The BALI STORY 2000.
Here are some quick links to the chapters of the story -
The
Bali
Travellers,
2000.
Claire,
Phil,
Janelle,
Chris
and
Jay.
Scot
was
to
join
us
later.
This
is
the
beginning
of
the
personal
Diary
of
our
holiday
in
Bali
in
late
September
2000.
This
introduction
to
the
travel
group
and
then
the
organisation
(or
lack
of
it)
for
the
trip
may
not
be
riveting,
amusing
or
highly
entertaining
for
you.
If
you're
more
interested
in
the
travel
and
the
destination
you
might
be
better
off
going
to
the
next
part,
'Getting
There'
or
the
third
part,
'Day
1.'
that
follow,
but
at
least
read
the
profile
of
our
group
first
so
that
you
know
a
bit
about
us.
This
might
lead
you
to
a
better
understanding
of
the
things
that
follow.
There
are
nineteen
parts
in
total,
finishing
with
'Getting
Back'
after'
Day
16'.
Proceed
at
your
own
risk.
It
might
be
a
good
bedtime
story
but
-
DO
NOT
INGEST
DURING
OR
BEFORE
DRIVING!
OUR
PROFILE:
Our
group
has
a
core
of
experienced
Baliphiles,
Nell
and
Phil,
with
12-year-old
son
Jay
are
the
seed
material
having
travelled
to
Bali
and
other
south
east
Asian
countries
at
least
once
a
year
since
Jay
was
2.
On
most
of
these
trips
Chris
has
accompanied
them,
frequently
taking
his
son
Scot,
who
is
a
great
companion
to
Jay
and
who
is
this
year
old
enough
to
buy
his
own
beer.
Claire
and
I
first
went
to
Bali
over
20
years
ago.
Claire
was
a
seasoned
traveller
but
this
was
my
first
O/S
trip.
In
fact
it
was
my
first
significant
trip
anywhere.
It
was
intended
(I
think)
to
be
our
bindingly
sinful
sojourn
away
from
prying
eyes
and
negative
influences.
Because
of
work
and
family
commitments
we
had
not
subsequently
returned
for
many
years
until
six
years
ago
when
Claire,
through
work,
met
Nell
and
Chris
and
we
were
thereby
drawn
back
to
a
place
we
both
had
fond
memories
of.
Phil
is
a
sports
person,
having
been
a
league
footballer
in
younger
days
and
is
still
an
imposing
figure
anywhere
but
assumes
giant
proportions
amongst
the
smaller
stature
of
the
Balinese.
He
is
now
a
manager
in
this
field
while
the
rest
of
us
are
present
or
past
teachers
in
the
secondary
system.
Our
ages
range
from
12
to
60+.
Most
people
would
think
of
us
as
well
off
middle
class
urbanites,
generally
staid
and
conservative
but
given
to
an
occasional
fling
as
long
as
not
too
many
people
are
looking.
The
youngsters
are
occasional
party
animals
but
we
(the
oldsters
particularly
included
here)
don't
destroy
ourselves
on
a
regular
basis.
The
central
core
has
usually
attracted
a
different
group
of
satellite
travellers
each
year.
This
year,
however,
Claire
and
I
are
the
only
additions
to
the
core
for
our
fifth
trip.
(Are
we
now
close
satellites
or
regulars
or
nearly
core
players?)
Understanding
these
things
the
reader
will
perhaps
nod
more
knowingly
at
some
of
those
things
that
follow.
Part
of
a
holiday
must
at
least
be
the
journey
itself,
as
well
as
the
days
of
leisure
and
pleasure
and
I
suppose
that
if
the
journey
includes
the
planning
then
a
holiday,
like
a
story,
can
be
started
at
any
time.
This
Bali
Story
starts
on
Sunday
1
July,
2000,
10
weeks
and
2
days
before
we
even
leave,
simply
because
that's
the
time
I
first
sat
down
to
start
the
record.
It
could
have
started
20
years
ago,
or
six,
or
in
72
days
time
when
we
will
land
at
Ngurah
Rai
Airport,
Bali,
but
a
lot
of
the
ecstasy
and
the
agony
would
be
lost
to
the
fogs
of
time
if
it
had
been
delayed
until
then.
