Floating over Bali on a Little Fluffy Mushroom Cloud
Is that a baby, a monkey, or an evil troll going up, up, and away?
Eat, drink, and be stoned.
There are definitely healthier ways to spend a Friday night in Seminyak with a guy I met on Tuesday, but at least Adam and I aren’t breaking any laws. He’s even brought along a soft helmet. It probably won’t save my skull if I go flying off the back of his motorbike en route from Legian Beach to JL Dhyana Pura in Bali, but it should satisfy the minimum safety requirement of any cop we might encounter along the way.
In lieu of dessert, we’ve settled on the island’s most infamous hallucinogenic after-dinner treat. Magic mushrooms are not only legal in Bali, a place where drug possession is a crime that can be punishable by death, but they go down easy and relatively cheaply in the form of a shake (price tag: 120,000 Indonesian rupiah, or about $12). Go figure.
Then come have a seat beside Adam and me. For a moment, sitting and sipping in a cafe halfway down JL Dhyana Pura, I feel like it’s 1993 all over again, and I’m in one of those pot joints in Amsterdam with my then-boyfriend Derek. (Naturally, I didn’t inhale!)
Now before you start judging and pointing out the dangers of drugs, consider this: What were you drinking last night? Alcohol is a drug, one that’s capable of far more damage than marijuana, yet because it’s legal, it’s widely accepted as being okay. But I’m pretty sure that nothing in a magic-mushroom shake is any more hazardous to my health than those 20 minutes in August that I spent doing vodka shots and freezing my ass off in the Ice Bar at Holiday Inn Silom in Bangkok.
Bali locals (and presumably, the government) consider magic mushrooms, like Johnnie Walker whiskey and Arak (more on that in a moment), to be perfectly acceptable indulgences, harmless enough in moderation to be legal. It’s how the Dutch regard marijauna, and how most of the world views booze and cigarettes, both of which are far more likely, ultimately, to result in death than magic mushrooms.
If illegal equals wrong, just because something is legal doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. But can we call something that’s legal in Bali wrong there, too, just because it’s wrong (as in illegal) in the United States? Tonight, I’m playing by Vegas rules anyway: What happens in Bali stays in Bali.
All that said, Balinese mushrooms aren’t for everyone. They’re unpredictable, I’ve been told: Sometimes they work, sometimes they don’t. And as with any mind-altering substance, there are risks, both from the substance itself and from those who might take advantage of you while you’re under its influence.
Earlier in the evening when I told Adam about my nights at the Laughing Buddha Bar in Ubud, drinking a Mojito-like concoction called an Arak Obama, he issued a stern warning: There have been several cases of tourists dying after consuming a badly prepared batch of Arak. Imbibe at your own risk.
Considering that Bali is a place where it’s not uncommon to see a family of four riding on one motorbike — dad driving, son in front of him, daughter and mother behind him — “Safety first” clearly isn’t a national motto around here. It’s up to you to take the necessary precautions to ensure a safe flight!
Up, Up, and Away!
I taxi to take-off a mere minutes after finishing my shake, which tastes like an all-natural concoction one would buy from a health-food juice stand, while Adam remains at the gate for another 20 minutes or so. My in-flight entertainment includes a live band that segues from Bon Jovi’s “Bed of Roses” to Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here,” with the singer sounding like he’s channeling Bob Dylan instead of David Gilmour on the latter. Carrie Underwood is pouring drinks behind the bar, and a guitarist with a glowing face keeps his gaze fixed on me throughout the cover band’s entire set.
Is that a baby, a monkey, or an evil troll going up, up, and away in that cigarette ad on the wall? I need some air.
Outside the bar, sitting on the sidewalk with Adam, watching the blurry Bali night go by, I see giant ants crawling in slow motion. Everything is crawling in slow motion. I feel like a character in that Ashley Judd movie Bug. Oh my God! There’s a swarm of them, scurrying, stomping. But wait. That’s not my arm. That’s the sidewalk. Why is it undulating like waves on the ocean that’s hundreds of meters away? There’s no breeze, though the stale Bali air could use some motion.
