Chapter 1: Rendez vous with Rudy, the Oregonian

Wearily I stepped out of the bemo onto a street in a lesser-known district of Kuta. The South African and I hailed a taxi, or rather the taxi hailed us, and I negotiated a reasonably fair price to Poppies 2. I had planned to go back to the recommended Suka Beach Inn, but L (the S.African's name is a whopper!) was paying half what I was in the hotel across the lane. I suggested we split the 25,-rp room charge, but a slightly hesitant yes meant he really didn't want to share - no problem. $4.50 is cheap for these large 2-bed rooms anyways. As I signed a big "X" in the register I recognised an old aquaintence. Desperate to get his attention as he walked away I yelled "Jakarta!" (that's where we met) and then quickly remembered and followed with, "Rudy!".
Strange how you bump into people here and there. They say all roads lead to Bangkok, and indeed that is true, but I would suggest the same be said of Bali. I followed Rudy and his friend, who turned out to be Georges from Greece, upstairs, then had a quick shower. What a relief. Without an opportunity to shower before I left Gili I had relied on a baseball cap to hide my matted, salty hair.
When I came out I found Rudy and Georges talking with a pretty girl who looked oddly familiar. Seen her somewhere, perhaps? Christina turned out to be a fellow Vancouverite; I may have seen her at the irish pub near my home, where she worked. Pretty wild.
L was indisposed when Rudy et al left, so I left a note and tagged along.

Chapter 2: Debbie the Sugar Momma
Christina was late for an 'appointment' with a 45 year old Aussie. I hesitate to call it a date, as everyone else did. Something strange about that... charity for poor, single (female) backpackers...
Rudy, Georges and I continued to their hotel on Legian Street, meeting up with another American girl whom they both knew. We walked past the massive memorial for the October 12th, 2002 bombing, then found their hotel, an upscale 100,000rp/night joint with a pool surrounded by jungle flora. In the hotels Warung (restaurant) we ordered a few Bintangs and some food - I was simply starving!
After dinner, which was blah, we headed to the nearby CircleK (Indonesia is the only country so far that doesn't have 7-11s) and bought a few cold drinks to enjoy back at the hotel.
Enter Debbie, an old, sun-aged, weathered woman in her late fourties. She had just arrived from Santa Monica and desperately needed a Bintang. We joked that she should supersize to the 620mL version, and she heartily agreed.

"You boys Brasilian?," she asked after a brief discussion.

Now I have been called Dutch, Swedish, Aussie, British, American, and, of course, Canadian, but never Brasilian. Me, a tall white Canuck; Rudy, a 20 year old Yankee with spiked dirty-blonde hair and slightly burnt skin; and Georges, a 23 year old Greek who looked very greek.
We had a good laugh at the proposterousness. Debbie was thrilled to meet another American and invited us all to her hotel across the street, which she had been frequenting every winter for the past 18 years. We would be treated like kings... She had a pool....

Later, up at Rudy's hotel veranda we joked about being Barsilian. I had yet to meet someone from there after 5 1/2 months.
Not long after we opened our first beers, two Brasilans walked past us on the way to their room. Go figure.