I Said 'The WISHbone,' Honey...
Happy day of turkey to all, from turkey-free Bali. We are in Kuta, which is the site of the "big bomb #1," as the locals call it. Kuta is like Waikiki or Vegas or some hybrid of the two. But much cheaper. We're staying in a "trendy" (that's the Balinese descriptor, not mine) hotel which might as well be in LA or Miami.
We left the mellow Ubud for the more mellow and quite remote Bingin Beach, a small beachside village perched on a cliff above a swatch of the many-hued Indian Ocean. I marvel at the number of colors of blues and greens I see here - it is as if the color wheel below the equator is infinite - the mingling fingers of turquoise, indigo and blue greens we could see just from our ocaenview bungalow a testament to that. We were told of Mick's Place by our Ubudian newlywed friends - they have stayed there, and loved its sleepy beach vibe. It was like a wonderland, like much of what we've seen here. A little cluster of white-washed bungalows with palm-frond roofs twirling up to a Seussical, whimsical point. Everything in the bathrooms was wood, from the bamboo faucets to the drain cover, a little teak disc with holes drilled through. Minimalist beauty, and perfectly appointed. Mick is an Aussie who has lived here for 9 years, his deep tan proof of his Balihood.
We were thrilled to quickly fall into conversation with Louise, a guest at Mick's travelling from San Diego. Louise is a classic California girl, but with a list of travels more deep than anyone I've met. She chose Bali for the surf - to my untrained eye she looks like she could even be a pro. Her golden tan and bleached arm hairs are perfect surfer girl accessories. We had dinner with her the first night after a long walk to a neighboring pool, and we immediately bonded. She was so open and sweet - a nice familiarity we'd been missing a bit here.
Expert surfer Louise gamely agreed to share her last, pre-departure surfing morning with Steve, who wanted to learn on Mick's longboard. We slathered him in sunscreen before he left, and I barked orders to him about keeping his dark t-shirt on to stave off the rays. The sun here feels prickly in its intensity, and I knew he'd be bobbing in a big mirror for a while. I perched myself in Mick's open-air bale, the Balinese living room - raised, palm-roofed, and in this case, with a perfect view of the water.
I was amazed that I could see Steve and Louise paddling out, him in his t-shirt atop his longboard, and Louise with her surfergirl bikini and board. They bobbed for a minute and then a wave came. Louise caught it, and Steve whooshed along for a minute and then was toppled by the crest, his board flying up like a piece of paper.
He was under for a minute, which made me "Hmm." Then he popped up, and got beside his now-upsidedown board. Louise drifted over to him, and a minute later he climbed on top of his board. I was thinking the whole process was a little more, uh, tentative-looking than usual, but what do I know? A few other guys paddled over to them, and they were all consulting Steve. I thought he probably banged his bad toe (broken a few days before we left - luck!) on the coral or something.
Soon, he and Louise were paddling to shore.
A minute later, I saw an old Balinese woman climbing our cliffside trail with two boards atop her grey head. I ran to the gate, she came in, and was followed by Louise and Steve. Louise was saying, "We need first aid," in a high-pitched voice as I was running to Steve, his now-crooked nose spurting blood and mucuous and sea water. "I broke by nobe." Holy shit.
I ran around for a minute, seeking things which would help - Advil, a sarong for dabbing, iPod? My synapses were running ragged, trying to think of what to do. How to handle a geyser of blood coming from my honey's now-profile nose? "Get all the money." "Pack our bags." "No, hurry." I grabbed money, a clean shirt for Steve, passports, and a backpack, and helped him to the waiting car. As we got in he said, "The Aussie surfer told me not to fall asleep..." He was trailing off, moaning, "I'm going to pass out..." Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me. Blood and mucuous everywhere, my sweet man moaning and forbidden to fall asleep, and our minivan lurching over the once-quaint, now-treacherous dirt road. Why not fall asleep? Is this more serious than I think? Oh god oh god oh god.
Moaning and lurching and lurching and moaning, and about 10 minutes later we were on a paved road, racing through the streets. Our driver pressed a button and triggered a remarkably official-sounding siren, which totally caught me by surprise. Meanwhile, I was trying to keep poor Steve awake with questions like, "On a scale of one to ten, how is your pain?" ("6".) "Look me in the eyes. I love you and I am here. You will be fine." Poor thing. Meanwhile, all my strong-woman, everything-is-okay posturing was wearing thin, and I was worrying that manybe everything wouldn't be okay - what are the doctors like here? What if something really bad happens? I was bathed in sheets of sweat. Really, no exaggeration - every pore on my body expelled saline, and I was a slick beast.
