This beach town is kind of a disappointment. A bunch of little retreats all strung together, and no real town. I get a ride here with a couple of guys from the Ashram, at a good price, and they take me to check out three of the four places mentioned in the Lonely Planet Guide. The first one is right on the beach, and it seems fine (only $8 a night, with just cold water). The second place is closer to the third place which has some potential as a a retreat location. The third place is the possible retreat location, but it doesn’t have enough lodging—the Swiss man tells me to come back tomorrow to speak to his partner. I was really hoping to find an Indonesian-owned place.

So I stay at the second place (also $8 a night, with cold water, which I have learned to adapt to). It has a good view, and they say it’s a short walk to the beach. But it turns out to be quite noisy because it’s just above the highway. Next morning  the woman owner, Wayan, tells me that the best beach for snorkeling is down the road, and she can take me there—for $3.50.  Plus $2 for the gear.

It’s 7:30 and I’ve arranged for a driver to come and get me at 10, to take me to Tejakula where there is a beautiful upscale retreat center with a great meeting and yoga room, and fairly affordable. That’s 1-1/2 hours from Amed.

Meanwhile, I’d love to experience the famous snorkeling at Amed. Wayan drops me off at the top of the stairs leading down to the beach and shows me where to walk. There’s a sunken ship down there. There is no beach; just a lot of rocks. I walk down and there are a few guys hanging around, and a little café, where they rent snorkels and masks. They’re friendly, asking me the usual questions: “Where are you from? Are you married? Are you traveling alone?” They say I can leave my backpack there. One guy offers to guide me, but I say I’m okay on my own. After all, I’m from Hawaii! So I go down to the water and put on my mask and fins and head out into the water.

No sooner do I get into the water than I feel as if something has slashed across my face and it’s burning! Then I feel stinging sensations on my legs and arms. Suddenly it feels like I’m surrounded by jellyfish! Visions of a woman I met whose husband died in Australia after getting bitten by something in the ocean dance in my head.

I’ve only experienced being stung by jellyfish once, in San Diego as a child, but it was a memorable experience. “Well, maybe I’m just imagining this,” I say to myself, “but here I am with my eye all swollen up, and I don’t need to expose myself to any further abuse! Why the hell did I come to a third world country in the first place? Maybe this was all a big mistake! If I’ve been stung, I’ve gotta get out of this water and take care of myself!”

So I turn around and head back for shore, thinking I must look really wimpy to those guys, and I go over and get my towel and ask if there are jellyfish out there, thinking they won’t know what I’m talking about. “Oh yes, sometimes there are jellyfish here. But no jellyfish at Gilly Island! We can take you there for just 180,000 rupiahs.”

I vetoed that. “I need some green papaya,” I said. It’s a good remedy for jellyfish sting. They don’t seem to know what I’m talking about. “What do you use for jellyfish sting?” I ask.

One guy says, “Tobacco!” He’s thin, with a soft, kind face and a little cap; maybe around 18 or 20. I think his name is Made. He looks a bit like a Modigliani painting. At first I’m not sure whether he’s a man or a woman.

I say, “Can you get me some tobacco?”

He goes back to the house and comes back with a bag of fresh tobacco. By this time the other guys has wandered off.  “What do you do with it? How do you put it on?” I asked, vaguely remembering something about moistening it, maybe chewing it first and mixing it with saliva.

But he says, “You just put it on!”

My face is hurting. “Could you show me?” I pleaded.

He came up to me and took a bunch of dry tobacco in his fingers and just started rubbing my face with it. “Your face is all red!” he said sympathetically. He seemed to be rubbing off the scratch marks with the tobacco, and it did seem to be helping. It was kind of an intimate thing to do. I really appreciated his tenderness and concern. “You have a big heart!” he said, smiling as he cupped my face in his hands.

Then he rubbed some on my arms and legs as well, and it definitely felt better. But I was still wanting some green papaya.

“We only have yellow papaya,” he says apologetically.

“No, no! Before it turns yellow, it’s green!”

“Oh!” he laughs. “Oh! We can do that!” He runs off to tell a younger kid to go get me a green papaya. A few minutes later the kid comes back with two green papayas and I chose the small one and he peels it with his knife, and I asked him to slice off the top and I gratefully take the papaya and pass it over my skin in all the tender places. That definitely helps a lot, and Made is quite fascinated. He thinks I am very clever.

By this time the other guys are trying to convince me to buy a drink or something. I give the kid a tip for getting the papaya and pack up my stuff and started heading up the stairs to wait for Wayan to come get me, even though I still have 15 minutes. Made touches me arm tenderly and says he will walk up with me. I am glad he is coming, and I am glad to leave the others behind. We walked to the top of the steps and he sits close alongside me, touching my arm.

Then I see a sign saying that Meditasi is just 1.5 km. That was the last place listed in the Lonely Planet, and I wanted to check it out since there were signs saying that it was “very peaceful.” Made is eager to give me a ride on his motor scooter, so that seems like a good use of my time. He wants 30,000 rupiahs, but I say, “No, I could walk there! 20,000 at most!”

“How ‘bout 20,000 and a kiss?”

“You’re funny!” I say, but I climb on his scooter and we head down to Meditasi, stopping on the way for petrol.

I’m a sucker for a tender touch. Of course it was flattering to receive such sweet attention from a good-looking young man. Maybe I’m just kidding myself, but who knows? Maybe he was just interested in my money. But honestly, I felt that he was totally seeing through to my spirit, beyond anything external, and completely unabashedly appreciating what he saw and felt.

In any case, it was fun to have a playmate, and as we sped along on his motorbike, he took my hands, which were gingerly placed on his hips, and wrapped them around his waist, and I let him do that. But when he started to feel up my leg, I figured that I now knew enough about motor scooter seduction, and I removed his hand.

Meditasi turned out to be a lovely place, and I would gladly return there, just by myself or with a whole group of people. It is owned by locals.

Later, when Made dropped me off, he said, “I will always remember you, Joy.” And I do believe he will.

This whole experience gives me more compassion toward older women who go for younger men, and for older men who go to the Orient and return with sweet, pretty young wives.