I've already written about my dislike for Bali airport. I can now safely say I like the airport even less. I was in Bali for a few days having just finished up a month in Bangkok. As I’ve mentioned, I’ve been to Bali so many times that I just don’t enjoy traveling there all that these days. For this reason, I decided to hotfoot it to Penang for the George Town Festival.

Being the cheapskate I am and facing the prospect of a 6 am flight, I checked out of my hotel in favour of spending one night sleeping at the airport. For whatever reason, I arrived at the airport at about 6 pm and had something to eat and wondered around for a bit.

My first gripe was that to get into the airport, you have to show a ticket. Of course I knew this already, but I hadn’t been able to print a ticket. Given that most tickets are E-tickets, all of this makes no sense. To get into the airport, I therefore had to get out my computer, turn it on and find the PDF download. I ended up going in and out three times. Other travelers also had this problem.

Inside the airport, it got to about midnight and I decided to sleep on the sorry excuses for seats. Ten minutes later, half-a-dozen security guards came and kicked me out. I protested, but it was no use. Outside, I realized that all the large, wooden benches had been removed since the last time I slept at the airport. People would sleep on those benches, which seemed acceptable for folks with early flights.

I then went to the bathroom and it dawned on me that I was no longer wearing a belt. I’d forgotten to pick it up after passing through the metal detector on my way into the airport, of course. I couldn’t get back into the airport at this point, so I skulked around, beltless, and bought two cans of beer from the store.

Half a pack of cigarettes later, I curled up on the concrete floor next to a wall and tried to sleep. I woke up feeling as if I’d been hit with a spade. It was most unpleasant. Back in the airport, I explained to the security people that I had lost my belt, much to their amusement. It then took them an hour to locate the missing belt, which had apparently made its way to the other side of the airport.

All in all, I have no positive feelings left for Bali airport.

I got really mad at Ngurah Rai International Airport airport in Bali when I was on my way to Bangkok. I was only slated to be the airport for a couple of hours as I had a connecting flight to Singapore, but you can’t transit at Bali airport without entering and then leaving the country.

It’s ridiculous. There’s even a sign on arrival that points to the transit desk. There are doors that could have let me into the international departures lounge, but they were locked, and nobody was manning the desk. Would it be that hard to put someone on the desk?

The reason I complain is because you have to spend $25 to enter the country and then $15 to leave it. You essentially spend $40 for the privilege of waiting in a queue for ages and then walking around.

I hate Bali airport. It’s the worst. The queues at immigration are usually horrendous. One time I bought a visa in advance and actually had to queue for longer than if I’d got a visa on arrival. Indonesia has also stopped doing the $10, one-week visas, which is fair enough, I suppose, but come on, at least let people transit at Bali.

I think Kuta has become my new favourite place for people-watching. There are so many drunk Aussies roaming around that it never fails to be amusing. Last night I was sat by the beach trying to get the Wi-Fi signal from McDonalds when a fat, blonde, drunk Aussie pulled up on a motorcycle with two skinny Aussie girls riding pillion.

The fool tried to park in the middle of the road and got shouted at. The got off and he then tried to move his bike, pulled the throttle too hard and did a rather comical wheelie about 10 metres up the street. I don't know how he didn't fall off.

He then pulled into the bit where all the bikes are parked, crashed into the motorcycles on either side, knocked his own bike over and then picked it up as if nothing had happened.

The muppet shouted to a man passing by, "I paid your dad 50 bucks to XXXX in his mouth in the Philippines."

This charming individual next went into McDonalds and came out to proclaim to the world that he and his girlfriends had bought three triple cheeseburgers and a fillet-o-fish.

"Let's get more beers," he yelled.

I’m not particularly keen on the whole “travelling” thing. There’s something I don’t enjoy about the feeling of being in a place and having no idea where to go or what to do. When I see backpackers traipsing around with their guidebooks in hand and huge bags slung over their shoulders, I feel sorry for them because they may as well have a sign floating above them that says, “I need help, I don’t know where I’m going.”

So for those reasons, I try and avoid any form of excursion or trip or sightseeing outing organized by a tour group. Call it irrational, ridiculous pathetic — sure — but that’s how I feel. I do make exceptions, of course, like when I went to Viqueque and stayed at my friend’s eco-lodge.

Anyway, I was in the far-northern part of Bali this week, in a place called Lovina, next to Singaraja. It’s a quiet place with few tourists, although in Lovina there’s a little spot full of guesthouses and bars and people offering “transport!” and “bakso!”

Somehow, I’d let myself be persuaded to go on a dolphin hunt. The idea was that we’d get up at 5.30 am, go on a boat and see some dolphins. I wasn’t enthralled about the idea. Nothing against dolphins, but I just don’t find them particularly exciting.

