Today started with yoga, meditation, coffee, and a swim.
Today ended with fire shooting out of my butthole.

Our plan was to take a drive to Pura Ulan Danu Beratan, a temple on the shores of Lake Beratan. To prevent any possible mix-ups, I took a screenshot to show Putu the driver. In fact, I took two.

Putu arrived early, as usual. He had Wayan's mother with him, which was less usual, but very pleasant. We were never told (or, more likely, I never understood) her name, so I will call her Mrs. Wayan's Mom. She was a charming old lady, perched in the passenger seat up front. She was dressed up in a vibrant red dress, looking for all the world like my little Italian step-Grandmother.
I smiled and greeted her in Balinese. "Rahajeng semeng. Ken-ken kabare?" (Good morning. How are you?)
She smiled and stared blankly at me.
"She only speak Bahasa," Putu explained.
"Salmat pagi!" I said. "Apa kabar?"
Her face lit up with a glorious smile.
"Baik! Baik! Apa kabar?" (Good! Good! How are you?)
"Baik, suksema." (Good, thank you.)
And, with that, I was pretty much a spent force. Telling her that I like spicy food or asking her where the bathroom was seemed oddly inappropriate for the drive.
We hadn't met anyone in Bali who didn't speak Balinese, but she smiled hugely every time I was able to force a balinese word into the conversation. I was a bit flattered that she told Putu that my accent was good and she was surprised I'd only been speaking Bahasa for 3 weeks. But now that I consider it, she could have told him that I smelled like a hot fish fart and that when I talk I sound like someone who'd eaten too much durian and then suffered a traumatic brain injury.
I'll never know...
Balinese people, as I have mentioned, genuinely want to know about the people they meet. Age, interests, family, home. It's all good. And when Putu told us that the wizened, crinkled old lady in the car with us was 60 years old, Kerri and I both gasped a bit.
She's 7 years older than us.
She looked ancient.
She still had a big, bright smile and shiny, alert eyes. On closer inspection, I thought that maybe it was just a hard life lived primarily outdoors. She was doing all right.
All along the drive, we kept seeing long bamboo poles that had pegs of bamboo hammered into the sides of them. They were piled along the sides of road in several places. We honestly must have passed 200 of these ladders along the drive. They build them right on the side of the road.

Putu explained that they were ladders that farmer build and use to gather cloves, which are common in this part of Bali.

As we made our way to her village to drop her off, Putu stopped at a scenic overlook so we could see Twin Lakes, two gorgeous lakes (hence the clever name) nestled in a valley surrounded by lush green jungle.
And people selling cheap plastic crap, cashews, and, in a distinct change for the worse, one hawker offering the golden opportunity to have your photo taken with his:

1. Giant python
2. Giant fruit bat
3. Giant iguana

Aside from the small bats and the luwaks, we haven't come into too much contact with Balinese fauna. Kerri, who has a near pathological fear of snakes, handled herself quite well considering that she was within 100 miles of a huge python. She didn't cry OR pass out.
"Do people swim in the lakes?" I asked Putu.
"No," he said sadly. "Too dirty."
And that is Bali in a nutshell.
Gorgeous from a distance, but full of snakes, typhoid, and used diapers up close.

We continued along our way to drop off Mrs. Wayan's Mom. The drive took us along a serpentine road with gorgeous views of mountains, rice terraces, lush jungles, and at least 8,372 shops selling Babi Gueling and 1 liter bottles of gasoline. Maybe it doubles as a dipping sauce?
I'll never know.
With smiles and a few words of Bahasa, wee dropped Mrs. Wayan's Mom off at the local market in her village and continued our drive to the temple, which was... odd.
Gorgeous, to be sure.
But very, very odd.
The parking lot of the temple was full of tour busses, which is always a bad sign in my opinion. Tour busses mean tourists. Tourists mean crowds. Crowds mean dozens and dozens of Instagram people crowding each other out to get photos of themselves.
This temple was the strangest temple/amusement park hybrid I could possibly have imagined.
All the temples we've visited are real, active temples where locals go to pray and have religious ceremonies. All have welcomed tourists warmly and they all have areas that are off limits to tourists.
None, before today, had included gelato stands, a food court, paddle boats shaped like ducks, or places where you can rent "Real Balinese Cloths" that you can wear to pose in front of a theater style mock-up of the spirit gate located at the entrance to the temple. It was the Indonesian version of the "Olde Tyme Wild West Photos" that you can get a a certain sort of low-end amusement park in the US.
The line of Instagram people lined up for photos at the real spirit gate was long.
The line at the fake spirit gate was much, much longer.
I will never understand people.
But I don't need to. They were happy. I was happy. All was well.
There was an absolutely stunning temple with 11 roofs located on a small island about 20' off shore. This is the temple that appears in all the tourist information about Pura Ulun Danu Beratan. It was stunning, but, as it was an active temple, it was off limits.
Almost as wonderful as the temple were the dozens of Instagram People who had set up elaborate photo shoots everywhere there was room.