It
is
a
Diary
record
and
as
such
it
will
not
be
short
(the
early
start
should
at
least
give
some
strong
indication
of
this).
Determination
will
be
needed
for
the
stranger
to
complete
it,
let
alone
relish
it.
It
is
to
be
a
personal
documentary
for
my
future
years
and
I
don’t
want
to
omit
any
of
the
gory
details
in
case
I
also
omit
the
gems.
I
first
wrote
about
our
Bali
adventures
last
year,
in
a
letter
to
family,
friends,
acquaintances
and
others.
It
spread
far
wider
than
the
audience
for
which
it
was
originally
intended.
It
also
seemed
to
be
well
accepted
in
certain
critical
quarters
(a
group
of
my
fellow
retired
colleagues
who
worked
in
the
English
language
field
-
which
I
did
not
so
don’t
expect
a
work
of
art
to
follow)
and
met
with
mild
acclaim
from
others
perhaps
less
qualified
to
judge.
All
of
that
has
had
a
significant
impetus
to
the
commencement
of
this
saga.
I
hope
that
at
some
time
in
the
years
ahead
I
will
be
able
to
read
the
diary
of
this
trip
and
thereby
recall
and
re-live
the
finer
details
that
an
old
memory
will
lose.
Perhaps
too,
at
some
time
in
the
future
my
family
will
review
it
and
find
some
understanding
of
me,
and
my
feelings
for
Bali.
If
readers
are
curious,
or
in
the
mood
for
self-flagellation,
the
"Bali
Saga
'99"
is
currently
linked
from
our
Home
Page
and
there
are
some
pictures
to
go
with
it
there
also.
I
guess
that
you
have
to
be
geriatric
to
understand
this
urge
to
write
and
record.
Why
did
I
decide
to
start
writing
this
early?
Well,
a
frequently
frustrating
but
critical
part
of
a
group
holiday
is
the
prior
planning
and
decision-making
process
that
occurs
within
the
group.
The
more
people
involved
the
more
critical
and
more
difficult
-
and
the
more
dummies
are
bitten
down
on
before
they
can
be
spat
(or
spit
as
they
would
say
in
the
USA).
I
want
to
document
this
process
a
little
because
it
has
been
an
exciting,
but
at
times
tense
prelude
to
the
actual
trip.
The
mixture
of
emotions
varied
from
extreme
excitement
at
the
thought
of
the
holiday
to
utter
frustration
and
at
times
barely
concealed
anger
when
decisions
could
not
be
agreed
on,
or
those
that
had
been
agreed
upon
one
week
were
mysteriously
back
in
a
state
of
flux
the
next
week.
Although
it
was
often
said
that
we
could
all
go
our
separate
ways
and
do
our
own
thing
if
a
planned
activity
did
not
suit
us
this
is
not
always
easy
to
put
into
practise.
If
you
are
part
of
a
travel
group
then
companionship
is
a
part
of
your
needs
and
that
is
immediately
lost
if
you
leave
the
group.
You
lose
contact
and
you
don'
share
the
experiences
of
the
others
and
a
little
uncomfortable
feeling
of
being
left
out
creeps
into
your
memories.
This
alone
is
enough
for
all
of
us,
I
think,
to
want
to
have
an
agreed
itinerary
that
we
thought
we
would
be
happy
to
follow
even
if
we
did
decide
to
change
it
if
circumstances
subsequently
changed
at
the
last
minute.
The
planning
usually
took
place
on
Friday
evenings,
over
a
few
drinks
and
some
sort
of
a
meal,
at
Phil
and
Nell's
home
although
this
changed
later
because
of
their
new
circumstances.
This
year
the
planning
process
was
made
partly
more
and
partly
less
complicated
by
the
total
unavailability
of
any
seats
for
the
Frequent
Fliers
of
the
group.
Over
past
years
this
situation
has
steadily
deteriorated
from
no
problem
at
all
4
years
ago,
to
having
to
pay
for
airfares
to
other
Australian
capital
city
departure
points
where
seats
to
Denpasar
were
available
which
was
the
situation
last
year.