We pulled into the driveway of the low-slung, plain clinic. I hopped out of the car and ran over to Steve's door, and slung his arm over my shoulder and shuffled him in through the spottily-mirrored doors. It felt like walking into a dingy 7-11. There were three gurneys in the room, the middle occupied by an apparent motorbike leg injury - stitches on a Balinese legs, and puddles of Balinese blood on the floor. We put Steve on the furthest gurney in the room, under some crooked, framed diagrams of the human anatomy tacked on the soiled medical blue walls. The doctor put a clear apron on over his clothes - not a brand new garb, mind you, and came over. We explained the obvious - I mean, what could be wrong with someone whose nose is almost an S shape, and who has blood caked with sand and phlegm in his beard?
The heavy sweating I was experiencing in the car was turning impossibly more profuse. In my current, fine state of mind, I ask: Where does all of that come from? I was drenched. And suddenly cold. And tingly. Very tingly. My fingers were going stiff, then numb, then more stiff. "Are you okay?" Steve was checking in on ME - the opposite of what should have been transpiring. I shuffled over to the sole empty gurney and crawled onto it, and asked for water. Not good. Panic. Full-bore panic, and my dear, my beloved, my heart, is two gurneys away, needing me. I tried to ask the doctor for Xanax, Valium - anything. When Steve called to me to say he was sorry - he didn't want to be causing me trouble, I slurped my water and went over to him. Mind over mind, though it was dicey. Poor Steve.
Finally the doctor said we needed to go to the hospital, something we had asked our original driver to do in the first place. "I'm late - go here." We called a taxi to come get us to take us to the "International Hospital," which made me feel a tad guilty (albeit only fleetingly). At this point, Steve was calm, I was calming, and he was in pain, but accepting that the shock was likely greater than the seriousness of the injury. The taxi driver took us about 1 mile to the BIMC - Bali International Medical Center - where our car was inspected, and we were ushered inside the clean, gleaming facility. The women at reception spoke remarkable English - Steve was immediately ushered into an immaculate room where an English-speaking, UCLA-trained female Balinese doctor confidently assessed the injury. "You have one week to have it straightened by a plastic surgeon - today it is not necessary."
Stay tuned for parts 17 - 20!
We left the mellow Ubud for the more mellow and quite remote Bingin Beach, a small beachside village perched on a cliff above a swatch of the many-hued Indian Ocean. I marvel at the number of colors of blues and greens I see here - it is as if the color wheel below the equator is infinite - the mingling fingers of turquoise, indigo and blue greens we could see just from our ocaenview bungalow a testament to that. We were told of Mick's Place by our Ubudian newlywed friends - they have stayed there, and loved its sleepy beach vibe. It was like a wonderland, like much of what we've seen here. A little cluster of white-washed bungalows with palm-frond roofs twirling up to a Seussical, whimsical point. Everything in the bathrooms was wood, from the bamboo faucets to the drain cover, a little teak disc with holes drilled through. Minimalist beauty, and perfectly appointed. Mick is an Aussie who has lived here for 9 years, his deep tan proof of his Balihood.
We were thrilled to quickly fall into conversation with Louise, a guest at Mick's travelling from San Diego. Louise is a classic California girl, but with a list of travels more deep than anyone I've met. She chose Bali for the surf - to my untrained eye she looks like she could even be a pro. Her golden tan and bleached arm hairs are perfect surfer girl accessories. We had dinner with her the first night after a long walk to a neighboring pool, and we immediately bonded. She was so open and sweet - a nice familiarity we'd been missing a bit here.
Expert surfer Louise gamely agreed to share her last, pre-departure surfing morning with Steve, who wanted to learn on Mick's longboard. We slathered him in sunscreen before he left, and I barked orders to him about keeping his dark t-shirt on to stave off the rays. The sun here feels prickly in its intensity, and I knew he'd be bobbing in a big mirror for a while. I perched myself in Mick's open-air bale, the Balinese living room - raised, palm-roofed, and in this case, with a perfect view of the water.
I was amazed that I could see Steve and Louise paddling out, him in his t-shirt atop his longboard, and Louise with her surfergirl bikini and board. They bobbed for a minute and then a wave came. Louise caught it, and Steve whooshed along for a minute and then was toppled by the crest, his board flying up like a piece of paper.