We made our way through the sweating throngs of Instagram People toward the food court where I was about to learn a hard lesson in pride.
Kerri ordered nasi goreng (rice) and I got mei goreng (noodles). The food was really, really inexpensive. Even by Balinese standards.
That possibly should have served as a warning.
"Medium or hot?" the waitress asked.
Kerri looked at me meaningfully.
The fact that mild wasn't even an option should have served as an additional  warning.
It did not. Not to me, at least.
"Saya sakar padas!" (I like spicy!) I said happily.
And stupidly.
I would live to regret those words.

My noodles were ferociously hot and I suspected that awful, terrible things were in store for my digestive tract soon.
If I survived, which I wasn't looking forward to. Kerri offered me some of her drink, but, fearing that it would simply turn to steam in my guts and kill me in a huge gas explosion, I merely whimpered and whined for a few hours.

We pushed our way through the ever thickening crowds of Instagram People and found Putu in the parking lot.

I asked him to please take us to Pepito's, the tourist grocery store, as I was in desperate need of Arak, juice, and Happitos. If my intestines are going to kill me, and they definitely want to, I'm going to fill them with alcohol-based deliciousness on my way out. Perhaps the drink will serve as an offering to the gut gods and they will simply let me be engulfed in flames and die quickly.

Back at the villa, we swam and I worked hard to prevent my insides from turning to a charred lump of intestinal lava. Arak, a high proof alcohol, seemed ideally suited to dousing the flames and by the time Komang and Putu (the cook; not the driver) came to make dinner, I was ready for it!

Kerri gently reminded me that we had ordered separate meals yesterday and that I had ordered mine spicy.

"Bring it," I said, tossing back another Bali Banger.
"You are sleeping outside tonight," Kerri warned. "If you poop the bed, we'll get a bad review on Airbnb."
"Pfffft, " I said, eating a delicate forkful of the hottest food I have ever eaten in my life.
"Are you okay?" Kerri asked as tendrils of smoke swirled from my nostrils.
I wiped the tears from my eyes and nodded.
"Fine," I mumbled through my swollen lips.
All my hard work withe the Arak was undone and I was a quivering wreck by the end of the meal.
I loved it.

After we ate, I asked Putu about the prodigious amount of spice that Balinese people enjoy.
"If you made that at home, would it be that spicy?" I whimpered.
Putu laughed and shook her head no. "No! No! No!"
So, I was tougher than a Balinese person? Oh yeah, baby! I'm the champ! I...
"I used 5 chilis in yours," she continued. "At home, for family, I use 20."
I cannot imagine the money they must spend repairing the melted toilets in their homes.

After dinner, we sat up on the balcony to watch the sunset. Hundreds of bats swarmed, flitted and danced around us, darting between us and all around us. I tried to ward them off with my fire-breath, but my aim was off. I spent the evening gulping water and sweating from my Balinese dinner which, it turns out, was like the kids' meal for the locals.

Tomorrow, if I am still alive, we will be having real Balinese massages.

Today was intended to be a short day of sightseeing. We were supposed to see The Sleeping Buddha, a huge stone statue of, you probably already figured this out, a sleeping Buddha. It's located at a temple called Vihara Dharma Giri.
Try to remember that for a moment.
Bali is roughly 80% Hindu and 20% Muslim. There are a smattering of Buddhists and we were told that the particular Hinduism practiced by most Balinese people is heavily infused with Buddhist influence. The two blend together quite harmoniously.
I was eager to see the sleeping Buddha statue. After a morning of yoga, coffee, a swim, and a short meditation, Putu arrived 20 minutes early to take us to see that statue, which my GPS said was about 48 minutes away.
Putu, as usual, arrived about 20 minutes early, but we were ready for it this time. Better luck next time, buddy.

