Kuta is what happens when First World bangs Third World and an illegitimate child is born out of wedlock. It is where First World forces itself upon Third World, satisfying its own lusts and leaving Third World to either attempt to hold onto First World, or to face falling further behind in its absence.
You could find everything you needed or wanted in Kuta. From “Western” cuisine and “western” toilets to Coca Cola, Kit-Kats, Mentos, Cheetos, Pringles, and a wide variety of other products and services, all in English and all so much cheaper that you could find back home, wherever that may be.
Kuta is where the Balinese people moved from their tiny hillside villages just to find work, when prices on everything rose too high for family trades and farming to be sustainable. It is also where the Javanese migrated for work, where the cost of living was higher, but so were the wages.
Kuta is where the night clubs and discotheques catered to white tourists from Australia, Europe, and America and thrived night after night, seven days a week. There were no weeknights in Kuta, or weekends for that matter. Every day was just the same as the last. And there was always a reason to go out.
In Kuta the natural beauty of the ocean and its dark, sandy beaches met the discarded waste of First World living. The ocean was more filled filth floating between the toes of tourists than it was filled of marine life. The sand was just the burial ground for trash that was picked through and sorted by nomadic dogs and starving locals.
In Kuta, marijuana was illegal and “magic mushrooms” were the norm among tourists. It was the only place in the world that I have traveled where beer was cheaper at the beachside vendors hawking drinks from their red plastic coolers than it was at the convenience store.
Kuta was also where names were less important that personalities, and people could be whoever they wanted to be- rich or poor, famous or aloof, pimp or prostitute. It was a place of heroes, princes, and queens. Where events of the past could be retold time and time again and would turn into stories of great success, always believable because there was no one there to refute your claims. Friends came a dime a dozen, as long as there was a dime left to put into the machine.
Dreams were realized in Kuta, where years of saving, planning, and looking at pictures became real. And dreams were often shattered by lofty expectations, a bad sunburn, or an argument with a lover. Dreams were fantastic in Kuta, the result of an excess of new experiences, faces, and language combined with the escaping of one’s worries and anxieties of home that came along beneath one’s mind, despite the effort to leave it behind.
In Kuta one could get by on their feet, a motorbike, car, or even horse-drawn carriage. The smell of gasoline and engine exhaust was as strong as the smell of the ocean in the sea breeze. It was where sidewalks were as useful to motorbikes as to walking pedestrians, where roads were congested with shuttle buses, taxis, and tour buses, and meters were all but useless as one could easily sit in traffic thirty minutes to go only eight blocks.
It was a city without skyscrapers to block the sunshine, where people walked around in board shorts and bathing suits instead of business suits and dresses. It was as laid back as you could want it to be, but never more intense than the occasional rain that cleansed the city streets and kept travelers inside their hotels for no longer than thirty minutes at a time. “Ambition” was just another four-letter word forgotten in never being spoken, and “time” was just another forgotten idea lost between the sunsets.
But for nearly two months Kuta was my home and I was mysteriously drawn to its oddities and amazements, and had great sadness in the thought of leaving. It was, as an Australian described it on our return from the jungle, “a different kind of jungle.” And in all of my time here, I have never once regretted not leaving it for a more subtle, quiet place. I was enticed by her awkwardness, and enchanted by all that she offered. The thought of leaving put me into a withdrawal similar to one attempting to escape the addiction of alcohol, nicotine, or heroine.
There was no substitute for Kuta, and no weaning off of her. One could not just have a little without returning shortly thereafter to experience everything.
I loved Kuta for its craziness, knowing that whatever chaos could possible occur within its streets was nothing compared to that back home. It put things in perspective for me: what it means to want and to have, to love and to desire, to breathe involuntarily and to live. Each opposite was only amplified in its contrast here. Good was great. Bad was unheard of. And somewhere in the middle one could live the rest of their life here.
That was me, fifty two days later, somewhere between fantastic expectations of everything great and beautiful in life and contentment in the thought of never leaving. Sickness had its time, as did loneliness. But both healed quickly in the warm sand and in the cool sea.
I saw myself here indefinitely – work or no work, money or no money – living twice the age I would be had I returned to the toxins of home. And those thoughts of never going home made the days more enjoyable, but also made them pass more quickly. Until there was only two weeks… one week… five days…
And so with great sadness I have resigned to return to my home, wondering if the enchantment of Kuta has permanently engraved itself into my existence and if I will be constantly reminded in my struggles back home of a beautiful island half the world away. Or will the unconscious dreams of my reality replace those vivid Bali dreams, and leave me wondering if this whole experience was just a dream in the first place… born from a desire to escape a life felt lived in cages and concrete, and desperate for all of the freedoms that Kuta had to offer.
Is this my drug, Kuta? And will you stay within my system long enough for my return to this dream of dark sandy beaches, colorful sunsets, powerful crashing waves, and busy streets – your reality?
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