When
you
have
budgeted
and
spent
carefully
all
year
long
to
accumulate
points
it
is
frustrating
in
the
extreme
to
find
that
the
airlines,
(both
Ansett
and
Qantas
in
our
case)
can't
meet
their
end
of
the
bargain
you
have
presumed
was
in
place.
I
have
seen
it
suggested
that
this
is
discriminatory
to
people
who
work
in
education
particularly,
and
who
can
not
take
holidays
whenever
they
might
choose
but
are
confined
to
holiday
times
which
are
of
course
the
peak
travel
and
accommodation
periods.
I
would
not
disagree
with
this
assessment!
I
have
often
wondered
what
Bali
is
like
out
of
the
school
holiday
peak
season,
when
it
is
less
crowded
on
the
streets.
One
day
I
intend
to
find
out.
As
'free'
seats
were
not
available
we
would
at
least
all
travel
together
this
time
and
the
search
for
the
best
travel
bargain
became
a
common
concern.
So
it
was
that,
right
from
the
start,
our
past
loyalty
to
Ansett
evaporated.
When
it
became
obvious
that
Qantas
was
in
the
same
situation
but
was
not
prepared
to
be
totally
open
about
it,
they
were
also
disregarded
in
our
search,
and
Aussie
loyalties
succumbed
to
an
outraged
sense
of
the
fair
thing.
Our
quest
became
centred
on
Garuda
Indonesia
airlines,
as
there
were
not
many
other
options:
in
fact
there
were
none.
Good
comments
about
Garuda
on
the
Bali
Forum
(http://balitravelforum.com)
gave
confidence
to
the
less
enthusiastic
members
of
the
group.
The
much
cheaper
prices
available
from
Garuda
were
attractive
to
those
now
without
regular
incomes
and
clinched
this
decision.
The
greatly
reduced
travel
times
resulting
from
the
direct
flight
with
no
stopovers
was
an
added
bonus.
Five
hours
in
the
air
means
that
we
will
arrive
much
fresher
and
ready
to
go
than
we
have
been
after
twelve
and
a
half
hour
flights
all
round
Australia
on
previous
occasions.
This
short
flight
time
also
means
that
our
arrival
will
be
just
after
noon
rather
than
just
after
midnight
effectively
giving
us
an
extra
half
day
in
Paradise.
As
we
only
had
the
options
of
going
in
school
holidays
and
July
was
too
near,
September
was
the
obvious
answer
to
the
'when?'
question.
It
only
remained
to
decide
where!
(Within
Bali
of
course).
And
this
was
a
torment!
After
much
reading
of
the
brochures,
much
perusal
of
the
Bali
Forum,
many
debates
about
past
venues,
the
construction
of
comparative
charts
on
the
computer,
repeated
digestion
of
the
relevant
and
irrelevant
facts,
reason
was
abandoned.
The
Sheraton
Nusa
Indah
Resort
was
chosen
as
the
new
initial
venue
for
this
year
and
the
old
faithful
Holiday
Inn
Bali
Hai
at
Tuban
would
become
the
mainstay
for
shopping
forays
and
short
adventures
further
afield
for
the
main
part
of
our
holiday.
The
best
price
we
got
was
through
The
Flight
Centre,
but
only
after
we
got
a
really
good
package
from
a
small
local
Getaway
agent
and
Flight
Centre
lived
up
to
their
advertised
promise
to
beat
any
offer
-
but
only
by
A$20
per
adult
as
it
turned
out.
The
final
figure
was
$1830
(and
$150
for
no-excess
family
insurance)
for
4
nights
at
Nusa
Dua
and
12
nights
at
Tuban.
Through
Ansett
last
year
a
similar
package
with
one
day
less
and
only
3
nights
at
Nusa
Dua
was
well
over
$2300!