We hopped in Putu's van and headed off. We have realized that his constant muttering under his breath isn't prayer or exasperation as we had been guessing. I really paid attention today and realized that he was practicing phrases we had just used or he was practicing what he was about to say to us in English. I laughed when I realized this, as I have been doing the exact same thing on this trip - practicing phrases that I want to say properly.
We chatted for the 48 minute drive, which, surprisingly ended after 20 minutes, when Putu pulled into a parking lot and announced, "Here!"
We were, of course, here. Because that's the only place we can ever be.
The problem was, the here where we were wasn't the here where we had planned on being.
The large sign on the front of the temple said "Brahamavihara Arama", not "Vihara Dharma Giri".
"Sleeping Buddha?" I asked him.
He nodded. "Yes. Here."
I shrugged and we went in to buy tickets. I showed the girl selling the tickets the name of the Sleeping Buddha Temple on my phone. "Here?" I asked.
She shook her head. "No. Not here. This Brahamavihara Arama."
She spoke to Putu briefly in Bahasa and he turned bright red. He apologized profusely for taking us to the wrong Buddhist temple.
"Tidak apa apa!" I told him. No problem.
I love this phrase. It literally translates as "No what what" which seems to perfectly express the idea is no problem.
In fact, we were delighted by the mistake. The temple was a popular one that many visitors to the villa want to see, so it was a natural mistake for Putu to make. And we are so happy he did.
Brahamavihara Arama was a highlight of the trip for both of us. It was a gorgeous temple compound with elaborate statuary and gorgeous gardens. It was nearly deserted and we had a great time exploring and sweating.
It was brutally hot; a fact driven home when an Australian guy walked past me and pointed at my arms.
"Fuck, mate. You know it's hot when your fuckin' forearms are sweating like that."
Yes. My forearms were just as sweaty as the rest of me. It was fuckin' hot.

Everything about he place was stunning.
Except my sweaty forearms.
From there, we drove to the Sleeping Buddha, depite the fact that the first temple had their own tiny Sleeping Buddha. Did you see it in those photos? It's there.
Putu thought it would take about an hour and a half to get to the Sleeping Buddha. It actually took about 50 minutes, which was nice. Unlike the urban sprawl of south Bali, north Bali is quiet and lush and absolutely gorgeous. While there wasn't much traffic, the roads are all small and winding so you really can't get anywhere in a hurry.
Fortunately, we weren't in a hurry. We enjoyed the beautiful scenery until Putu announced that we had arrived.

Vihara Dharma Giri was a very small temple, perched atop a big cliff. There was a large meditation shrine that we were not allowed to enter, a small gazebo, and a large open terrace that held the sleeping Buddha.
At a leisurely stroll, we explored the entire place in 10 minutes.
It was beautiful and tiny.
Except for that Buddha. It was HUGE!

It was small but beautiful.
On our way out, I decided that I'd like to use the bathroom before leaving.
It was my first real Asian style bathroom and it was a new and exciting experience.

Throughout our trip, we have been vary careful to be as respectful of local customs, culture, and traditions as much as we are able. Many places ask you to remove your shoes, which we have done.
This bathroom made a similar request and, karma be damned, I left my shoes on because... ew.
When we hopped back in Putu's van, he pointed to a warung across the street.
"Lunch?" he asked.
Kerri and I looked at the small, filthy shack where greasy glass cases were heaped with wads of something that could, conceivably, be consumed.
But not by us.
I thought desperately for a way to tactfully explain that I'd rather lick the bathroom in the Buddhist temple than eat at that warung.
"Umm...." I mumbled. "Maybe someplace more... ummm... touristy?"
Words I never thought would come out of my mouth, prompted by fear of what might go into my mouth.
""Yes," he agreed eventually. "Too much bacteria for you, maybe."
"Maybe," I said, not adding that it was also probably also too much bacteria for your average dung beetle.
We went to a small, strange seaside resort with tables overlooking the beach.
A family we had seen at the fist temple were there having lunch. Their adult daughter was cavorting with the stray dogs that were roaming around the beach and the restaurant. The food was delicious and contained just the right amount of bacteria for me.

