While still based in Honolulu, former Philippine President Ferdinand Marcos, his shoe-loving wife, Imelda, and their son, Bong Bong were living in splendid exile on Oahu. When Marcos died, the Philippine Government refused Imelda’s requests to allow her, and the family, to return to bury Ferdinand in his home island city of Rios Norte.
Responding to accusations of larceny on a grand scale (the Marcos’ were reputed to have looted the Philippines of about $35 billion), Imelda would gather the reporters together on the porch of the mansion in which she was forced to live, and tearfully protest their innocence, their poverty, and the injustice of it all. “They were getting along,” she would declare, “due to the handouts from, and kindness of friends.”
Imelda, never underestimating the stupidity of the masses, kept Ferdinand’s body on ice at a fancy cemetery near Kailua Bay. Once a year, on Ferdinand’s birthday, his body, cryogenically convenient in it’s crypt, would be brought to her Hawaiian mansion-prison. She would invite hundreds of Marcoista’s to Ferdinand’s birthday party, and I have it on good authority, that at some point in the evening, Imelda would call the gathering to order. Ever the entertainer, she would sing “Happy Birthday to You” to Ferdinand’s frozen corpse.
Five years after Ferdinand’s death, the Philippine Government relented to the pressure of the masses. It was announced that Ex-President Marcos would be allowed burial in Rios Norte.
I was taking Willy and Silly, good friends for many years, on “buddy passes” to Bali. Buddy Pass trips are on a space available basis, and this trip required a flight from HNL-Guam, then from Guam to Denpassar, Bali. Calling Continental reservations, I confirmed that tomorrow’s DC-10 flight from HNL-Guam was “wide open.” Good, tomorrow’s first leg had plenty of empty seats.
Next day we check our bags at the Continental ticket counter, produce our passports for verification, and proceed to the gate. It is cordoned off. Hundreds of passengers are being herded back, kept at a distance from the gate. We move to a waiting area one gate over, trying to figure out what the fuck is going on.
Television cameras are trained at the ramp area, focusing beneath our flight’s DC-10. Honolulu’s local Jane Pauley approaches me, microphone in hand. Her cameraman, shoulder-cam rolling, brackets us. “Jane” asks me: “What do you think of Ferdinand Marcos’ body being returned to the Philippines for burial?”
Oh shit, as fate would have it, Marcos’ body, now being belly-loaded (in an ordinary baggage container), is heading to Manila via Guam, on our airplane. Worse, hundreds of Marcoista’s, including his son Bong Bong, are accompanying their dead hero for burial in the Philippines.
I respond, “I can’t believe that after twenty-years of fucking over the Philippine people, now five-years after his death, Ferdinand Marcos is going to fuck me and my friends out of our trip to Guam!”
“Cut!”
We make it onto the airplane after all, but it was close, with only a few seats remaining. Celebrating our success, Willy and Silly break out the Evian water bottles they’ve filled with Stolys. We drink for the first half-hour of this eight-hour leg, ordering only Bloody Mary Mix, and ice from the flight attendants.
My mind begins to wander. We are sitting on an airplane carrying Marco’s body, his son and hundreds of their corrupt cronies who have sucked billions of illicit dollars out of the country, all of them on board this airplane. A niggling thought creeps and grows in my head…How many Filipino’s out there would love to see this airplane blown out of the sky?
“Willy,” I say, “More vodka!” I suffer through the remainder of the flight, trying not to dwell on the worst case scenario.
Our fellow passengers are partying hearty, standing up all over the plane, smoking, schmoozing and completely disregarding seat belt signs or instructions to put out their cigarettes. These are rich, happy campers, at a party.
Silly is seated next to the only dour gentleman on the airplane, and she begs me to change seats with her, and I do. After perhaps an hour of silence, the seventy-ish gentleman turns, and introduces himself to me, “Father Gomez, at your service,” (do I hear boot heels faintly clicking?). He hands me a business card, as well. It seems the good Father is also a General of the Philippine Air Force, and he has a Canadian address.
Are you part of the group accompanying ex-President Marcos for burial?”
“Yes, I was his priest.”
Never shy I ask, “Did you used to take former President Ferdinand Marcos’ confession?”
Pause… “Yes, I did.”
“Did it take a long time?”
The remaining five hours of the flight were spent in silence.
The five hour flight from Guam to Bali was uneventful, and Willy, Silly and I were anxious to meet up with our old comrades at the Blue Moon Cafe, off of Jalan three brothers road. The Specialty of the House at the Moon is the “Blue Thunder” Mushroom Soup. Twenty minutes after slurping down this delicious delicacy, the familiar stomach cramping begins. Its not too uncomfortable and doesn’t last long. The Blue Thunder mushroom trip lasts half a day, and the psychedelic colors and patterns are proof positive, as to the inspiration behind Balinese patterns and fabrics.
Balinese, by tradition, are only supposed to have up to four children. They name the first born Wayan, next Mandi, then Nyoman and finally Katut. Should they, by chance, have additional kids (no sin), they start over again. Number five is Wayan, number six, Mandi, and so forth. Differentiating girls from boys is easy. The prefix Ni is sometimes designated, as in Ni-Wayan Kiley, but is not required.
