I Hope You Die in Bali

We turned right on the narrow lane in front of our hotel in Kuta, Bali, on the hunt for some Indonesian breakfast, which, as it turns out, is identical to Indonesian Lunch and Dinner. Which brings to mind a friend of mine (what's up Hatch!), who holds that that Mexican isn't real food, but only snack food, since it's mainly just different configurations of the same 5 ingredients, just placed on various bread products (mmmm Torta de carne asada mmmm). I don't agree with him. I love Mexican(s). I love Indonesian(s) as well.

But, as usual, I digress.

Right as we left the hotel, one of the ubiquitous hawkers and salesman of Tours (Rule #28 of Travel - No Tours, if you can avoid it) and Motorbike Rentals waved us down. Since we've talked to this gentleman before, promising that we'll return, I felt obliged to enter his shop to ask him about car rentals.  

Since nowadays everyone and their grandmother has a motorbike, public transportation on Bali is lacking. Public buses of various shapes and sizes do exist, mind you, but to put it simply, they ride quite infrequently, at least compared with other places we've visited thus far, they are slow, and they are unreliable. If you want to get somewhere quickly, a ride in a relatively expensive private transport shuttle van or even a chartered driver is in order.