A crowd of late-night construction workers taking a cigarette break across the street stare at us like we’re their in-flight entertainment until we relocate out of embarrassment. Are hallucinogenic drugs supposed to make you feel this paranoid, leaving you envisioning your own imminent demise. I imagine the breathless internet headline: “AMERICAN TOURIST SUCCUMBS TO KILLER MUSHROOMS IN BALI!”
We duck into a convenience store for water and orange juice. Damn. Just what I needed: Beyoncé screaming at the top of her lungs. From now until the end of the world, every time I think back to tonight, “Bootylicious” will be playing on the soundtrack in my mind.
“I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly…” Oy vey. The song has remained the same for what feels like forever. I check my watch as if the time will reveal when it will finally be over. But… What?… How could it possibly be only 15 minutes to 1? Who stopped the hands of time? I was sure it was almost dawn!
My perception may be altered but not my judgment: Shortly after 1am, I opt to take a taxi back to my hotel rather than once again mounting Adam’s motorbike. That doesn’t mean the ride home is any less bumpy and strange, only safer.
It’s kind of scary, too, though I can’t pinpoint why. Why is it taking so long? Speed it up? I’m imploring the taxi driver in my head because I’m not sure I can form coherent sentences with my mouth.
It seems to take us hours to arrive at Pullman Bali Legian Beach Hotel, and as we pause by the security gate, my fear turns to panic. A man comes out and circles the car. I could swear he’s looking at it suspiciously, like a border patrol guard who has been warned about an approaching vehicle carrying contraband narcotics.
When he opens my door, I think it’s all over. I’m going straight to jail.
“Good evening, sir. Welcome back to Pullman Bali Legian Nirwana.” The car inspection, he explains, is standard procedure for all automobile arrivals.
A Damsel with a Dulcimer…
A few minutes later, I’m (barely) standing, alone on a balcony that’s nearly as big as the sleeping quarters in the 42-square-meter “deluxe” room to which it’s attached. Perhaps the fresh air will free my mind, and I’ll return to my normal mental state — still overthinking, but without the special effects.
So I tremble (Damn the paranoia!) and wait, staring out at the calm Indian Ocean while the 2011 movie Sanctum plays on HBO in the background. I’m too deep in overlapping thoughts to pay attention to the TV. In fact, I forget it’s even on, until the end of the film, when I hear a voice quoting lines from one of my all-time favorite pieces of literature.
“In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree…”
How fitting, I think to myself. “Kubla Khan,” a poem Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote in 1797 (or thereabouts, according to Wikipedia) after awakening from an opium-induced dream is the perfect kicker to a night like this. I’m not sure what an opium-induced dream feels, or looks, like, but I figure it couldn’t be far from what had been going on right before my eyes earlier in the night while that band was playing “Wish You Were Here.”
I take a long shower hoping to chill out my mind. Sanctum is over, so I switch channels until I land on one playing Seven, already in progress. I mute creepy Kevin Spacey while Adam and I try to talk each other down via text. He’s higher than the sun shining above little fluffy clouds.
Although he seemed perfectly normal when I left him, he admits he was far from it. He was holding back because he didn’t want to freak me out by freaking out. I don’t have the heart to tell him that if he had allowed himself to freak out with me, he’d probably be lying next to me right now.
Maybe tomorrow — if we live to see it — but for now, lights out. Lord, if I should fall asleep tonight, please let me dream about Brad Pitt at the peak of his ’90s beauty and not Gwyneth Paltrow’s head in a box.
After overcoming some resistance from my hyperactive mind, my eyes are wide shut. Am I hovering between awake and asleep, or am I in such a deep slumber that it feels more like a state of semi-consciousness? Wherever I am, neither Brad nor Gwyneth show up.
When I get out of bed the next morning, shortly after dawn, my body is caught in a spaced-out state that’s neither exhausted nor rested but rather strangely comforting. Let the day begin!
There’s no hangover, and I have 100 percent recollection of everything I may or may not have seen the night before. That’s why it’s so easy to say no when a guy on the street tries to sell me a batch of mushrooms at 2pm, after my hour-long pedicure and foot massage.
It was an interesting adventure, but as is the case with a place you’ve always wanted to visit, enjoy briefly when you finally go, then can’t wait to leave, one trip was more than enough.
(A version of this story first appeared on my personal blog, Theme for Great Cities, on December 1, 2012, the day after my unforgettable trip.)
