Bali Bule Hunter

by Michael Powers

  Heri and Budi replied, “Tall, tan, and trim.”

  “Ahhhhhhh,” Greg nodded, marveling at their acronym.

  Heri loved meeting new people, especially handsome bules. “Please to meet you, Mr. Greg,” Heri purred. “What is uncle name?”

  “Ted Simmons,” Greg smiled.

  Heri checked the logbook and shook his head, turning a sad gaze toward Greg. “Sorry, no Ted Simmons today. Maybe he no here yet?”

  Seizing the initiative, Budi circled Heri’s counter, peering over his shoulder at the logbook. “He’s been on Bali a few weeks and Greg just flew in to meet him. Can we check the book to see if he’s been here recently? Maybe we have the wrong gym, but I’m sure the note said to meet him at Iron Man.”

  While Budi and Heri searched the logbook, Greg browsed around the ornate gym. The lobby looked like an upscale furniture showroom, with expensive sofas and leather chairs in comfortable groupings. In the main room, several rows of exercise bikes, stair steppers, and cardio machines gathered dust. A group of skinny young Asian males chatted around a table of free weights, occasionally curling five kilos from waist to chin. Another group of pudgy, balding white men sat chatting a few meters away. One by one, the Asian boys wandered nonchalantly by Greg, then returned to the group. Chuckling to himself, Greg knew his assets were being appraised by experts.

  Greg turned back to watch Budi stroking Heri’s shoulder affectionately. Thanking Heri, Budi kissed him lightly on the lips. “Sorry, Greg. Your uncle hasn’t been here. Wanna look around before we leave?”

  “Not really,” Greg confessed. “Where is everyone? The parking lot is full, but I only see about a dozen people here.”

  “Most are downstairs in the pool, steamroom, or shower. All your basic water sports,” Budi giggled.

  “I see,” Greg mumbled. “Since Ted hasn’t been here, let’s try the beach.”

  As they returned to Budi’s motorbike, Greg asked, “You and Heri have some history?”

  Budi shrugged. “Just sex buddies. He’s cute and sweet, but not really my type. No need for you to be jealous.”

  “You find both Asian and white men attractive,” Greg asked for clarification, “but sleep with Asians until a suitable bule comes along?”

  Budi snickered. “Something wrong with that? I like all flavors, but I prefer to marry a white man. I have lots of Indonesian sex buddies, but they’re like family. We can be affectionate, and even have sex, but I’ll never marry an Asian.”

  Puzzled, Greg asked why.

  “I like a man with some chest hair. Someone whose feet hit the ground firmly. Not like those prissy things prancing around you while Heri and I were searching the logbook. They remind me of cats, always on the prowl. That group is pretty typical of the gays you’ll find in the clubs and other cruising spots here.”

  “Do they disgust you?” Greg asked, trying to understand Budi’s world.

  “No!” Budi shrieked. “Hell, many of my friends are just like those guys, but they’re just friends. They’re not marriage material. I want a bule like you. As you can see, I’ve got lots of competition! For every bule that comes to Bali, there’s a thousand skinny brown boys who wanna marry him. That’s why even fat, bald, old white guys get laid here, especially if they’re rich! Most young Indonesians want to sleep with a bule who has a huge tool, but they’ll marry one with a huge wallet, cuz a wallet lasts longer!”

  Budi’s jaded outlook surprised Greg. “Pretty cynical view of love and life,” Greg rebuked his friend.

  “Is it?” Budi challenged Greg. “In my experience, love, sex, and marriage are three separate things. Most of us grow up expecting to find them all blended together in one person, like cake ingredients which become one delicious food. Instead, we discover it’s hard to find more than two of the ingredients in any one person, so we take what we can get. After listening to thousands of clients at my salons, I’ve discovered straight and gay people are pretty much the same on this issue. We’re all looking for sex, love, and security. We’ll settle for sex alone if someone is attractive, but marriage? We all marry for security, hon. Straight women get security by having their husband’s children. Gay men get security by sleeping with someone less attractive who has more money.”

  Greg wondered how much Budi’s career as a moneyboy colored his perception. “Don’t you know any couples who are in love, have a healthy sex life, are monogamous, and didn’t marry for money?”

