Endless Summer

If this backpacking trip was a career, or, perhaps more metaphorically, a life, then I have reached the twilight years. Since the birthday of my adventures on January 12th of last year, I've seen quite a lot.
I've seen many roads pass me by, going in the opposite direction. I've seen many moons rise into the night, and then crash into the dawn's promising new beginnings. I've seen many smiles, set in white against the backdrop of many coloured faces, with each joyful expression transcending any language barrier that could have been in place.
Suffice to say, I've seen what I intended to. And when you've accomplished that, and your heart is filled to the brim with elation, and your mind with wisdom and your soul with excitement, then perhaps it's time to do what many people choose to do in the twilight years of their lives: retire. Go to someplace warm. Relax. Buy a sweater vest.

There was a long list of finalists for the epicentre of my retirement, but in the end I chose Kuta Beach, on the island of Bali in Indonesia. Here, I have everything I need. I've got a room, large and spacious with a fan and fridge and outdoor shower, where I've been able to empty out every last thing from my pack. My main man Jackson The Main Man is my nextdoor neighbour, and he keeps me company. I've got access to shopping and fine dining, and a beach I could hit with a stone from my front stoop. And I've got my very own surfboard.

Some people, in their retirement, decide to take up Bridge or crocheting. I've taken up surfing. Surfing is an extremely pleasant way to spend your day, and perhaps the most pleasant thing about it is that I've become pretty good. Jackson, too. Now I'm not saying we're Edmonton's answer to Mick Fanning and Kelly Slater, but for our part we're out there every day with the rest of the big boys, waging battle against a neverending series of blue-and-white monsters. It ain't easy; it requires strength, stamina, and most of all a passive acceptance that Mother Nature is going to put you in the spin cycle of her washing machine whenever she sees fit. But when the buzzer goes DING! we'll be paddling right back out there, and soon after that you'll see us, gliding down the slope of a 10ft wall of surging water, our faces fixed in a look of intense determination. It's funny. Those waves are so loud, you can't hear a damn thing, and yet despite all the decibels, I've a hard time imagining a more peaceful place that right inside one.

Now despite the fact that I've retired, Indonesia is still a foreign country and as such I'm still obligated to contend with a few of the traveler trials. Like touts. Touts are the malignant tumors of the backpacking world, and the longer you're away, the more you hate them. Bali has lots, but a special mention must go out to one tout who lured me into his clothing shop the other day while I was wandering about town in search of surf shorts. He had a smile as big as a child's biggest wish and a shop with some decent stuff, but as soon as I'd entered the barometer hit the roof with an intense pressure to buy. Entire racks of clothing were pulled from their positions and set in front of me, free necklaces were offered as incentive, and very soon I became fed up and made to leave. But the tout wasn't having that. He put an arm in front of my to block my way, and his smile suddenly evaporated and recondensed into a malevolent scowl. I looked him straight in his black eyes.
"Let me out."
He didn't move, so I calmly grabbed his wrist and placed it at his side, creating an escape route.
"F$%k you," he sneered through clenched teeth as I passed him.
"Uh huh," I said in full-blown arrogant nonchalance. I exited the front door and wheeled about.
"Fine way to run a business."
Something must have snapped in his peanut-sized brain as a result of my diplomacy, because two seconds later he was running towards me in a rage, wielding a broomstick. He was going to beat me with a broomstick! I probably should have fled, but I was frozen in surprise, so instead I stayed put and leered at him in outright defiance. He stopped dead about two feet from me, letting the stick fall to his side. I walked away, and although I'd like to credit my own tiger-like tenacity as the catalyst of his decision to suspend the attack, it was likely because he'd realized that many other tourists were in the vicinity and that one of them was liable to witness his bad behaviour. Smart decision for a mental-midget. Either way, by choosing to cross me he sealed his own fate, because someday soon I'll be sending my Nan to whoop his ass with her walking stick as retribution. Hear that, Tout? My Nan may be an innocent-looking octogenarian, but she still runs a protection racket that would make the Medicis beam with pride. Start making your funeral plans, because you're due for a fatal comeuppance!

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH...

Retirement.

This is the life. Just me, Jacko (and his lovely girlfriend), a beach, some surfing, and about 23 million Australians.

Lotta Australians in Bali. And with that in mind, I'll turn things over to my Aussie friend Bruce, who has volunteered to bring this post home.

OI, MATE! Thought Ah'd chyme inta sayy thit Bali's senn-sayy-shonal! By crikey those wyves are gnahley! Tunnza nyce lookin' Sheilas on the buych as will! Puhrfikt playce for yer re-tiiiire-mint!