From there, we headed back to the villa.
Wayan the gardener was there. As usual, he greeted us warmly and we chatted for a while. He asked about our plans for tomorrow and we explained that we were planning on going to a different temple on a lake.
Wayan asked if we would mind picking up his mother and delivering her to her village on the way.
"Tadik apa apa!"
No problem.
His mother had been visiting his daughter in the hospital, where she was being treated for Typhus.
He was delighted that we agreed to bring his mother home and, to celebrate, he got me on a Facetime call with his wife, his mother, and his daughter from her hospital room.
It wasn't weird at all.
"Hi. I'm.... uhhh... sorry you have Typhoid Fever."
Seriously. What could I say?
Kerri and I swam until Puto 2.0 and Komang came to make dinner.
Komang brought her daughter again. She is such a sweet little kid.
We played with her out by the pool. I drew with her and got the impression she had never held a pencil before, but I don't know. It was delightful fun with her even though we can't really talk at all.

While we were playing with her, a guy came up to the fence along the beach and started waving wildly. "Come see! Come see! Look at this from the sea!"
He held up something that might have been a giant shell of some sort.
After nearly 3 weeks here, I should have known better, but I wandered over to the fence.
The thing which could have been a shell was, in fact, a big rag that was wrapped around an assortment of cheap plastic crap from China. "From the sea!" he repeated.
"No, thank you," I said, walking away.
"Maybe tomorrow?"
"No. Suksema. Selamat souri."
Thank you. Good evening.
He protested as I walked away, but he eventually wandered off.
Dinner was a spectacular beef stir fry and chicken in a coconut milk sauce. It was incredible.
I still can't get used to being served like this. They do everything to prepare the food then hang around while we eat and then clean everything up.
We watched a cauldron of bats (isn't that a great collective noun?) spiraling next to the house as the sun went down and then enjoyed another gorgeous sunset.

Tomorrow, we transport Grandma and, hopefully, get to the correct temple.

My phone tells me that today is Father's Day. I'm spending it, quite literally, as far away from my kids as I possibly could while remaining on Earth. Not that I don't want to be with my kids - it's just that they wouldn't fit in our carry-on luggage, so...

Today was another great, lazy pool day. Before Kerri got up, I enjoyed a beautiful sunrise and saw just how busy the beach is in the early morning hours.

I went for a walk back through the rice fields toward the main road where Wayan had taken me yesterday on his motorbike. It was a lovely walk. This rice field right next to the villa was almost ready for harvesting. Here's a 15 second video. In it, you can see a small hut, called a kubu. The farmers use them as a place to rest while planting the rice. When preparing to harvest it, they spend the day in these, scaring off birds. This farmer has installed a comically elaborate system of string, poles, and sheets of thin metal. When birds land in his field, he toots a toy horn and pulls one of dozens of strings to shake a sheet of metal near the birds to frighten them off. It's wild. This is the view over the fence, just off the driveway of our villa.

And while we're at it, I got a few more photos of the villa itself. It's not too shabby.

The walk to the main road was a bit less than a mile and took me past all sorts of people and places.

I greeted everyone I met in Balinese and was richly rewarded with smiles and conversation.
I passed one guy, who was sweeping out his warung so he could begin his long day of poisoning people with bacteria-riddled food. Balinese people are genuinely curious to get to know new people. They ask a lot of questions. Typically:

1. Where are you from?
2. Is this your first time in Bali?
3. How long will you stay?
4. Are you here with  your family?

These are pretty standard "getting to know you" questions from my limited experience. This guy went off script almost immediately after that, though. I told him we were staying at Villa Lumba Lumba at the end of the beach road.

"I live on beach road!" this guy said excitedly. "House with lemon tree in front. You know it? With lemon tree on left, not right. Mine on the left! Maybe later you stop by? We have coffee and talk. Now I have to get ready for work. Meatballs! You like meatballs?"

I smiled and said that I loved meatballs, fearing that he may take a fetid, rancid meatball from yesterday out of his pocket and offer it to me. Mercifully, he did not. I didn't see any sign of meat or refrigeration anywhere in the small space he was sweeping out. I would gleefully and peacefully starve to death before risking street food here, despite how genuinely nice the people are. They have iron gastronomic constitutions that my underdeveloped western digestion can only admire in shocked awe.