” Wayan Steve ,” asks Mandi Willy, have you seen Ni Katut Silly?” No Willy, last I saw she was in the pool.”
Silly surfaces, insisting we join her in the pool. “Wait till you see the colors and textures underwater,” she insists, and disappears to the bottom, again.
Mandi Willy follows her in. I am satisfied to sit at poolside at The Sri Ratu Hotel, watching as multi-colored horns grow out of the other patrons heads, and snakes of all colors and patterns wind through their legs. “Blue Thunder” is a powerful hallucinogen, but there is no fear associated with it. While tripping, you are aware of your own situation, always in control and able to completely enjoy the experience.
Willy and Silly surface, smiling, Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, Willy announces. It seemed to me that they were gone for hours.
Next day we travel by “Motor transport Sir” to Candidasa, to visit our buddies at Ida’s (eedah’s) Homestay. On a football-field size greensward, at the aqua-green water’s edge, sits Ida’s warung. Three hand-carved, two-story, thatched-roofed dwellings, they are beautifully made of stone and bamboo.
On the road side, high above us, it’s top lost in mist and cloud, looms a huge mountain. Ancient, terraced rice-paddies cascade down its sides.
Ida Bagus Wijanah greets us warmly, and shows us to the two ‘hut! we will occupy. Willy and Silly in one, and I in the other. Each of the three dwellings comprising the warung can sleep seven.
In the morning, when the staff, an entire Balinese family living on the warung grounds, sense we are up and about, they greet us with hearty, smiling salamat pagees . They are bearing heaping platters of steaming Nassi-Goring (delicious mounds of fried rice, chopped scallions, and fried eggs on top), pots of delicious Balinese coffee, yogurt, fruit and nuts.
"Salamat pagee, Wayan-Steve, welcome back. Abaca bah?”
"Baik-Baik, Salamat Pagee, tereema cassi banya, “ I greet and thank him in return.
Over the centuries, as Islam crept inexorably eastward across Indonesia’s 16,000+ islands, the remaining Hindu’s fled further east, just east of Java, they settled on the island of Bali. Bali is the last bastion of Balinese, and Balinese-Hinduism, which is far different from the Indian Subcontinent variety of Hindu people or religions. The Balinese people are beautiful inside and out. They are a truly loving, generous people, who are sincere in their favors, not fawning or smarmy. Further, there is no word for art or artist in the Balinese dialect, since everything they do or touch is done with love, and automatically becomes a work of art.
Silly is a great artist. Add equal parts of Picasso and Chagal in a blender, set on “high,” panache onto large canvass, that’s Silly’s style. Breathtaking, and one of a kind, her paintings capture your soul forever. God alone knows what she is trying to create, since Silly is crazy, but controllable. “They’ve adjusted her dosage,” is Willy’s response, when I complain about her abusive tirades towards me.
“Control your monkey,” I insist in a thick, nasal French accent, harkening back to the blind organ-grinder routine, in an old Inspector Clousseau movie.
Back on Tumon bay in Guam now, we’re spending the day at the Pacific Star poolside, waiting for our evening flight back to Honolulu.
Bubba and his crew, Herr-Lippi and Jerry Lovell are laying over at the hotel as well. They will be the operating crew taking us home. HerrLippi and Lovell are chatting up some women in the pool.
“Can I ask you a question?” Herr-Lippi approaches two of the girls. “Sure.”
“We’ve been noticing for most of the day now the t-shirts you’re all wearing, the ones that say “NOA” and for the life of us we can’t figure it out. What does NOA stand for? Is it Biblical?”
Some of the women, on chaise lounges nearby, whisper briefly to each other. The lady Mark’s addressing, a thirty-something with dark, curly hair, deliberates, then: “Okay, I’ll tell you ,but it’s not a joke to us, it’s not funny, and we would appreciate it if you would understand that, up front.”
“All right,” Mark, serious now, “we’ll respect your wishes. So what does NOA mean, it’s not a biblical reference, is it?” …. concerned.
“No, no…we belong to an organization, a self-help group, similar to AA, NOA, called Nymphomaniacs of America.” She explains that these women are from all over the U.S., and that they meet monthly at local chapters. Once a year, however, they pick a foreign location to hold their National meeting at, and this year it’s Guam.
“You have to understand, this is a disease. Most of us had childhood experiences which destroyed our feelings of self-worth. Some people take to drink, our members reactive symptoms are nymphomania.
Giving your body away, to be used by anyone, anytime, is a form of self-punishment.” This lady has obviously spoken on this subject before.
“Oh,” Mark says.
Our guys, and the women, relax back now, just ordinary people kicking back, getting to know each other. They chat about careers, ambitions, places back home, while sipping soft drinks. Over the next few hours, comfortable trust has built up, and they are at ease with each other.
Bubba has his guitar out, and has been “plunkin’” for Willy and I. Silly’s off being Silly somewhere.
“Hey, Keshy, you visit the Buddhist complex at Narita a lot, don’t you?”
“Yeah, it’s beautiful, Bubba, all those ancient, hand-carved wooden temples.”