This
saving
of
nearly
$500
(for
the
non
Frequent
Fliers
at
least),
coupled
with
an
exchange
rate
that
is
at
the
moment
consistently
over
Rp5000
to
the
dollar
(compared
with
around
Rp4000
to
4200
last
year)
should
mean
lots
more
massages,
lots
more
shopping,
lots
more
clothing,
bigger
presents
for
our
Balinese
friends
and
so
on.
It
will
not
mean
less
money
actually
spent
I'm
sure.
We
actually
got
very
good
accommodation
rates
through
Bali
Villas
(the
hosts
for
the
Forum
mentioned
above)
but
we
couldn't
get
any
discounts
on
air
fares
so
the
total
turned
out
to
be
above
the
travel
agents'
package
prices.
Monday
10
July.
Nine
weeks
and
four
days
to
take-off
-
and
two
problems
have
arisen
-
or
have
they?
Nell
has
won
a
promotion
to
a
country
site,
and
Phil
and
Jay
will
go
with
her
of
course.
What
communication
stresses
will
this
put
on
the
planning
and
organisation
that
centred
on
social
Friday
evenings
at
their
home?
Only
time
will
tell,
but
it
is
probable
that
there
will
be
some
difficulties
because
Phil
is
the
contact
person
with
the
travel
agents.
The
other
is
really
less
of
a
problem.
We
have
been
advised
that
there
are
no
Garden
View
rooms
available
at
the
Sheraton
Indah.
A
Poolside
room
will
cost
an
extra
$44.
What
do
we
want
to
do?
Phil
makes
an
instant,
autocratic
decision
and
says
that
we
will
all
take
the
Poolside
rooms!
All
being
swimmers,
no-one
argues
the
point,
and
probably
no-one
wants
to
go
back
to
the
difficulties
of
selecting
a
new
hotel
either!
I've
been
tracking
the
exchange
rate
(via
the
Currency
Converter
on
the
Bali
Travel
Forum)
for
the
last
month
or
so
and
today
it's
5473.73
rupia
to
the
Aussie
dollar.
It's
been
a
bit
higher,
peaking
at
5490,
but
I
can't
help
wondering
if
it’s
going
much
higher.
If
the
tourists
are
returning
to
Bali
after
the
scares
of
the
Indonesian
elections
and
subsequent
civil
riots,
I
think
the
exchange
rate
will
decline.
Should
we
cash
a
couple
of
hundred
dollars
now
as
a
hedge
against
it
dropping?
I
have
all
sorts
of
altruistic
thoughts,
like
clearing
some
of
Australia's
rupia
stocks
back
to
Indonesia
and
having
more
to
spend
with
the
natives
when
we
arrive,
thus
returning
it
to
the
economy
at
the
poorest
level
rather
than
into
the
wallets
of
the
rich.
But
perhaps
really
it's
just
another
way
of
trying
to
get
a
bargain?
I
must
speak
to
the
others
about
it.
Started
to
look
at
the
prices
(not
really
important)
and
the
current
version
numbers
(much
more
important)
of
computer
software
today.
I
have
no
doubt
that
I'll
be
tempted
when
we
get
into
Platinum
at
Matahari’s
in
Denpasar
or
Harry's
Computers.
I've
also
had
a
stamp
made
that
I
can
use
in
the
Spirax
Note
Pads
that
I
use
as
travel
diaries.
They
fit
comfortably
into
the
shirt
pocket,
which
makes
them
easy
to
carry
at
all
times.
On
the
back
cover
I
paste
a
print
of
my
commonly
used
phrases,
Salamat
pagee,
Apa
Kabar?
and
so
on.
If
I'm
overtaken
by
a
fit
of
'KRAFT'
('Kant
Remember
A
Flaming
Thing')
I
only
have
to
lift
it
part
way
out
of
my
pocket
and
look
down
thro'
the
bifocals
to
have
a
bit
of
a
cheat.
Inside
the
back
cover
I’ve
pasted
a
'cheat
sheet'
conversion
chart
for
100
to
500,00
Rp
(into
A$)
at
exchange
rates
from
4700
to
5200.
I'm
not
too
quick
at
this
bargaining
business
and
find
this
little
cheat
sheet
is
a
great
help
at
telling
me
where
I’m
at
in
the
process.
