Long Legs and Tall Tales: A Showgirl's Wacky, Sexy Journey to the Playboy Mansion and the Radio City Rockettes (28 page)

The laughter in the room gave way to intense curiosity and amazement when the ladies discovered Mallory’s perfectly round, gravity-defying, D-cup breasts. They had obviously never seen anything like them, and, frankly, neither had I. They were a wonder to behold. I could hear the excited chatter as the women gathered to marvel at her delightful domes. Like a pair of Mt. Everests, you wanted to scale them, conquer them, sit atop their peaks, and view the world from their mighty mountaintop perspective. They could almost compete for the title of one of the seven wonders of the world.

But the real surprise came when those same masseuses started massaging body parts we never knew we had, as well as other familiar parts, all of which were strictly off limits. We politely declined their supplementary services. No bonus round for us, thanks.

*******

In addition to our “relaxing” spa day, we managed to squeeze in some hot and sticky shopping in Jakarta. The bustling center of commerce included small businesses that closed up at night with what resembles our roll-down garage doors. People often crouched like frogs while waiting on the street, instead of standing or sitting in a chair. Smoking was popular; the distinct, pungent smell of clove cigarettes hung in the air, co-mingling at times with an assault of sewage stench emanating from the bowels of the underground. The occasional gigantic rat sighting heightened the thrill of the experience. 

In addition to housing stores much like any American strip mall, downtown also displayed a lot of what we would call poverty. However, the people seemed to be working hard selling food and drinks off little street carts shaded by colorful umbrellas, cycling rickshaw-like contraptions, and selling all kinds of magnificent Indonesian crafts and imposter designer items, such as watches, sunglasses, and purses, which hung plentifully from outdoor racks. 

Ironically,
Playboy
magazine was illegal in Indonesia, but the Bunny brand was on everything. That logo is so world famous that, even in the most remote parts of the earth, you are sure to find human beings who recognize that black-and-white bunny head sporting a bow tie. There was a definite obsession with this iconic fur ball; we got a kick out of spotting our company symbol on item after item. Either Indonesians really loved rabbits or, more likely,
Playboy
had been elevated to star status simply because the dirty magazine was contraband, and, therefore, extra enticing.

I could take or leave the unauthorized
Playboy
merchandise, fake Rolexes, and faux Gucci bags, but I went crazy over the beautiful hand-woven blankets, wood carvings, elaborate dolls, painted wooden masks, and exotic batiks, which could be purchased for next to nothing. My boyfriend Adam had turned me on to ethnic artifacts; numerous items decorated his home and were sold at his art gallery. 

I took advantage of the bargain prices and bought a totem pole-like carved stick as tall as I was, that sported human faces, figures, and creatures and was topped with feathers—a perfect accessory should I find myself engaged in a tribal ceremony. I also purchased an intricately carved bleached-white bone for Adam; a hand-painted black, gold, red, and white mask whose bulging eyes, fangs, and long, protruding tongue could scare the dickens out of you on a spooky night (perhaps it was designed to ward off evil spirits), and a blue, red, and cream-colored blanket woven with Indonesian designs.

While there were certainly great deals to be had, it was a little scary walking around town, as we large Caucasian beauties stood out like sore thumbs against the backdrop of small, dark Indonesians. We were a foot taller than the tallest man and were the only fair-skinned blonds to be seen. Consequently, the natives followed, stared at, and even touched us everywhere we went. There was an element of danger in the air; attracting so much attention from the locals made me feel uncomfortable and unsafe, and with good reason.When visiting a large indoor shopping area at the Hyatt Regency hotel across the street from our hotel, I nearly got pick-pocketed. We were going up the escalator when I felt a slight tug. A guy standing behind me had started to unzip my purse. I turned around just in time, and caught him before I lost my wallet. I didn’t make a scene or alert the authorities, but I became a lot more cautious and aware of what was going on around me. We were not in Kansas anymore.

On a more pleasant note, at a restaurant in the Hyatt we discovered mango, papaya, and avocado smoothies. In Indonesia, avocados were treated like a sweet fruit, a practice I found strange and intriguing. And also quite delicious.

