Have you ever wondered where J-wow and Snookie would vacation if they came to Asia?
Welcome to Kuta, Bali, the austro-european equivalent of the Jersey Shore, complete with fake breasts, fist-pumping nightclubs, and serious narcotics. It’s curious how this small peninsula of trashtastic party beasts can exist in a country with a zero-tolerence policy and the death penalty.
We left immediately. It took us two days to get as far away (mentally) from Kuta as possible and involved 3 buses, 2 ferries, one slightly crooked tour operator and was set to the soundtrack of Michael Bolton’s greatest hits on repeat. And man, was it worth every minute.
Gili Air. No cars. Intermittent electricity. Great Food. $10 beachfront bungalows.
This is where we learned to sit back, look at the ocean and disconnect. I lasted 3 days before I wanted to swim back to the bigger island and get a move on. Vinnie managed to hang on for a week plus.
In return for staying in one place for so long, I am now allowed to set the agenda for a week-long jungle trek through Sumatra complete with leeches and orangutans. Fair trade off, right?