  Budi considered all the couples he knew, then shook his head. “Can’t think of any right now, but I know a lot of people. If I spend the next three days thinking about it full-time, I may come up with one or two couples, but the majority are in relationships for steady sex or financial security, not because they’re in love.”

  “Yet, you still dream of falling in love with Mr. Right, and spending the rest of your life with him, and only him?”

  “I dream of that, knowing it’ll probably never happen,” Budi admitted. “Gay guys who look like you come to Bali for sex, not for love or marriage. We call them sex terrorists. They make us fall in love with them, then blow up our hearts when they leave. Thirty years later, they may come back here rich and wrinkled, finally ready for marriage. While they’re young and handsome, why should they settle for a cute brown boy on this distant island when they can have anyone they want back home?”

  “You may be right,” Greg conceded. “My ten-year high school reunion was two summers ago. Nearly a third of my class had already married and divorced, so apparently they didn’t find their dream first time round. I’d like to believe it’s possible to find love, sex, and security in one lifelong relationship, but maybe I’m too much of a romantic.”

  Budi was about to tease Greg for sounding like a teen virgin, then held his tongue. He remembered a time when he believed the same thing. “As a romantic, you’re just about right, Greg.”

  The trip to Taman Ganesha Beach was a fifteen minute ride through narrow, winding streets. The back roads Budi chose were barely wide enough for a compact car, so two vehicles approaching each other invariably caused a traffic jam. The streets were lined with small shops and corrugated metal homes. A swirl of tourists, shopkeepers, housewives, and children darted in and out of buildings, crossing streets without warning. The mixture of traditional Balinese clothing and Western wear fascinated Greg. Many Balinese women were wrapped in traditional sarong skirts, wearing colorfully embroidered Batik fabric overshirts. In contrast, they were usually tugging children sporting Nike running shoes, jeans, and polo shirts. Teens preferred to shield their dark brown skins with long sleeve football jerseys and long black pants. Tourists were easily recognizable, wearing loud print shirts, shorts, and sandals.

  Amazed by Budi’s driving skill, Greg closed his eyes several times as they narrowly missed one pedestrian after another, but Budi maintained a constant speed. Fifty meters from the ocean, Budi parked, and slung his helmet over the handlebars. “This is Taman Ganesha Beach where you’ll find all things gay. It’s busy every day of the week. There’s a beach club with lounges and tents for rent. Food and drinks are served at very reasonable prices. Next to the beach is a studio where a cute guy will give you a full body massage for the price of a couple bottles of water. There’s volleyball, surfing, extreme Frisbee and more.”

  “Budi!” two guys on bikes shouted as they raced by. He smiled and waved.

  “More sex buddies?” Greg teased.

  “No idea,” Budi replied indifferently. “Could be clients, employees, former boyfriends, or just two guys I met at a party.”

  “There must be a thousand people here,” Greg groaned as they weaved among plastic tables toward the water.

  “That’s part of the appeal!” Budi countered. “A tall white guy with silver hair should stand out in this short, brown crowd.”

  Greg nodded, shielding his eyes with his right hand as he scanned the beach. All the white men he saw were too young, too fat, too short, too white, or bald.

  “Let’s take a walk
along the water,” Budi suggested. “Maybe your uncle will spot us before we spot him.”

  Greg scanned the sunbathers and swimmers continually as they strolled along the beach. Budi smiled and waved at dozens of people, joking with the beach vendors hustling umbrellas, suntan oil, food, drinks, jewelry, and assorted goodies.

  “You’re very much at home here, aren’t you?” Greg observed, still scanning the crowd.

  Budi skipped a stone across the water and a startled bird dropped its lunch back into the ocean. “I’ve spent a lot of time here. These are my people, and this is our place.”

  Greg shook his head. “I’ve known my uncle is gay for nearly twenty years, but we never went to a gay beach or a gay gym or any gay place together. When I think back to our conversations, they were always about me and my life. We talked about my job, my friends, my problems. I never asked about his life because I didn’t want it to seem like I was prying.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Greg. You know your uncle well enough to know you should fly halfway around the globe cuz he might be in trouble. Don’t worry. There are only so many places he can be. We’ll find him.”