Walking back toward the villa, I saw my new friend Putu again. This isn't Putu the cook or Putu the driver. This is Putu, the random guy from the beach I met yesterday. Just so we're clear on the Putu situation. When he saw me walking and thought I was heading to the market, he offered me a ride on his scooter. It was kind, but I've had my one 2-wheeled adventure in Bali. I don't think Balinese people have a concept of "just going for a walk". They don't seem to walk for the sake of walking. Probably for very smart reasons of not wanting to be killed by traffic or sweating to death in the 275% humidity here.

When I got back to the villa, having narrowly escaped meatball poisoning, Wayan was there with the guy who was going to fix the WiFi. Wayan told me that his daughter is in the hospital with Typhus. I felt awful that he was here on his day off with a sick daughter, but he was all smiles and gracious kindness.

They fixed the WiFi and Kerri and I had potato chips and Bali Bangers in the pool for lunch because were are adults, dammit.

After lunch, we went for a walk on the beach so Kerri could look for sea glass. I'm sorry to report that it was spectacularly easy to find glass. And plastic. And cloth. And every sort of litter you can imagine. Wayan's daughter with Typhoid was in the forefront of my mind as we picked our way over the trash-covered sand. I made a game out of it. A game I called "Come to Bali with Nothing."
Here's how you play: You come to Bali with nothing. You have to survive exclusively on things you find washed up on the beach. Can you survive?

And then... WE WON THE GAME!!

Maybe this guy was going to get his motorbike warung and set up a shop selling Sandy Dead Fish or some other local delicacy. We could have a gourmet seafood dinner and survive in style for many many years on the trash we found on the beach each day. It was honestly heartbreaking.

As we continued our walk, another duck herder walked by, leading his quacking cargo. I have no idea where they come from or where they go, but that mystery makes the experience even more enjoyable for me. After the duck herder, we met Putu.
Again.
This is the same Putu from before; not any of the other ones.
It turns out he's a gardener at one of the other villas. Our villa is obscenely huge, but compared to the 5 or 6 others along the beach, it's a modest shack. We chatted with Putu for a few cheery moments before heading back to the villa for a dinner of leftovers dumped over cheap ramen noodles. It wasn't as fancy as the Sandy Dead Fish we could have had if Kerri wasn't always going on about basic food hygiene, but it was fine.
After dinner, we went to the upstairs deck and watched one of the most beautiful sunsets I've ever seen. The sun was nearly crimson as it sank behind steely gray clouds, backlit by the glowing orange sky.

Tomorrow, we're visiting The Sleeping Buddha.

Last night, I had a hard time sleeping. Bali, unsurprisingly, is very hot. The house we are currently renting is very big. And it takes a lot of time to cool a hunk of house like this down. Fortunately, today is a nothing day.
This is the location we saved for the end of our trip so we could relax a bit more and chill out after 2 weeks of sight-seeing. This house is near Lovina, on the north shore of Bali and it's absolutely spectacular. It's excessive. I know. It's absurdly big, but is, in fact, the smallest of a row of about 6 villas along the beach.
The villa has 2 cooks, a gardener, a driver, and a night security guard. We were assured that the area was safe and the guard was there "just in case of emergency". I believe it. There hasn't been a moment in Bali where either of us has felt unsafe in any way.
And we have the entire place to ourselves for less than the price of a room at a cheap motel at home.
Let's take a photo tour of the place, shall we?

The house and grounds are spectacular, but some of the interior decorating choices are a bit... ummm... unexpected.

This morning, Komang, a second cook, came to make us a complimentary welcome breakfast. Komang, like Putu last night, is delightful. Her English is very limited (but still better than my Balinese or Bahasa), so we manage with signs, gestures, and interpretive dance. It's fun.
She made us toast, a fried egg, scrambled eggs, and an assortment of fresh fruit. It wasn't the Balinese breakfast of my dreams, but it was a good start to the day.
There was a big Bluetooth speaker in the house that wasn't charged. I couldn't find a charging cable. When I mentioned this to Komang, she got the gardener, named Wayan, of course.
He is a small guy with a huge smile. He's incredibly gregarious and kind. He hopped on his motorbike and zipped off to a store to buy a new charging cable for the speaker. It was not necessary, but the people in Bali are disarmingly, beautifully nice.
I went for a short walk on the beach after breakfast and greeted a local walking by. As usual, he stopped and we chatted for a bit. His name... can you guess?
Putu. We've obviously hit a hot local Putu market at this house.
He told me he was happy to practice his English  and we had a lovely chat as the waves washed endless loads of trash onto the sand around our feet.
Kerri and I hopped in the pool and floated around until Komang came back to make us lunch. When we asked about arranging meals for tomorrow, she looked horrified.
"No staff," she said. "Sunday is day off."
We had been told that there would be a substitute evening guard, but we didn't consider that the entire staff took the day off.
"Okay," we said. "No problem."
Komang was upset about the mix-up and offered to come in and cook for us on her day off.
"No way!"we told her. "Thank you, but no. We can cook."
There was a convenience store about a mile away and I decided to walk there and try my hand at more ramen noodle goodness.
The problem was that we had arrived after dark, in the rain, and I didn't really have a good sense of how to get there. We have also made this entire trip without cell service on our phones. We have relied on wifi, which has been fine, but wouldn't serve me well if I needed to use my GPS. I took a screenshot of the most accurate map I could find and prepared to head off into the world to buy noodles.