It was, however, worth paying the six bucks to go out in the boat and just feel the sea breeze. The only problem was that there were about 30 other boats full of people with similar ideas. It was most bizarre. There were all these outrigger boats and each time there was a dolphin sighting, all the boats would speed over to them same place.

It’s true that dolphins are exceptionally smart. Those little porpoises have made a game out of leading a bunch of idiots around the sea for an hour every morning. The dolphins have it sorted: they show up at the surface for a few seconds, wait for the frenzy to begin and then go off and hide for 10 minutes while everyone frantically tries to get their cameras out to take pictures.

It was a really sad spectacle. We saw more boats than dolphins. It became rather exhausting after a while and I eventually forgot all about the dolphins and started daydreaming about nothing in particular.

We were back on shore by 9 am and hounded by locals trying to sell us small wooden dolphins. I’d recommend paying someone to go out on a boat, but forget about the dolphins and just cruise around for a bit.

Incidentally, it only takes a couple of hours to get from the Kuta area to Singaraja, right at the top of Bali. It’s a pleasant ride of about 90 kilometres and we did it on a moped.

Oh, and there were some dolphins…

It was my last night in Dili and a few of the guys from my street wanted to have a small get-together. Unfortunately for my Timorese compatriots, they’d lost all their money at the afternoon’s chicken fight, so the elaborate feast that had been planned was reduced to three packets of instant noodles – and several bottles of tua sabu (palm brandy), of course.

The night wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. We ate, drank, talked and chilled. By the end of the evening I’d been given an Indonesian military hat and two T-shirts bearing the logo of a popular political party. It was a fitting way to end my first stint in Timor.

I was, however, exhausted. Earlier that day I’d walked about 10 kilometers to an interview. After that I had walked for another 90 minutes trying to find my new house, which I hadn’t fully moved into yet.

Though tired and sunburnt, I still had fun at my farewell gathering. About halfway through the night, we were joined by a guy, 28 years old, whose arms were covered in scars. He was also completely deaf. As far as I’m aware, sign language isn’t commonly taught in Timor. One of our group had known the deaf guy for years and so the two of them were able to communicate with a very basic form of signing that they had developed over time.

“I just know what he means,” said my friend. The deaf guy mostly signed about fighting and having sex. His arms were twice as big as mine and his pecs looked like rocks – a decent ally t have on the street.

A slightly awkward situation arose when one of our friends showed up, drunk and stoned, and tried to get me to go with him back to his house. There was a lot of tension between the deaf man and the newcomer to the party. Eventually the new guy left and there were a few dark words spoken and signed.

Even on a street as supposedly safe as ours, there are still dangers. It’s good for me to keep that in the back of mind. Problems seem to mostly occur when certain people get drunk, which is regularly. It happens in every country. The majority of people get drunk and just act dumb or fall asleep, but occasionally you come across someone who becomes very aggressive.

So that’s it. My three months in Timor have come to an end. I’m in Bali right now. I’ve been lucky enough to have been given a place to crash for a few days. By some strange coincidence, I was in Dili one day at my friend’s house, when a man and a woman came and spoke to us. The lady turned out to be a writer visiting Timor for a few days, so we swapped emails.

A few weeks later I found out that the woman is the ex-wife of a friend of mine, who runs one of the bars in Dili. It’s a small world. I’m staying at the lady’s house now, anyway, along with her 16-year-old daughter and an Aussie dude named Sam.

This lady is perhaps the coolest mum I have ever met – my own mother excluded, naturally. On the first night I was here, Steve Aoki was in town. Had it not been a Tuesday night, the hip mother would have come along, too.

I went down on my own to club Bacio. I don’t know anyone in Bali and I’d only been in town for a few hours. The club was packed with Aussie tourists wearing Bintang vests, so I didn’t feel compelled to talk to anyone there. It was a good release, however, to just drink and dance. Yes, I actually danced. Some people will be surprised to hear that.

Steve Aoki was pretty good until he started playing YMCA, Dancing Queen, Living on a Prayer and Sweet Child of Mine. He butchered his entire set by ending with an hour of rubbish music. You could tell it wasn’t cool by looking around at the people who were enjoying it. I was so unimpressed that I left and went to sit on the beach.

I soon realized that I was very drunk. To have returned in that state to a home at which I was a guest would have been rude, so I decided to wait it out on the beach. I was tired and took a quick nap. When I awoke it was almost morning and people at the house would be getting up for work and school soon. I found my way back and slept on and off for the next 15 or so hours.

Good times in SEA.