The most exciting or, more accurately, terrifying part of our outings was the taxi rides to and from our destination. New York taxi drivers were wimps compared to the fearless Indonesian taxi drivers, who either had a death wish or were missing the part of the brain that discerns danger. The Indonesians zipped around in their miniature cars at speeds that would break the sound barrier, not bothering to slow down as they made death-defying, last-minute changes in direction. They made even Indy 500 drivers look like pansies.

Feeling like I was in a Hollywood high-speed chase scene, I covered my eyes and prayed.  The taxi drivers, along with everyone else on the road, believed they had the right of way and proceeded with confidence as they missed a fatal collision by a hair. Their feathers weren’t ruffled a bit, but those rides scared all the feathers clean off me.

*******

The second week of our Southeast Asia tour was spent in Bandung, Indonesia’s third largest city and the capital of West Java. We gathered our suitcases and hopped aboard our plush bus for the 180 km (about 110 miles) journey through the countryside, heading southeast from Jakarta. 

We kept ourselves entertained on the ride by eating more Twizzlers and taking pictures of ourselves wearing the long, blond wig that Jasmine had brought along for when her hair grew out and her dark roots started to show. Even Malcolm tried on the hairpiece, and I have the picture to prove it.

I spent a lot of time gazing out the window at the exquisite views of the spectacular, lush green hillsides—evidence of the extreme beauty for which Indonesia is famous. The old was integrated with the new as donkeys and people bearing massive bundles of twigs tied like a barbell to a large stick across their shoulders trod by small, modern, palm tree-flanked houses and telephone poles. But mostly we saw mile after mile of gorgeous, thriving vegetation. Seeing all that green growth was soothing for the soul.

We stopped for lunch and a bathroom break at a lovely little restaurant/pool/gift store destination in the middle of nowhere. Every bathroom we came to was a guessing game as to whether or not we’d be sitting or squatting. Sometimes we found eastern “toilets,” simple holes in the ground, each with an ashtray at ground level (how thoughtful); and other times “western” toilets, namely, your basic American porcelain gods. 

Eastern toilets took some getting used to. In particular I didn’t like my face being so close to the waste, as I crouched like a frog and tried not to soil my clothes. At least I didn’t have to worry about my body touching a germ-ridden toilet seat. I suppose all that squatting up and down kept folks more fit and flexible. Many older people in our country would never be able to get down into that position let alone get back up out of it. In spite of the possible benefits, I counted myself lucky to sit on a good old-fashioned potty. No more taking my toilet for granted. I LOVE WESTERN TOILETS!

Every time we stopped to get off our bus for a bathroom or meal break, we were swarmed by Indonesians with handfuls of souvenirs, necklaces, and
tchotchkes
to sell us. They were so persistent and annoying that we’d buy something just to get them off our backs. I seem to recall a similar sales strategy used in Tijuana, Mexico. It worked.

Our hotel with its carved wood, marble floors, and crystal chandeliers was a welcome sight. We entered to the unique, percussive sounds of an Indonesian Gamelan orchestra consisting of costumed musicians sitting cross-legged on the floor and playing ornate xylophones, drums, and gongs. Very nice accommodations once again.

We had only been in Indonesia for a week, and already the jet lag, late-night performances, and busy schedule were wearing on all of us. Moreover, I was still trying to knock out the last of the bronchitis. Our tour was especially exhausting, because every time we changed venues we had to take time to rehearse and rework the show to fit the new stage, which varied from the others in size and proximity to the dressing rooms. 

At one club in Bandung, I was shocked when the club owners casually asked us if we would like to “book private clients” after the show like some of their other “performers” did. Callie was even offered $10,000! Saying yes would have turned this job into an entirely different profession as far as I was concerned. None of us took up the offer, as far as I know.

At that same club, Satin had all her jewelry stolen out of her makeup kit. An element of shadiness and seediness accompanied this whole Indonesian experience. But what did I expect when being sponsored by a pornographic magazine? 