As I was walking toward the gate, Wayan arrived on his motorbike. He works in the morning, then goes home for a couple hours, and comes back in the afternoon.
"Where going?" he asked.
Wayan's English is also pretty sketchy.
"Store," I said. "Food for tomorrow."
"Store?" he asked. He used his fingers to indicate walking. "Walk?"
I nodded enthusiastically. "Walk. Big adventure!"
He shook his head. "Far."
He patted the seat of his motorbike. "Ride."
I have seen the scooters and motorbikes all over Bali weaving in and out of the traffic with reckless abandon.
"Do you have a helmet for me?" I asked, as he strapped his back on.
"No."
So I found myself clutching the back of his motorbike, squeezing my knees around his waist like we were professional wrestlers yelling, "Slow! Please!"
He popped out on the main street and I watched the convenience store I was heading to zip past as we drove down the road.
"Whelp," I thought, "This is where he takes me to a warehouse and the sell me for parts. I wish my last breakfast had been better."
But, of course, he didn't.
We weren't in the warehouse district.
He took me to a local grocery store that was much more geared toward locals. I got what we needed for the next day (Ramen noodles and an onion and a carrot, in case you're interested), zipped it in my backpack and hopped back on the motorbike.
On the ride back, Wayan did his best to point out different kinds of trees and tell me a bit about the area, but I was focused on not falling off the bike and was, as a result, less than attentive to the lesson.

Kerri and I spent the day bobbing in the pool and drinking Bali Bangers. As we floated, a lady came up to the wall of the yard, a dozen yards from the pool.
"Hello? Hello? Where you from?"
The people are very, very friendly.
"America."
"Oh! I love America. You want to buy very nice sarong?"
Lord, the vendors have followed us here. Next, she'll be whipping out a 36" carved wooden penis and waving it at us, begging us to buy it.
"No, thank you."
"I have sun dress. You want dress?"
"I assume she's talking to you," I told Kerri.
"This is all yours, buddy," Kerri said, sipping her drink and floating away.
"What your name?"
"Marty."
"You want a hat, Marrrrrrtyy?"
I pointed to the hat on my head. "All set. Thank you. Good bye."
"Maybe tomorrow?"
We learned the hard way that if you say yes, maybe tomorrow, they will, in fact return.
"No."
As she was shoving her wares back in the giant bundle she carried, another lady came up and stood next to her. Our new visitor had a giant garbage bag on her head. She started pulling things out to sell us.
"No thank you," I called.
"Oh my god! No? Oh my god. You come to Bali and no help me? Oh my god!"
I was sort of in awe. It was the first rude person I'd met in Bali.
"Goodbye," I called. As the two women walked away, a man came up and began trying to sell us more souvenirs.
I sort of thought we'd be free of that here.
I didn't respond to him and he soon wandered away.
Later, Komang came back to make dinner. She brought her daughter, Terri, with her. Terri was a delightful, smiling 5 year old who shook our hands in greeting and then danced and laughed all afternoon. She was smitten with Kerri (who wouldn't be?) and they played while Komang cooked.
After dinner, we swam, lounged in the gazebo, and watched a man walk down the beach herding a flock of maybe 100 ducks along the beach.
Why?
I have no idea, but my face hurt from smiling watching him shoo them along with a long pole.
As we settled in for the night, the wifi went out.
It woun't have been a huge problem if we had cell service, but that wifi was our only connection with anything outside the villa. Robin, the night guard, called Dyna, the house manager for me and she assured us it would be fixed tomorrow.
We shall see...