Butterfly Goes To Turi Beach

Every once in a while, charity finds a way to align themselves with alternative lifestyle cultures, because people are just bored of watching celebrities prance around on stage and knowing their money is going to be of great use buying someone a condo.

Well, holding a starving kid with cerebral palsy in your arms just doesn’t cut it like it used to and is it just me or was there a general consensus to not give a shit about people with kidney problems, because of what the fuck happened to NKF.

So what do all great organizations or societal structures do in the face of adversity – namely just corruption allegations really- ? They adapt, resource and re-align with lifestyle pillars that are entire polar opposites of charity; the clubbing scene.

On hind sight, this actually makes great sense, since with the inception of alcohol and with enough amounts, everything will be a great idea, like beer showers, domestic violence and donating to charity.

Couple weeks back, we supported The Butter Factory who did some charity tie up for bone marrow donations. It was held at Turi Beach in Batam and I basically interpreted it the way I wanted.

“Beach party, free booze and great music. Oh and with a charitable cause.”

I was sold on the idea. Not so much that I was doing a good cause, but because there was going to be a party. And I am too blinded by alcohol, and not good enough a person to really care what my donation is going to do.

After all, I’ve donated to NKF before and look what that turned out to be. So, unless my money is going to fund some war in Iraq or self-esteem courses for Whales, I don’t really give a shit. I am a horrible person.

It was also great that I had LB, Nana and IceMan heading down as well so if everything else failed, I knew I would have 3 more buddies wasting a weekend like me.

Shortly after we got there, it started pouring so heavily, it looked like Batam was going to sink. What was worse was that the villas were built into the slope, so I was convinced that if a landslide didn’t kill us, the lack of decent TV channels would.

We spent the entire afternoon in IceMan’s room playing Texas Hold’em with cigarettes as chips, almost convinced that the torrential downpour was a mocking from God for forfeiting a weekend to travel to Batam for charity.

Then it stopped, almost as sudden as it came and we were back on schedule for a nice outdoor dinner spread and the ever inviting thought of a pool party. Then more good news followed in the words of ‘open bar’, which got me so excited, I tore my larynx while executing a silent cheer.

There was also an area setup for recruitment of bone marrow donors. And I was dragged there by LB, at a point in time where I already had a few drinks and pleasantries have gone beyond my recall.

Some of the highlights of the recruitment lady’s persuasion to have me become a donor.

Lady: “Would you like to donate?”
Me: “Nope, I don’t think I should.”
Lady: “Why not?”
Me: “I’m a bad person.”

Lady: “Do you know that it is a 1 in 10,000 match to find a suitable donor?”
Me: “How’s that guy going to feel when I’m that match and I say NO.”

If she had a stick, she would have beaten me all the way into Christmas.

Then there was the art auction that Butter Factory organized to raise funds, that was a lot more refreshing than having to call in to place a donation because of some fire breathing, coal walking, stage prancing act.

With all the formalities out the way, the music started playing, but it was a slow coax to what would be a night any Trance junkie would have been proud of. Old school beats, techno hits and even a couple of Jay Chou songs snuck right between.

Before we knew it, we all lined at the shallow end of the pool, jumping, forcing nasty liquids like bourbon down each others throats and attempting front flips off the platform.

4 hours later, you know something is wrong when we’ve had so much to drink and no one has actually left the pool for the toilet. By then I had already made a conscious decision to moderate my drinking.

Where possible, I would spit a good portion of the drink back out into the pool every time someone forced a bottle of bourbon down my throat. Then it hit me; everyone else was practically doing the same!

5 hours later, you know how fucked the pool is when we’re spitting back whiskey and bourbon into the pool and spraying Red Bull all around. If we had gone 6 hours, we might have shat, puked and had supper in there as well.

Then we broke up the party and then talks of supper came up and we had so much time getting up to the rooms and making so much noise banging on Cel’s door, her snap back at us probably woke me.

I got back to the room with Nana, stumbling through the corridor and fumbling with our door knob and key. It just wouldn’t open, but I could see our bags so this had to be our room. Or did they lock us out?

Me: “Nana, this is not funny. Not funny I tell you. I cannot open the door.”

It was like China all over again. Then 5 seconds later, I held up the door handle.

Me: “Nana, this is not funny man, not funny at all. I think I broke the door handle from the hinge.”

The lucky thing was that it actually opened the door.

Nana: “Do you think they are going to make us pay for that?”