2008
There we were, having consumed a 3 course meal by candle light, a couple grey goose martinis, a bottle of buttery Chardonnay, and a joint bought from a Balinese drug dealer in a rat infested commune, Mike and I were breaking into the presidential suite at a posh ocean front resort on the island of Bali.
This night was a special one, our last hours in Bali before returning home to face the impending fire and brimstone. We had driven our rented scooter, about 20 minutes outside of town, far away from the hustle and commotion of touristy Kuta, looking for a quaint romantic restaurant suited to their particular tastes: lighting, no kids menu, no senior’s discount, no franchises, extensive wine list, large wine glasses, and privacy.
As we sat under the stars, Mike noticed the landscape was littered with security; little Balinese men in uniform with guns or clubs. Standing guard on the beach and surrounding the restaurant. Could it have been a precaution lingering from the 1995 bombings? Or was an important guest dining amongst them? Our late night stumbling stroll along the beach led them to an ocean front hotel next door to the restaurant. Our curious intoxicated minds begged us to enter and check out the grounds, giggling along the way..
“Shhh” Mike whispered at the sight of a sleeping Balinese hotel security guard laying sweetly on a lawn chair. We tip toed past him, noticing a perfect little sitting area with the same Balinese couches we had fallen in love with during our stay at the Four Seasons in Ubud.
Moments before our butts contently hit the sofas, we discovered two more sleeping guards occupying their designated resting spot. Again, we tip toed away from them, deeper into the grounds of the hotel.. Mike noticed the doorway to a bungalow. It was as if it had an official letter of invitation posted on the entry way... We gently opened the first wooden door, which led to a private veranda.
We couldn’t leave well enough alone. We were determined to break into the suite for a quick look around. Mistakenly, we had left their lock picking set back at the room. But Mike, being a McGyver of sorts, broke off the door jam, pulled out a credit card and jimmied the door.
We entered the suite. Turned on the music. Ran a bath. Smoked a joint. Drank beer compliments of the mini bar. Made love. Passed out. Snored.
Ring. Ring. Ring. What was that annoying sound? Fuck, it was the phone. Who could be calling us? No one was supposed to be in there? Did the guards figure us out? We popped up, made the bed, and gathered our things. This was not good. Had we been discovered?
We tip toed out of the room onto the private deck with plans to sneak out the front door, the same way we came in. A quick peep through the door revealed the resort grounds littered with little Balinese men in skirts totting walkie talkies. The peaceful ocean side resort had turned into a maximum security prison
We were in trouble. We had no Plan B. No escape route. Mike climbed up onto the roof and over a 6 foot wall, hoping to jump into next suite courtyard, an area clear from skirted mini-men.
“Stop you. Stop Stop” they screeched into their walkie-talkies. Mike was surrounded by midget Balinese security guards wearing skirts running towards him frantically from all angles..
“You, Stay on the roof” they shouted me.
“No way Jose” I said, “I’m going with my man”. I attempted my descent down the other side of the roof. Unfortunately, I’m not a small woman, at least twice the size of the skirted Balinese security officers. I grasped the side railings, just as the ceiling collapsed under me. I jumped off, chasing after Mike ‘Mike’, Mike’ where are you?”
They mini-men grabbed me by the wrist and took me in the same direction as my partner in crime. As soon as we caught up to Mike, he grabbed the skirted Balinese security man’s hands off of me. The Balinese security guard retreated, still with an ear to ear smile on his face.
“Katut Leon from Ubud sent us; don’t you know Katut? The famous Balinese medicine man? He told us we could stay here since we had too much to drink at the restaurant next door. Katut? Yes? “ The story spun out of me as if it was the truth..
Of course, this was Bali and ‘Katut’ was the number 2 name in the country. There were probably thousands of Katut’s. The security guards didn’t buy my spun tale… How does someone explain how they ended up in the presidential suite without paying for it? Our fate was sealed when the British hotel manager returned from the soiled room discovering the broken door jam…
“Door jam, shmoor jam…What are you talking about?” snickered Mike
The skirted Balinese security guards, led by the pant wearing British manager, weren’t biting at our story. It finally came down to the universal language of American Express.
“How much was the room. We will pay for the room. And the broken door jam.”
I wrote the officers our confession while Mike paid the bill.
To whom this may concern,
We thoroughly enjoyed our stay at your hotel, until we were captured by security”
j.
***