Nightlife in Bali

I was summoned to the Island of the Gods. I just HAD to go on my pilgrimage to meet Lord Shiva (or Siwa in Balinese) and Lady Saraswati. Spiritual friends gave me their full blessing. “You will LOVE Ubud! Go to this Mahatma therapist!” Jealous bitches were like, “I don’t like Bali.” Well good for you, coz you ain’t going there anytime soon.

On the 11pm cab ride from Denpasar airport, I passed through Kuta and Legian and saw that it was indeed like Lockhart Road, and felt it wise to heed Luxe Guide’s warning: “Avoid the area of Kuta like you would Cholera.” So I headed straight to Q Bar in Seminyak (Bali’s LKF). When I got there, Q was dark and thoroughly closed. Luckily, Mixwell and Antique were right next door, pumping, with their crowds spilling onto the road. Plenty of Australian coprolites, harlots and money boys were standing around, but it wasn’t as hot mess as Patpong. Some girl from Alaska immediately pinched my butt. “You’re gorgeous!”

I was a total hit because I was fresh, white meat. Yes, white. I mean, I got a bit tanned from running around Vietnam last week, but I was still perfectly alabaster compared to the locals. The Balinese, being brown, loves their Beyoncé and Rihanna. They like their black divas. I did not hear a single Gaga track. They like their white girls old-school like Cathy Dennis and Amy Grant. Baby Baby! Let’s see how much hatemail I receive this week just because I talk about COLOR. So sue me, I’m an artist. Artists comment on the palette of life.

I get into this South American guy’s jeep with a bunch of drag queens (gracias David) and arrive at Club 66, a sprawling complex of thumping techno and forthcoming boys and girls. It’s like the Homebase of Bali, but there’s also a bungee jumping tower for those too drunk to be sensible. And when you trip out at 7am, it’s the pure magnificent azure expanse of the Indian freakin Ocean greeting you. Instead of the walk of shame back to your place on Wyndham and Hollywood Road, you get to have a long walk on the beach. Instead of car fumes from HK taxis and minibuses, you’re inhaling gloriously fresh ocean air. I ate a scrumptious paper cone of cold rice topped with fried noodles and kaffir lime leaves. My new Indonesian friend Doni showed me how to take unlimited krupu prawn crackers from the hawker.

That was the extent of Nightlife in Bali. After that Friday, I checked into three luxury resorts one after the next, and After Hours really went wild. At Four Seasons Resort Jimbaran Bay, I partied with ants S,N,L and XL, bugs and birds and some cowardly beach dogs. At Lothlórien, or Four Seasons Sayan (my oh so classy cousin thought it was Sanya and decided to correct my Facebook update, promptly establishing herself as a twit amongst my circle), I was surrounded by forest, frogs and God knows what. And finally, at Ubud Hanging Gardens, hotel guests were “formally forbidden to feed the wild monkeys” because they have fleas and are ferosh.

I was going deeper and deeper into the woods. It was regression therapy. At my last resort, one had to take two funiculars to one’s deluxe pool villa at Ubud Hanging Gardens built down the side of a mountain—the requisite infinity pools all facing a misty jungle valley. During daylight, it was fab swimming along the forest canopy. But come nightfall, raw nature was FIERCE. I stayed within the protective luxury of my canopied bed while hornbills and yakshas cackled outside. City boys do not get to bitch please Mother Nature.