  Greg appreciated Budi’s positive attitude. Initially, Budi had reminded Greg of his roommate, Jaya. The more time he spent with Budi, the more obvious it was how different they were. Jaya was a complainer, but Budi was positive and resourceful. Just as Greg was about to mention the humidity, Budi tapped his arm, offering a cold bottle of Aquafina.

  “You read my mind,” Greg grinned, gratefully accepting the water.

  “I read your shirt,” Budi corrected. “You’re soaked! Figured it was time to put some fluid back in.”

  Greg thanked Budi, then sipped his water thoughtfully. “I don’t see Ted, but I suppose this is one of the more likely spots he’d be. Maybe we should rent a couple lounge chairs and wait to see if he shows up?”

  “Better yet, let’s grab that table with an umbrella, then I’ll chat with a few of the waiters and bartenders.” Budi seized Greg’s hand and led him through the crowd, claiming the empty table before anyone else could. “Back soon,” he promised Greg, then dashed off to the bar.

  Greg ordered a cold beer from a waiter, then resumed his beach scans. A Balinese dance troupe burst onto the beach. Wearing gold, white, and red silk costumes, it was impossible to tell whether the heavily made up dancers were men or women, especially since they wore elaborate headgear. A dozen dancers snaked their way across the crowded beach, accepting donations in glass jars. As they approached Greg, he read a sign asking for help to fund their trip to a dance contest in Jakarta. He tossed several bills into the jar of the dancer nearest him, receiving a grateful kiss on the cheek.

  “Making new friends!” Budi congratulated Greg as he rejoined him at the table.

  “Seems like a worthy cause,” Greg shrugged.

  “It is,” Budi agreed. “Each year, thousands of the best dancers from all over Indonesia are invited to attend the Jakarta Dance Festival. They perform everything from salsa to traditional Balinese. The group you just saw won second place last year. They perform at all the major hotels and resorts on Bali and have their own video. It was kind of you to donate money, without all the background info.”

  “I suppose you know all the dancers?” Greg guessed.

  “Yes, and they’re all gay,” Budi replied. “They’re all very sweet and not a single one is my type.”

  “That would’ve been my next guess,” Greg chuckled.

  “Showed a few people your uncle’s picture. No one has seen him, but I did pick up some interesting gossip. Seems several older bules have gone missing.”

  Greg straightened in his chair. “Recently?”

  “Over the past few months. One of the waiters has an Aussie boyfriend in his sixties. The Aussie chats with lots of bules planning trips to Bali. Gives them advice about places to stay and where to visit. He made friends with a New Yorker last January, and they were in touch all the way up to the time the guy’s plane landed on Bali. The New Yorker said some boy he met on the Net was meeting him at the airport. The Aussie never heard from him again. Maybe the New Yorker spent all his time with a cute boy rather than some old chatroom geek, but he never replied to any messages. There’s rumors of other bules who came to Bali to meet guys, then disappeared. My waiter friend worries there might be a serial killer targeting bules, but so far there’s no dead bodies.”

  Greg was skeptical. “Sounds like an urban legend to me.”

  “Urban legend?” Budi repeated, seeking further definition.

  “Scary stories passed on by people who believe they’re true,” Greg explained. “Without names, dates, places, and other hard evidence, they’re just interesting stories. Besides, I thought serial killers were a Western phenomenon. Mostly single white males. Loners. Abused as kids, they torture and kill animals before moving on to humans.”

  “We have our crazies, too,” Budi assured Greg with mock pride. “I don’t know of any serial killers on Bali, but in the late 1990s, there was a witch doctor on Sumatra who killed more than forty women.”

  “Sex crimes?” Greg guessed.

  “Not exactly. Suradji was believed to have magical powers. Women approached him secretly, asking him to cast spells on their husbands to make them faithful lovers. After taking their money, he buried the women up to the waist in a sugarcane plantation. Then he strangled them slowly and drank their saliva. With the help of his three wives, he dragged the dead bodies back to his house and buried them in his yard. He was caught when dogs dug up the bodies and started dragging human skulls around a nearby village. Told police he needed to drink the saliva of seventy dying women to gain new magical powers. Although only forty bodies were found, nearly a hundred women are still unaccounted for in that area. His murders stretched over a decade, so if there’s a serial killer on Bali, it could be a long time before he’s caught if he hides the bodies well enough.”

