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We
set
off
for
our
fake
American
road
trip
across
Bali
,
me
and
this
cool
young
Indonesian
musical
genius
in
exile
,
the
back
of
our
car
filled
with
guitars
and
beer
and
the
Balinese
equivalent
of
American
road
trip
food
-
fried
rice
crackers
and
dreadfully
flavored
indigenous
candies
.
The
details
of
our
journey
are
a
bit
blurry
to
me
now
,
smudged
over
my
distracting
thoughts
of
Felipe
and
by
the
weird
haziness
that
always
accompanies
a
road
trip
in
any
country
of
the
world
.
What
I
do
remember
is
that
Yudhi
and
I
speak
American
the
entire
time
-
a
language
I
hadn
’
t
spoken
in
so
long
.
I
’
d
been
speaking
English
a
lot
during
this
year
,
of
course
,
but
not
American
,
and
definitely
not
the
sort
of
hip
-
hop
American
Yudhi
likes
.
So
we
just
indulge
it
,
turning
ourselves
into
MTV
-
watching
adolescents
as
we
drive
along
,
razzing
each
other
like
teenagers
in
Hoboken
,
calling
each
other
dude
and
man
and
sometimes
-
with
great
tenderness
-
homo
.
A
lot
of
our
dialogue
revolves
around
affectionate
insults
to
each
other
’
s
mothers
.
"
Dude
,
what
’
d
you
do
with
the
map
?
"
"
Why
don
’
t
you
ask
your
mother
what
I
did
with
the
map
?
"
"
I
would
,
man
,
but
she
’
s
too
fat
.
"
And
so
forth
.
We
don
’
t
even
penetrate
the
interior
of
Bali
;
we
just
drive
along
the
coast
,
and
it
’
s
beaches
,
beaches
,
beaches
for
a
whole
week
.
Sometimes
we
take
a
little
fishing
boat
out
to
an
island
,
see
what
’
s
going
on
out
there
.
There
are
so
many
kinds
of
beaches
in
Bali
.
We
hang
out
one
day
along
the
long
southern
California
-
style
groovy
white
sand
surf
of
Kuta
,
then
head
up
to
the
sinister
black
rocky
beauty
of
the
west
coast
,
then
we
pass
that
invisible
Balinese
dividing
line
over
which
regular
tourists
never
seem
to
go
,
up
to
the
wild
beaches
of
the
north
coast
where
only
the
surfers
dare
to
tread
(
and
only
the
crazy
ones
,
at
that
)
.
We
sit
on
the
beach
and
watch
the
dangerous
waves
,
watch
the
lean
brown
and
white
Indonesian
and
Western
surf
-
cats
slice
across
the
water
like
zippers
ripping
open
the
backs
of
the
ocean
’
s
blue
party
dress
.
We
watch
the
surfers
wipe
out
with
bone
-
breaking
hubris
against
the
coral
and
rocks
,
only
to
go
back
out
again
to
surf
another
wave
,
and
we
gasp
and
say
,
"
Dude
,
that
is
totally
MESSED
UP
.
"
Just
as
intended
,
we
forget
for
long
hours
(
purely
for
Yudhi
’
s
benefit
)
that
we
are
in
Indonesia
at
all
as
we
tool
around
in
this
rented
car
,
eating
junk
food
and
singing
American
songs
,
having
pizza
everywhere
we
can
find
it
.
When
we
are
overcome
by
evidence
of
the
Bali
-
ness
of
our
surroundings
,
we
try
to
ignore
it
and
pretend
we
’
re
back
in
America
.
I
’
ll
ask
,
"
What
’
s
the
best
route
to
get
past
this
volcano
?
"
and
Yudhi
will
say
,
"
I
think
we
should
take
I
-
95
,
"
and
I
’
ll
counter
,
"
But
that
’
ll
take
us
right
through
Boston
in
the
middle
of
rush
-
hour
traffic
…
"
It
’
s
just
a
game
,
but
it
sort
of
works
.
Sometimes
we
discover
calm
stretches
of
blue
ocean
and
we
swim
all
day
,
permitting
each
other
to
start
drinking
beer
at
10
:
00
AM
(
"
Dude
-
it
’
s
medicinal
"
)
.
We
make
friends
with
everyone
we
encounter
.
Yudhi
is
the
kind
of
guy
who
-
when
he
’
s
walking
down
the
beach
and
he
sees
a
man
building
a
boat
-
will
stop
and
say
,
"
Wow
!
Are
you
building
a
boat
?
"
And
his
curiosity
is
so
perfectly
winning
that
the
next
thing
you
know
we
’
ve
been
invited
to
come
live
with
the
boat
-
builder
’
s
family
for
a
year
.
