START OF PLAY.
(A hotel pool in Bali, June 2003. People variously reclined on banana lounges, skylarking in the water, or face down on massage tables. A no-doubt pirated copy of The Red Hot Chili Peppers "Californication" is on repeat. MICHAEL dives in, surfacing at the barstools.)
MICHAEL: (softly addressing the barman) One Strawberry Daiquiri please.
BRAIN: (mocking) Have a look at you – swanning about ordering cocktails like you’re flamin’ James Bond. And speak louder you idiot.
BARMAN: (clipped English) No worry Aussie mate, which room you in?
MICHAEL: (yells) Number nine.
BRAIN: (hypnotised) Number nine, number nine, number nine. Revolution 9 – The White Album. What is that song about?
MICHAEL: (staring vacantly into water, whispers) I really don't know.
(LES, a leathery, greying, well-fed Australian, takes up an aquatic perch adjacent to, but unseen by Michael)
BRAIN: (excited) Hey if you stare at the ripple-sunlight interaction on the pool floor for long enough it begins to resemble a troupe of frolicking Chinese dragons!
MICHAEL: (with growing enthusiasm) Hey yeah – and they're dancing in time with Scar Tissue!
LES: (friendly, inquisitive) Scar tissue? You talking to me mate?
MICHAEL: (startled) What? Who? Oh. (reddens, scratches head) Yeah sorry, that was nothing. Just mumbling to myself... ha ha ha... hmmm. (brightens) So what brings you to Bali old buddy?
LES: (leans back, broad crooked smile) The wife and I come here for three weeks every year. Look around (sweeps arm across pool) – it's paradise. Beautiful hotels and beaches, everything is so cheap, and the people are wonderful, just wonderful. So friendly!
MICHAEL: (with lacklustre enthusiasm) Wow yeah, it sounds like you really love the joint. I've only been here a few days myself – still finding my feet I suppose (half-heartedly hops from foot-to-foot, demonstrating the finding of one's feet).
BRAIN: Bad joke. (anxious) Don't you ruin this man's contentment Michael – I know what you're thinking. (pleading) Listen to me for once. Michael!
MICHAEL: (thoughtfully frowning) See, I reckon you've got to consider this place on a deeper level. (pauses, looks around) I mean I would have a hard time describing it as paradise, strictly-speaking.
LES: (taken aback) I'm not sure what you mean.
MICHAEL: (calm) Well there's rubbish everywhere, the natural attractions are rundown, and there's, like, monkeys eating westerner's vomit off the streets. And the people...
LES: (angry) What about the people?
MICHAEL: (remains calm) Well they are generally friendly, but see it from their point of view – they need your money to survive. It's not a balanced relationship and, as such, can't really be taken on face value. They’re friendly in the way that a cotton-pickin’ Negro slave is chummy with his boss-man.
LES: (dumbfounded) That's a bit bloody cynical isn't it?
MICHAEL: (on the front foot now) Outrageously cynical, but surely you must recognise the reality of the situation. (wildly gesticulating) We spend 100 dollars on a night out, urinate on their streets, then come past in the morning and barter hard over a two dollar t-shirt. They don’t love and respect us. They tolerate us out of necessity.
LES: (paddles away, mutters) Christ you're a prick mate.
MICHAEL: (suddenly guilty) Wait Les, come back!
LES: (turns, incredulous) My name isn't Les.
BRAIN: (laughing) You called him Les because he looks like Sir Les Patterson you turkey! (reflective pause) Hey let's not come back to Bali champ.
MICHAEL: (sighs) Amen to that brother. (rejuvenated) Hey the dragons are grooving to Otherside!
END OF PLAY.
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