On the upside, Bandung, situated in a river valley surrounded by volcanic mountains, offered a prime opportunity to view a volcano up top. We ventured out to take a sightseeing tour of this potentially explosive natural attraction. 

Once again, upon our arrival at the tourist site, we were accosted by young Indonesian guys—one wearing a Harley Davidson baseball cap—trying to sell us stuff. Having already endured a couple weeks of this type of incessant pestering, our resources were depleting and our nerves were getting frazzled. We simply couldn’t take one more person hounding us. 

These boys, on the other hand, could teach a sales course in never taking “no” for an answer. Although they weren’t skilled in customer service, and probably wouldn’t get a lot of repeat business, they knew they probably had one shot to sell you something because they’d never see you again. So they weren’t worried about maintaining a good relationship. 

We politely shook our heads and said, “No, thank you, we do not want your goods.” They kept after us. Again, “No, thank you.” We continued walking. They pressed on, shoving their necklaces in front of our faces. A little more forcefully, we declared, “NO.” Not a bit discouraged, they followed, knowing they would break us eventually. Nothing short of buying their whole inventory stopped these people.  

Like a volcano, the pressure got so great that we finally exploded. “NOOOOOO!” we screamed at the top of our lungs as we took off running. They thought this was hilarious and just laughed and ran after us, even going so far as to jump aboard the little tour shuttle—basically a glorified golf cart with extra seats— and join us on our sightseeing tour. We never did give in and buy anything, but we took some adorable snapshots with our new friends.

As our mini-bus approached the top of the volcano, the rotten-egg smell of sulfur became overpowering. Staring down at the steaming, milky interior, I wondered how long this pressure cooker would remain dormant. Would we end up like those unfortunate victims of Mt. Vesuvius in Pompeii, buried under lava, our traumatized forms discovered thousands of years later—young men with arms outstretched offering strings of jewels to the big-breasted volcanic goddesses? What theory would future archeologists dream up about that scenario? This volatile vent in the earth’s crust was an impressive site to see, but I felt better once we were safely back down in the valley. 

While it had certainly been a fascinating experience, our Indonesian itinerary was also grueling. We had had enough of cockroaches, rats, corruption, polluted water, fish heads, and animal carcass in our food. It was time to move on.

*******

Our next stop was the Republic of Singapore, located on the southern tip of the Malay Peninsula, and just over an hour’s flight from Indonesia. I didn’t even know Malaysia was a country, and Singapore itself only sounded faintly familiar. There was so much more to the world than I ever knew existed. I couldn’t begin to know what to expect. 

Soon I got a little taste of Singaporean culture when the pilot’s voice came over the loudspeaker kindly warning everyone on the flight, “Anyone bringing drugs into the country will be killed.” “WHAT? Did he say ‘KILLED?’” I whispered in disbelief to Porsche, who was sitting beside me. Well, they could have told us this BEFORE we boarded the plane. It was a little too late for all the smugglers unless they could run to the bathroom and flush their contraband before we landed.

Studying my travel book, I learned that Singapore was a fascinating cultural mix of predominantly Chinese, Malay, and Indian people; Buddhism was the most popular religion; and, by decree, there was little unemployment. I also discovered that the government was strict and, apparently, wanted their country clean, clean, clean. Hence, chewing gum was illegal. Spitting was, too. And toilet flushing in a public bathroom was an official requirement, not an option. No joke. In Singapore, I’d be considered a gum-chewing, non-flushing, saliva-spitting criminal, as I had performed all three of those acts at certain points in my life. Yikes! In America, I would simply be considered impolite and uncouth. Or normal.

Suddenly I became nervous about my Sudafed and my stash of Juicy Fruit used to pop the pressure in my ears on our ascents and descents. Would I be arrested for possession of prescription-sinus-pressure-and-congestion-relief not to mention for carrying a sizable cache of that bane of Singaporean society—chewing gum? I could picture one particularly ticked-off government official stepping on one too many gooey globs of gum on the sidewalk. “This is an outrage! Gum is banned for good!” It was scary.