Susie's Warung part II

It goes he same way every time.

The Jetstar flight gets in ‘round midnight. A taxi fare is negotiated out to the Bukit Peninsula. A Nasi Goring from a late-night roadside warung for supper and sustenance for the morning surf is catered for at a Circle-K (water, crackers, and nuts).

The Taxi drops one at the clifftop parking lot, and it is always a challenge on the legs, loaded with bags and board, navigating with wary exploratory steps the myriad stepped alleyways that lead down the cliff.

Bingin is asleep at this time.

Down the beach, and one squints at the whitewash in the moonlight, and evaluates the volume to get a gauge of the size of the swell the sun will reveal in a few hours.

Along the beach, shoes sinking in the sand: not far to go now, the third-last along the stretch, memory tells, should be Susie’s.

The first time I completed this ritual, I was drawn there like a moth to a lone light, because it was the last open, two men continuing to request beers and cigarettes from one of Susie’s tired attendants.

The second, all were asleep. I simply found my own vacant room upstairs. The doors are not fitted with locks. Upon coming down in the morning, at first light, I was greeted with a smile, and not the least bit of surprise, for Suzie’s was not a place with a website or where one can book ahead.

I say was, because this time I was faced with a ghastly sight.

Where there once was a humble glass counter that held the cigarettes, and which atop sat the greasy laminated menus and the tally-book for each guests account, and besides which were the bamboo platforms with woven palm mats - massage tables and board racks by day, where by night Suzie used to stretch out and sleep - across this whole area was now an imposing bar, and the walls had been painted, and ornaments were scattered around that were consciously aesthetic.

The old common squat toilet was now a suite with a private balcony with a ‘do not disturb’ tag on the handle.

And on all the themed furniture was a mess of bottles, cigarette boxes and empty Yakults.

Civilisation had fallen - aesthetic created and care removed, for a mother wipes her child’s bottom out of love, and although Susie would clear every table and straighten the chairs at her earliest convenience, a conscientious guest would reciprocate by at least consolidating the waste or returning the bottles to the bar.

To sit comfortably at a cafe, pretentiousness must be nil. Because of the common man’s poor taste, they are more likely to be empty, and thus one does not feel pressured to give up his table.

The new manager behind the was on her phone for several minutes before she turned her head up to grant me attention. "Sorry, we're full". I turned my back on the establishment and slept on the couch of a cafe a few doors up the beach.

Rest well, Susie's.