It's
again
easy
to
refer
to
in
my
shirt
pocket
although
at
times
I've
kept
it
in
the
bum
bag
with
the
calculator
and
Passport
photocopy
used
for
changing
Traveller’s
Cheques.
Anyway,
back
to
the
stamp
which
I've
had
made.
It's
to
note
the
essential
details
of
each
photo
as
I
take
it.
Film
type,
shutter
speed,
'f'
stop,
polarising
filter
use
etc.
I
can
fit
6
stamp
prints
onto
a
page
in
the
notebook
so
24
records
therefore
only
take
up
two
leaves
in
the
book.
(I
only
ever
use
24
shot
film
so
I
can
get
it
printed
to
see
if
I
need
to
repeat
a
shot
that
I'm
not
happy
with.)
If
I
want
to
re-take
a
photo
I
know
what
I
did
the
last
time
because
I've
got
this
record,
and
so
I
know
what
changes
I
need
to
make
to
improve
the
photo.
It's
also
helpful
to
refer
to
later
to
get
some
idea
which
films
handle
different
colours
best;
good
greens
for
rice
paddies,
or
good
yellow
for
flowers,
and
so
on.
We're
due
to
leave
in
8
weeks
from
tomorrow.
For
some
time
I've
been
toying
with
the
idea
of
leaving
before
the
others.
I
have
that
freedom
because
I'm
retired
whereas
the
others
are
constrained
by
work
commitments.
I
could
leave
on
Monday
rather
than
Friday
and
my
reason
for
thinking
about
this
is
that
I'd
like
to
see
the
more
distant
parts
of
Bali;
parts
that
the
others,
Chris
excepted
probably,
are
not
really
enthusiastic
about.
They
are
more
inclined
to
continue
exploring
the
recognised
tourist
areas
and
re-visiting
familiar
and
friendly
haunts,
mainly
shops.
If
I
left
on
Monday
I
would
have
an
extra
4
days
to
follow
my
own
inclinations
without
any
commitments
to
the
others.
And
when
you
are
travelling
with
a
group
there
are
commitments
to
the
party
I
think,
and
I
do
miss
their
company
after
a
day
or
so.
We're
now
due
to
leave
in
7
weeks
tomorrow.
I've
given
up
the
idea
of
leaving
earlier
than
the
others
and
going
off
exploring
-
at
least
this
time.
I've
floated
a
few
questions
on
the
Bali
Forum
and
sent
a
few
faxes
and
e-mails.
The
conclusions
that
I've
come
to
are
that
although
there
are
no
more
flight
costs
involved
(nor
are
there
any
savings
this
close
to
school
holidays)
the
accommodation
cost
of
travelling
as
a
single
are
almost
the
same
as
a
couple!
This
puts
too
great
a
strain
on
the
available
finances.
I've
also
tried
to
find
those
cheap
$5
-
$10-a-night
places
but
frankly,
sight
unseen,
the
thought
of
cold
showers
for
4
days
is
not
appealing,
and
going
to
a
squat
toilet
in
the
dark
back
yard
of
some
unfamiliar
establishment
makes
my
toes
curl.
It's
a
long
time,
also,
since
we
all
flew
out
together
as
we
are
doing
this
time,
in
fact
not
since
the
first
time
we
all
went
in
'94.
I
think
that
this
is
something
I'd
like
to
experience
again.
The
thing
that
finally
sealed
the
fate
of
my
plans
was
Claire's
decision
to
take
some
long
service
leave
next
year.
This
will
give
us
the
chance
to
stay
in
Bali
perhaps
for
4
weeks
or
more,
moving
around
to
different
areas
with
possibly
as
much
a
week
in
one
place,
digging
a
bit
deeper
than
we
have
been
able
to
so
far.
I'll
use
this
trip
to
investigate
and
inspect
some
potential
little
hotels
around
Bedugul/Lake
Bratan/Pura
Ulun
Danu
as
well
as
Lovina/Singaraja,
and
perhaps
even
Candi
Dasa.
7
weeks
tomorrow!
