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Bromo to Bali : Geysers to Goiters

STARRING: Jennie Backman as Scared White Girl, Corey Backman as Awesomest Dude Alive & Crazy Driver McGoiter as Himself.

Let me start out by saying, I shit you not, I was electrically shocked by a computer yesterday. Not some bad ass 'attack of the Robots' type scenario either. I was just typing and my knee touched it and shocked me.

Yes, it hurt.

No, I didn't die.

Yes, I can move things with my mind.

No, I've always had this ability, it is not related to the shocking incident.

I have no further information on this topic so let's carry on.

Jennie and I climbed a mountain the other day, it was like a 7.0 on the B-A scale. The climb of the 2329 metre volcano of Mt. Bromo was easy compared to the garbage we had to go through with the people who "organized" our tour. I'm not even going to get into that (like I thought I was going to) because by the time we got to the top of the mountain and watched the sun ascend over a set of active volcanoes of which my new-ish (slight tarnishing has taken place, my Dad says its normal [apparently I don't like the romantica]) wife and I had just done the same; it didn't matter anymore. It didn't matter even if I wanted to shove him in a Zorb (http://www.zorb.com/), fill it full of assorted animal feces with ten thousand African Bees and roll him down the mountain side! Gooz frabah, gooz frabah. Breath... and we're back.

She had a cold and felt like hell (still looked beautiful [because I like the romantica]). I had a stomach issue of which, I'm pretty sure, produced me to pull both hamstrings and turn my colon into an inverted human geyser causing me to blow out my lower intestine. (Respect B-shaw, respect.) I have gone two rounds with traveller's diarrhea already and it has beat the shit out of me. Pun intended. Jennie has been fine, but that's to be expected when you have a Father who lives on Quadra Island and thus, your stomach is a mixture of cast iron and technology only known to NASA.

The site of Mt. Bromo was nothing short of brilliant. We walked across the huge expanse of black sand dunes caused by old erruptions of ash and rubble layering on top of the hardened lava rock from older-yet erruptions. We walked in the pitch black with the only source of light being our small headlamps. We walked until we reached the top. We succeeded.

We coincidentally met up with a German couple on our bus, which took us from Bromo to the island of Bali, that we had met in Jakarta roughly five days prior. However, after the ferry docked and we officially landed on the other island, the bus stopped and we parted ways. Those of us who chose to go to Lovina, rather than Denpasar, exited the comfort of our air conditioned coach only to climb aboard a mini bus. After such a hellish trip we'd endured on our way up the mountain, due to my stomach and unbelievably chaotic traffic, the way down was a delight. Then it all changed.

We exited the large coach in the middle of hectic traffic and were somehow able to organize our bags and scurry across the pavement without getting blasted by one of Indonesia's highly trained drivers. We followed the man around two street corners and were finally led to an open and relatively docile parking lot. Just I I crossed the street and hopped onto the safety of the curb, a large coach rushed passed us honking its horn. I glanced up and realized that it was the same bus and horn-crazy driver that had just kicked us out in the middle of a hazardous, to say the least, highway. I'll never understand the logic of these men, I thought. Not that mine is so refined. I've been known to sprint into trees, drunk. I blame Sailor Jerry... and Ryan Mackenzie for that.

We arrived at our bus that, maybe just to me, looked similarly shaped to that of a small van. On top of the bus was a dark skinned Indonesian barking orders that seemed routine for everyone to fully ignore. Perhaps, I thought, as I threw up our bags noticing there was no roof rack to keep our belongings from flying off at random, he was just the local crazy guy (whom the actual drivers hire), screaming obscenities, who climbs onto the roofs to secure baggage. Then us four transferee's were funneled into the small blue van where 16 other people sat, crammed like sardines in a can. Then the baggage man got in. Silly baggage man, I chuckled to myself, he thinks he can sit in the drivers seat. He's crazy, but I like him!

Why are you starting the van crazy baggage man? Jennie had a look of horror that was frozen to her face. She must be thinking the same thing as me, I thought. Her giantess, McMartin head blocked the view of Crazy Baggage Man (he gets capitalized now). Nope, okay, Crazy Baggage Man is putting it in drive. Crazy Baggage Man is Crazy Driver Man! He continued to spew god-knows-what from his mouth as we pulled away, so I decided to lean around the mass (beautiful, wouldn't change anything about it, mass) that was, and still is, my wife's head. There it was. A not so beautiful, sure-as-fuck would change it in a heartbeat if I could, get this guy some iodine in his diet, Goiter (It gets capitalized too). http://i160.photobucket.com/albums/t180/pyrosteve6009/goiter.jpg. This thing was like his little buddy, I bet it followed him wherever he went. With my calculations and logic, I assumed that this specific goiter was not due to iodine deficiency thus causing his thyroid to expand beyond all bloody-hell. I estimate that it was his body's defense mechanism, from the way Indonesians drive (Wallace-like, or worse), to form a meaty, thyroidy, mutated mass of a neck brace.

  • *I now urge all persons to whom of which still, beyond any and all understanding that man can find, choose, are forced or otherwise, to explain that your body may indeed inflict upon itself, only as a defense mechanism as previously stated, a massive fucking goiter.**

I'm a stare-er. It's what I do. I like to call it "people watching" to be polite, but any way you slice it, I enjoy staring at weird shit, rude or not.

So I stared. My only thought was of the goiters immaculate complexion and of how I so desperately wanted to draw a face on it.

He drove.

Then suddenly a hand gripped my thigh like the all mighty himself reached down and punished me for my impolite and sinful ways. I cringed and was not-so surprised to find Jennie's white knuckles clamped across my leg. Her eyes were still frozen, looking forward and, unlike mine, hadn't looked over at the driver. Not even for the tiniest of glances. Then, exorcist-like, her head turned but instead of spewing green acid vomit she spewed lazer beams out of her eyes that burned into my dysfunctional soul. I could sense her judging me.

Her once-frozen face freed, her eyes locked on mine, then dropped slightly downward.

"What am I going to do?" Her voice was uncharacteristically soft and characteristically polite. She asked a legitimate question. Then repeating the exact same words, the meaning changed to not question but a remark of complete horror.

"WHAT AM I GOING TO DO!"

Crazy Driver McGoiter was my new best friend.

Take a seat Julio. Yeah, over there in the back beside Tay, the guy consoling Brian.

Posted by CRBackman 22:58 Archived in Indonesia Tagged bus

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