Our boat was just slightly less seaworthy.
When we wake to leave Ubud, Tony does not feel well: he has an encroaching fever which, in the middle of the jungle in south Asia, is certainly worrisome. It could be anything: the food or the mosquitoes or the temperature. Perhaps the angered spirit of the departed King decided to start doling out Balinese curses willy nilly. But, he maintains, we should just brave on. Some time on the tiny, isolated Gili Meno would uplift his spirits!
The route, we thought, would be a pleasant boatride to the Gili islands, off the coast of Bali. Each of us pictured a gentle ferry: an enormous, weighty monstrosity, practically a small island, that would barely sway as it was rocked by the ocean. Boats so big the ocean was rocked by them.
This was not the kind of boat we got on.
Oh, what a deceitful writer I am. You see, while I seemed to be plugging away in the word mines, gaily chipping at verbiage ore to polish and refine and bring to you, my doleful consumers, I was actually not here. I mined all these glorious gems of literary spew weeks ago! Really, I was in Indonesia and Taiwan for the past two weeks while the internet aided me with my gentle ruse. Though you thought me sweating profusely over my keyboard, furiously slamming my worn, calloused digits into the letters, I was actually drunk on a beach somewhere, which is really my natural state. Will you forgive me? I imagine you will when you cast your eyes on this here photographia.
Did you know Bali was mad pretty? Let’s talk about it.