers or drunken American sailors as the case may be.

Yes, the Yanks were in town. The "U.S.S. Make It A Large One" had docked and Kuta was their little puppy - for tonight anyway. Decked out in their slim fitting, Donald Duck styled tunics complete with matching caps, the boys were on the tear and nothing was sacred. They had their own slant on the term "maneuvers" and it was based more on the Karma Sutra than any Navy play book. I thought I'd stumbled into explore your sexuality night at the Blue Oyster Club - part orgy, part fancy dress.

There was no denying their inclination to party but in the Navy's defence, they did have sober sailors patrolling the hot spots, ensuring none of their crew go too unruly. I spoke briefly with one on a visit to the bar. He stood out because his cap was straight. He was not overly happy with his lot for the night, but as they were set to sail the following morning, I was sure by then he'd be counting his lucky stars and stripes.

It's amazing really, that by that stage I was sure of anything. The idea of getting an Indonesian tribal tattoo had taken up a good deal of my thoughts toward the shank of the evening and I was even coming round to the idea of toothpicks being a valid form of jewelry - fashionable and practical, hmmm. My father always told me "Paul, if ever there is a time for abstinence it is when you are considering sticking a sausage stick through your skin." So on that thought Jude and I said our farewells.

It was a short but eventful stroll back to our room. I nearly got run over by a restaurant - a claim not many of us can make - then a prostitute, figuring I was easy prey made an unsuccessful play at picking my pocket. I settled for a quick midnight swim in a pathetic attempt to regain some basic motor skills while Jude lost the contents of both intestines to the grubby squat toilet in our room.

The next morning with a hangover that you could see I had an undeniable urge to get miles out of Kuta. I could see the attraction of a place like this, but didn't feel it myself. Jude shared my thoughts and my hangover. It was just the beginning of six months on the road. We both longed for out of the way places, free from the fast food chains and the ease of the English language. We craved the challenge of clucking like chickens in restaurants, squatting and pointing at our bums in times of imminent bowel content displacement, and being looked upon as crazy white folk in the middle of what map nowhere. We'd get our chance, but not on Bali.

Before I could contemplate leaving Kuta though, there was a single pressing matter I just had to attend to. It was a duty, it was a need. I felt my life would not be complete until I had at least attempted to find these relics from a bygone era. It had its foundations sewn in 1987 when my father and sister first visited Bali and bought me back a number of audio tapes. The questionable quality I almost expected but the surprise element came in the translation of the lyrics on the inside of the cover sleeve. Pieces of art, the lot of them. Picture the scene.

The year: 1987. The setting: A small murky back room of some bamboo hut in the slums of Denpasar. Its only contents, a rickety fan rattling away in a corner, a Bhasa English dictionary sat on a desk next to a single speaker Realistic cassette player, a pad of lined foolscap and our translator.

With pen in hand our man sits with an ear on the speaker and a finger hovering over the pause button. Word by word, verse by verse, song by song the lyrics are dissected, written down read and re-read. The new document is then subjected to a second passing to ensure any small slip ups from the first run are well and truly ironed out.

Then, just the smallest smirk of satisfaction.

A second man is called into the room in a sort of compliance capacity. He listens to the tape, whilst following the lyrics with his finger. Amendments are made, small arguments are had and a conclusion is reached. The wording is perfect.

God bless them all for their works but the travesty in the tale, is that greatness has never been thrust upon these, the most blissfully unaware of comedians. In my opinion it's a major injustice. The hours of eye watering, gut wrenching laughter that their pieces of work have provided me, my friends and no doubt countless others. The sort of spontaneous stuff that can force 50 mill of soft-drink from a single nostril.

Over the years, as they do, these tapes all but disappeared from my collection but one or two pearls still live on in my memory. Take for example, the Noiseworks track titled Take Me Back - a stirring piece about the loss of a close personal friend. The opening lyrics go something a little like this. "You never expect it to be in your wildest dreams, so take a step backwards for a little while, you'll find it there". Rousing, if not a little cryptic. But nothing on the Balinese translation, which could have gothic looking art students searching for some deep hidden inner meaning well into the next century. "You never extracted a bee in you wilder dreams, so make a step back woods for a little why, your mind in there". Brilliantly, profound stuff, every word.

So it was with these euphoric memories in mind that I trotted off to market to try and find even a snippet of these golden oldies. For hours I walked, up dingy alleys, through modern malls but all to no avail. It seemed the CD age was well and truly upon us. An age where covers are laser printed copies of the originals and the small time pirate has gone the way of the eight track cassette. The more I searched the more disheartened I became.

I allowed myself a teary minute's silence at the side of the road before catching a whiff of a street vendor's cargo. With the failure of my mission and no urge to drink myself back to oblivion I had little reason to stay in Kuta. I ordered a half dozen sticks of chicken satay and after polishing them off, I booked our passage onward.

Later that day, with the onset of the afternoon's tropical rain, Jude and I climbed aboard an eight-seater bus bound for Ubud. We were the only ones on board. Although still a popular haunt on the traveler's route, I'd been assured by Reg that Ubud retained a great deal more of the Balinese culture than Kuta ever claimed to.

As the bus made it's way down Jalan Legian on its trek out of town, I could have sworn I caught sight of our black haired beauty from yesterday turn into a bar with yet another young Balinese twenty something. I turned to Jude and said "I bet she never extracted a bee in her wilder dreams" to which she replied, "You're a very strange man Paul". And of course, she was right.

Budget Accommodation in Indonesia