“I’ve got a song I wrote, mentions it.
“Let’s hear it, Bubba.”
“I call it My Sweet Narita Conchita,” Bubba starts to play and sing:
My sweet Narita Conchita, she takes good care of me. She’s my Japanese cowgirl, really knows how to please.
My sweet Narita Conchita, she takes good care of me. She’s my Japanese cowgirl, really knows how to please.
(Finishing with a flourish)
Willy and I applaud wildly, as Bubba bows deeply from his seat… “I know, I know, it’s great.”
“You should get that done in Nashville.” I say, knowing Bubba’s already connected down there.
“No, no, Kesh. Ever been to the Mount Fuji Country Western Music Festival?”
“Never even heard of it.”
“Yeah, last year on layover at Narita, we had a mechanical, kept us there three days waitin’ on parts. I found out that the Nippers are crazy for Country Western, and their annual Mount Fuji Festival was underway. Well shit, I had to get up there. It was a friggin’ zoo! Millions of drunkon-their-ass Nippers, all dressed up in these designer cowboy outfits, enjoying the hell out of country western music. Hell, I know half of them didn’t understand a word that was sung, but they loved it.
“They even got them a Nipper Country Western Super-Star, Charlie “Call me Johnny” Nikatani, he ain’t bad neither!”
“Bubba, you’re shittin’ me.” Falling now into his vernacular.
No joke, Steve. That’s what inspired My Sweet Narita Conchita.’ Got my agent contacting his agent, want him to do my song.”
A swim later, and Herr Lippi and Lovell greet Willy and I, although they try to avoid introducing us to their new lady friends in the pool. Lippi, however, has already told me the circumstances of the NOA T-shirts, so we remain properly respectful.
“Can I ask you a question?” I ask Mark’s lady friend in the pool, the one who did the talking early on.
“Sure.”
“Well, as a result of your group’s … ah, uh “affliction,” you’ve all done lots of men, all types and races?”
“That’s true,” some of the girls gather closer now.
In your discussion groups, have you ever compared, you know, what race or creed of men make the best lovers?” Its a valid question, academically asked.
Some of them blush, or giggle. “As a matter of fact, yes, we have discussed that, and we mostly agreed that American Indians make the best lovers, they’re the longest lasting …but there are so few of them… Jewish men are a close second.”
“Well, then allow me to introduce myself,” as I extend my hand. “My name is Tonto Bernstein!”
Silly is back, carrying plastic bags filled with Shirley’s fried rice and takeout. Great, we all ravenously descend on the feast, tables and chairs hastily thrown together.
“Who’s got the hot sauce?”
“What we need is some wasabe” declares Bubba, who has put up his guitar.
Silly had taken a taxi to “Shirley’s II” in Harmon Plaza, off of Marine Drive, and she has already eaten. Eagerly she tells Willy and the table in general, that she’s met the most interesting woman I’ve ever met in my life.”
“The last person you ever talk to is always the most interesting person’ you’ve ever met,” I say joking, but caustic. There has always been an edge to our relationship. Has something to do with her jealously wanting Willy closer to her than to anybody else. Whenever Silly’s paranoia tells her that someone besides herself is getting too close to Willy, she reacts. Lately, I’ve been the target of her venomous sarcasm. Understanding where it’s coming from is one thing, being able to reasonably deal with it, another… It does not come easy to me. Feeling ashamed of my comment, I try to make it up to her… “So, who did you meet? Was it at ‘Shirley’s?”
Silly, recovering quickly, says, “This wrinkled up, ninety-nine-year-old woman at Shirley’s…”
Bubba interrupting, “Nolan’s widow! She’s Shirley’s Aunt. She still alive?”
“Yes,” Silly continues, “she seems to sit there all day long, and is willing to tell you everything.” Silly who has recently started her umpteenth business, Video Magic, is anxious to grab her video cam and run back to interview the old widow. She starts pulling away.
“Tell me first,” Willy Says. “Who’s Nolan’s widow…who’s Nolan?”
Bubba, who flew the Micronesian Islands for twenty years, tells Willy to let Silly go. He’ll fill him in. Silly goes running to grab her video cam from her room.
“Noland was Amelia Earhardt’s Radio Operator, her Navigator…” Not a very good Navigator!” I toss in.
“…anyway, his widow tells all the old stories about Earhardt and her husband. She thinks they survived the landing, but were captured by the Japs and brought to Saipan. She says they were executed as spies, at the jailhouse there, just north of the departure end of runway 7.”
“Shit, Bubba, I’ve been in that deserted jailhouse and it does have bullet holes in the walls.”
Much later, Silly’s back, it’s late and we’re rushing to catch the plane to Honolulu. “What did the old lady tell you about Nolan,” Willy asks?
Silly, dejectedly, That he was a drunken, no good bum!”
“That’s great footage,” Willy says, “I want to see that interview, Viacom will pay us a fortune for that interview.”
“No Willy, there’s something wrong with the batteries, or something’s no good.” Silly pouts. “I don’t think the video-cam is working.”
Willy and I glance at each other, another one of Silly’s businesses.