That
makes
it
time
to
pay
for
the
flight
and
accommodations.
I'd
better
make
a
note
of
that.
I'll
be
in
no
end
of
strife
if
I
forget!!!!
6
weeks
to
go
and
we've
booked
Ketut
Juari
for
a
day
trip
up
north.
Pity
he
can'
get
to
us
before
9
am.
I
think
that's
going
to
mean
second
rate
light
for
photos
by
the
time
we
get
to
Bedugul.
Still,
I
can
plan
what
I
might
want
to
do
next
year
when
we
might
have
more
time
in
Bali.
Scot
(Chris'
son)
is
not
coming
with
the
rest
of
us
as
he
wants
to
do
some
flying
training.
He's
due
to
get
there
on
the
second
Monday.
5
weeks
to
go
last
Friday
-
that's
35
days.
I've
managed
to
get
a
Sharp
Electronic
Organiser
to
take
with
us.
It'll
hold
all
of
the
notes
I've
saved
from
the
Bali
Forum
for
the
past
few
months.
It
was
a
bit
disappointing
for
a
start
because
it
doesn't
download
Word
files
directly
from
the
PC.
I've
found
an
intermediary
program
on
the
net
which
translates
Word
files
into
a
language
that
the
Sharp
does
understand
-
and
as
a
bonus
it
allows
downloads
of
more
that
the
2Mb
limit
that
the
Sharp
has
inbuilt.
After
2
days
of
frustration
the
bonus
is
a
welcome
reward.
Tickets
to
be
picked
up
today.
Miserable
weather,
cold,
windy,
wet.
Have
to
take
the
car
to
Glenelg
instead
of
the
bike.
Max
(our
dog
who
usually
rides
on
the
back
of
the
motorbike)
doesn't
seem
to
mind.
It's
warm
in
the
car
with
the
heater
on
full.
Little
problem!
Claire's
flight
ticket
is
for
Mr.
not
Miss.
Has
to
go
back
to
Garuda
for
re-issue
-
Flight
Centre
to
pay
the
re-issue
cost.
Wait
till
I
tell
her!!
Probably
better
to
get
it
fixed
now
than
to
have
some
poor
airline
worker
filleted
on
the
runway
because
he
wouldn't
let
her
onto
the
plane,
and
it
would
be
difficult
to
make
her
look
like
a
'Mr'!
Hotel
bookings
at
Sheraton
Indah
are
for
a
Garden
View
room
instead
of
the
expected
change
to
a
Pool
View.
Flight
Centre
says
that
they
can
fix
that
with
a
fax.
Hope
they're
right.
More
filleting
if
not!!
Salesman
Scot
at
the
Diamonds
Duty
Free
photo
shop
says
that
nearly
all
my
order
is
in.
The
filters
should
arrive
later
this
week
but
I'll
be
lucky
to
get
more
than
half
of
what
I've
ordered
because
I've
picked
out
so
many
odd
ones.
I
guess
I'll
see
on
Friday.
By
then
it'll
only
be
22
days
to
go.
Just
over
a
week
to
go
and
the
tension
is
getting
hard
to
control.
Hell,
I've
even
taken
three
trips
down
to
the
airport
to
try
to
get
decent
photos
of
Garuda
flights
taking
off
so
that
I've
got
the
opening
for
this
year's
photo
album.
I
am
certainly
looking
forward
to
getting
there.
The
only
worry
is
how
many
traumas
there
will
be
when
we
have
to
come
back
at
the
end
of
the
holiday.
Perhaps
this
is
not
something
to
worry
about
before
we
even
leave.
I've
made
up
a
daily
count-down
sheet
onto
which
I
can
write
things
that
have
to
be
done:
haircut,
bottles
of
bubbly
(sorry,
frothy
coffee)
and
cardboard
cartons
of
cold
tea
kept
fresh
in
silver
plastic
liners,
business
card
wallet,
travellers
cheques
and
so
on.
Having
physio
twice
a
week
for
a
crook
back.
It
doesn't
seem
to
be
responding
yet
but
traction
last
session
seemed
to
help.
Only
days
to
go!
