Cockpit Confessions of an Airline Pilot

Ratu Hotel, watching as multi-colored horns grow out of the other patrons heads, and snakes of all colors and patterns wind through their legs. “Blue Thunder” is a powerful hallucinogen, but there is no fear associated with it. While tripping, you are aware of your own situation, always in control and able to completely enjoy the experience.

Willy and Silly surface, smiling, Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, Willy announces. It seemed to me that they were gone for hours.

Next day we travel by “Motor transport Sir” to Candidasa, to visit our buddies at Ida’s (eedah’s) Homestay. On a football-field size greensward, at the aqua-green water’s edge, sits Ida’s warung. Three hand-carved, two-story, thatched-roofed dwellings, they are beautifully made of stone and bamboo.

On the road side, high above us, it’s top lost in mist and cloud, looms a huge mountain. Ancient, terraced rice-paddies cascade down its sides.

Ida Bagus Wijanah greets us warmly, and shows us to the two ‘hut! we will occupy. Willy and Silly in one, and I in the other. Each of the three dwellings comprising the warung can sleep seven.

In the morning, when the staff, an entire Balinese family living on the warung grounds, sense we are up and about, they greet us with hearty, smiling salamat pagees . They are bearing heaping platters of steaming Nassi-Goring (delicious mounds of fried rice, chopped scallions, and fried eggs on top), pots of delicious Balinese coffee, yogurt, fruit and nuts.

'Salamat pagee, Wayan-Steve, welcome back. Abaca bah?”

'Baik-Baik, Salamat Pagee, tereema cassi banya, “ I greet and thank him in return.

Over the centuries, as Islam crept inexorably eastward across Indonesia’s 16,000+ islands, the remaining Hindu’s fled further east, just east of Java, they settled on the island of Bali. Bali is the last bastion of Balinese, and Balinese-Hinduism, which is far different from the Indian Subcontinent variety of Hindu people or religions. The Balinese people are beautiful inside and out. They are a truly loving, generous people, who are sincere in their favors, not fawning or smarmy. Further, there is no word for art or artist in the Balinese dialect, since everything they do or touch is done with love, and automatically becomes a work of art.

Silly is a great artist. Add equal parts of Picasso and Chagal in a blender, set on “high,” panache onto large canvass, that’s Silly’s style. Breathtaking, and one of a kind, her paintings capture your soul forever. God alone knows what she is trying to create, since Silly is crazy, but controllable. “They’ve adjusted her dosage,” is Willy’s response, when I complain about her abusive tirades towards me.

“Control your monkey,” I insist in a thick, nasal French accent, harkening back to the blind organ-grinder routine, in an old Inspector Clousseau movie.

Back on Tumon bay in Guam now, we’re spending the day at the Pacific Star poolside, waiting for our evening flight back to Honolulu.

Bubba and his crew, Herr-Lippi and Jerry Lovell are laying over at the hotel as well. They will be the operating crew taking us home. HerrLippi and Lovell are chatting up some women in the pool.

“Can I ask you a question?” Herr-Lippi approaches two of the girls. “Sure.”

“We’ve been noticing for most of the day now the t-shirts you’re all wearing, the ones that say “NOA” and for the life of us we can’t figure it out. What does NOA stand for? Is it Biblical?”

Some of the women, on chaise lounges nearby, whisper briefly to each other. The lady Mark’s addressing, a thirty-something with dark, curly hair, deliberates, then: “Okay, I’ll tell you ,but it’s not a joke to us, it’s not funny, and we would appreciate it if you would understand that, up front.”

“All right,” Mark, serious now, “we’ll respect your wishes. So what does NOA mean, it’s not a biblical reference, is it?” …. concerned.

“No, no…we belong to an organization, a self-help group, similar to AA, NOA, called Nymphomaniacs of America.” She explains that these women are from all over the U.S., and that they meet monthly at local chapters. Once a year, however, they pick a foreign location to hold their National meeting at, and this year it’s Guam.

“You have to understand, this is a disease. Most of us had childhood experiences which destroyed our feelings of self-worth. Some people take to drink, our members reactive symptoms are nymphomania.

Giving your body away, to be used by anyone, anytime, is a form of self-punishment.” This lady has obviously spoken on this subject before.

“Oh,” Mark says.

Our guys, and the women, relax back now, just ordinary people kicking back, getting to know each other. They chat about careers, ambitions, places back home, while sipping soft drinks. Over the next few hours, comfortable trust has built up, and they are at ease with each other.

Bubba has his guitar out, and has been “plunkin’” for Willy and I. Silly’s off being Silly somewhere.

“Hey, Keshy, you visit the Buddhist complex at Narita a lot, don’t you?”

“Yeah, it’s beautiful, Bubba, all those ancient, hand-carved wooden temples.”

“I’ve got a song I wrote, mentions it.

“Let’s hear it, Bubba.”

“I call it My Sweet Narita Conchita,” Bubba starts to play and sing:

My sweet Narita Conchita, she takes good care of me. She’s my Japanese cowgirl, really knows how to please.

We stroll the Temple by day,
Chow down on Miso butter-corn.
Compai lots of Asahi beer,
and then it’s time for some porn.

My sweet Narita Conchita, she takes good care of me. She’s my Japanese cowgirl, really knows how to please.

My Japanese cowgirl,
she hog-ties me to the bed.
Oils up my body,
saddles up my head.

Rides me like a wild Brahma,
past the count of ten.
A rodeo-rama,
she gives to few cowmen.

(Finishing with a flourish)

My sweet Narita Conchita,
she takes good care of me.
She’s my Japanese cowgirl,
and… she… really… knows
how to please,
she really knows how to please!