  Greg frowned. “Maybe my roommate was right about going to the police. If there are other guys like my uncle missing, perhaps there’s already an investigation. I might have information that could help them figure out a pattern.”

  Budi shook his head. “There hasn’t been anything on the news about a suspected serial killer or missing bules. If it hasn’t been on the news, the police won’t tell you anything, even if there is an investigation. They prefer to operate in secret. Maybe we should change our approach though. Since your uncle is rich, let’s start looking where there are other rich gay guys.”

  “And where would that be?” Greg asked, hoping Budi knew.

  “There’s a rich old queen who retired from the American Embassy in Jakarta. He has a villa on Nusa Dua, an area with exclusive golf courses and yacht clubs. Cass loves gossip and knows all about every rich guy who sets foot on Bali. He throws several cocktail parties a week, so there’s a good chance he met your uncle, or knows someone who has.”

  Excited, Greg asked, “How well do you know this Cass? Think he’ll talk to us?”

  Budi batted his eyelashes, slightly indignant. “Of course! He thinks I’m cute.”

  “Another sex buddy?”

  Budi rolled his eyes. “Please! He’s rich, but there’s not enough money on this planet to get me to sleep with that old marshmallow. We flirt from time to time, but he knows I’m not serious. When he can drag his plump butt to one of my salons, I cut what little hair he has left. I’ll call and see if he has time to chat with us.”

  Budi reached Cass on the first ring. Cass promptly invited him to a cocktail party that evening for Bali’s A-gays and their cute boyfriends. Since the cocktail party was a few hours away, Budi suggested they check all the gay-friendly cafes in the area. At each stop, Budi pulled a friend aside and casually showed the photos of Ted and Donny.

  Leaving the fourth cafe, Budi sensed Greg’s disappointment. “Many bules come to Bali and never go near any of the popular gay spots. There’s a lot to see and do on Bali without going to gay bars, beaches, and gyms
.”

  “You just described me,” Greg smiled. “I hardly ever go to gay clubs back home unless my friends insist. I don’t feel I need to socialize with gays all the time just because I’m gay. I mean, I’m a white male teacher, but that doesn’t mean I only want to hang with other white male teachers. Anyway, I was lucky to meet you today, Budi! I had no idea you’re such a celebrity. Everywhere we go, people are happy to see you. Looks like you’ve made a lot of friends.”

  Budi chuckled. “I’m making a lot of friends while I’m young and cute so I won’t be alone when I’m old and no one wants to touch me!”

  “I don’t buy that for a second!” Greg scoffed. “You can’t help being warm and friendly. It’s who you are. I see the way you approach people. Doesn’t matter if they’re male, female, young, old, white, or brown. You’re very charming to everyone.”

  “A great salesman? Is that what you’re saying, Greg?”

  “How about a great person?” Greg countered.

  “Okay, I won’t torture any more compliments out of you. You wanna freshen up and change clothes before we go see Cass? It’s quite common to bathe two or three times a day in this climate.”

  Greg lifted his shirt to his nose and sniffed. “Is that your charming way of telling me I stink?”

  Budi smiled crookedly. “I thought you might be more comfortable in fresh, dry clothes.”

  “Very thoughtful, Budi. You wanna freshen up, too?”

  “Yeah, I’ll drop you off at your hotel, run home and change, then pick you up around six.”

  “Sounds good,” Greg agreed as they headed for Budi’s motorbike.

  Chapter 4

  When Budi met Greg at his hotel at six, both had switched to long dark pants, and loose-fitting cotton shirts. Budi suggested they take a taxi, since it would be better to arrive at the cocktail party in an air-conditioned vehicle, wearing dry shirts. Greg needed no arm-twisting.

  As they rode in cool silence, Greg asked Budi, “Is it my imagination or are the roads here wider and less crowded?”