He was under for a minute, which made me "Hmm." Then he popped up, and got beside his now-upsidedown board. Louise drifted over to him, and a minute later he climbed on top of his board. I was thinking the whole process was a little more, uh, tentative-looking than usual, but what do I know? A few other guys paddled over to them, and they were all consulting Steve. I thought he probably banged his bad toe (broken a few days before we left - luck!) on the coral or something.
Soon, he and Louise were paddling to shore.
A minute later, I saw an old Balinese woman climbing our cliffside trail with two boards atop her grey head. I ran to the gate, she came in, and was followed by Louise and Steve. Louise was saying, "We need first aid," in a high-pitched voice as I was running to Steve, his now-crooked nose spurting blood and mucuous and sea water. "I broke by nobe." Holy shit.
I ran around for a minute, seeking things which would help - Advil, a sarong for dabbing, iPod? My synapses were running ragged, trying to think of what to do. How to handle a geyser of blood coming from my honey's now-profile nose? "Get all the money." "Pack our bags." "No, hurry." I grabbed money, a clean shirt for Steve, passports, and a backpack, and helped him to the waiting car. As we got in he said, "The Aussie surfer told me not to fall asleep..." He was trailing off, moaning, "I'm going to pass out..." Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me. Blood and mucuous everywhere, my sweet man moaning and forbidden to fall asleep, and our minivan lurching over the once-quaint, now-treacherous dirt road. Why not fall asleep? Is this more serious than I think? Oh god oh god oh god.
Moaning and lurching and lurching and moaning, and about 10 minutes later we were on a paved road, racing through the streets. Our driver pressed a button and triggered a remarkably official-sounding siren, which totally caught me by surprise. Meanwhile, I was trying to keep poor Steve awake with questions like, "On a scale of one to ten, how is your pain?" ("6".) "Look me in the eyes. I love you and I am here. You will be fine." Poor thing. Meanwhile, all my strong-woman, everything-is-okay posturing was wearing thin, and I was worrying that manybe everything wouldn't be okay - what are the doctors like here? What if something really bad happens? I was bathed in sheets of sweat. Really, no exaggeration - every pore on my body expelled saline, and I was a slick beast.
We pulled into the driveway of the low-slung, plain clinic. I hopped out of the car and ran over to Steve's door, and slung his arm over my shoulder and shuffled him in through the spottily-mirrored doors. It felt like walking into a dingy 7-11. There were three gurneys in the room, the middle occupied by an apparent motorbike leg injury - stitches on a Balinese legs, and puddles of Balinese blood on the floor. We put Steve on the furthest gurney in the room, under some crooked, framed diagrams of the human anatomy tacked on the soiled medical blue walls. The doctor put a clear apron on over his clothes - not a brand new garb, mind you, and came over. We explained the obvious - I mean, what could be wrong with someone whose nose is almost an S shape, and who has blood caked with sand and phlegm in his beard?
The heavy sweating I was experiencing in the car was turning impossibly more profuse. In my current, fine state of mind, I ask: Where does all of that come from? I was drenched. And suddenly cold. And tingly. Very tingly. My fingers were going stiff, then numb, then more stiff. "Are you okay?" Steve was checking in on ME - the opposite of what should have been transpiring. I shuffled over to the sole empty gurney and crawled onto it, and asked for water. Not good. Panic. Full-bore panic, and my dear, my beloved, my heart, is two gurneys away, needing me. I tried to ask the doctor for Xanax, Valium - anything. When Steve called to me to say he was sorry - he didn't want to be causing me trouble, I slurped my water and went over to him. Mind over mind, though it was dicey. Poor Steve.
Finally the doctor said we needed to go to the hospital, something we had asked our original driver to do in the first place. "I'm late - go here." We called a taxi to come get us to take us to the "International Hospital," which made me feel a tad guilty (albeit only fleetingly). At this point, Steve was calm, I was calming, and he was in pain, but accepting that the shock was likely greater than the seriousness of the injury. The taxi driver took us about 1 mile to the BIMC - Bali International Medical Center - where our car was inspected, and we were ushered inside the clean, gleaming facility. The women at reception spoke remarkable English - Steve was immediately ushered into an immaculate room where an English-speaking, UCLA-trained female Balinese doctor confidently assessed the injury. "You have one week to have it straightened by a plastic surgeon - today it is not necessary."
Stay tuned for parts 17 - 20!
posted by O'Mc Bloggivan at 9:30 PM
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