Will
it
be
OK?
Still
have
one
camera
filter
to
get.
Expected
it
today
but
it's
not
in!
Next
Wednesday
is
getting
a
bit
too
close
to
the
Friday
am
take
off.
Should
I
take
my
business
elsewhere?
Similar
thoughts
about
my
planned
driver
for
a
day
trip
north.
He
may
be
the
best
there
is
(according
to
the
Forum)
but
is
he
worth
nearly
twice
as
much
as
anyone
else?
I
need
to
canvass
opinions
amongst
the
others
about
this.
Seven
sleeps
to
go.
The
bloody
rupia
has
dropped
to
it's
lowest
rate
for
months
and
months,
and
it's
still
describing
a
line
on
the
graph
paper
like
an
Olympic
(can
I
use
that
word
here
without
paying
royalties
to
someone
in
'Sydeney'
I
wonder?)
diver
wearing
lead
boots!
Why
didn't
I
give
in
to
my
avarice
7
weeks
ago
and
buy
some
rupia
at
the
peak
exchange
rate?
This
is
going
to
put
financial
pressure
on
arrangements
that
I
thought
were
well
and
truly
cemented
down.
Four
sleeps
to
go
-
that's
if
you
can
sleep!
Pick
up
money
and
travellers
cheques
today.
Damn
filter
for
the
new
camera
lens
is
still
not
in.
I'm
trying
to
organise
a
means
of
getting
dog
food
to
the
Bali
Street
Dog
Foundation
-
toy
teddy
bears
to
the
orphanage.
Hell!
Where
is
that
orphanage?
Must
get
Adelaide
T-shirts
for
the
massage
girls
on
the
beach.
Scads
of
e-mails
and
a
new
multi
address
posting
to
set
up
on
Hotmail.
Check
the
Forum
postings.
Does
Fernandez
want
to
start
an
interstate
war
on
the
Forum?
Have
I
encouraged
him
in
my
reply?
Update
the
new
Forum
recommendations
into
the
PC
and
on
to
the
web
page.
Joan
the
Pet
Care
lady
came
over
last
night
to
settle
our
minds
about
Max's
welfare
when
we're
gone.
She
comes
twice
a
day
to
feed
the
beasts
and
to
take
him
for
a
walk.
Cheaper
than
kennels
and
he
stays
in
his
own
familiar
environment,
eating
familiar
food
with
much
less
stress.
Its
well
over
12
months
since
she
was
here
last
but
he
remembers
that
last
time
as
she
left
he
got
doggy
chockies
from
the
boot
of
her
car.
As
soon
as
she
opens
the
front
door
he's
off
and
sitting
by
the
boot
waiting!
I
think
he'll
be
all
right.
had
to
mend
one
of
the
school’s
cooking
pot
for
Claire.
How
do
you
lose
three
out
of
the
four
screws
that
hold
the
handles
on,
but
still
use
it
for
long
enough
to
fill
up
the
three
vacant
holes
with
Lord
knows
what
food
residue?
There
are
things
in
this
world
that
the
mere
male
of
the
species
is
not
designed
to
understand
I'm
sure.
Ketut
is
advised
that
the
trip
north
is
off.
We
may
in
fact
still
do
it
but
it
will
have
to
be
on
a
cheaper
scale
to
fit
the
now
reduced
sum
of
rupia
we
will
get
for
our
bankroll.
We'll
do
this
by
using
local
drivers.
As
this
means
we
can
leave
earlier
perhaps
I'll
get
the
good
photo
light
at
Lake
Bratan
that
I
hoped
for?
I'll
keep
in
contact
with
him
to
(hopefully)
ensure
his
services
next
year
when
we
can
really
explore
the
byways.
Will
I
post
this
on
the
Forum
before
we
leave?
An
attractive
option
as
it
will
mean
all
the
negative
comments
will
be
buried
in
the
archives
by
the
time
we
get
back
and
I
won’t
have
to
read
them.
Aha!
The
missing
camera
filter
is
in.
Race
off
to
pick
it
up,
with
the
cash
and
TC's.
Get
saturated
in
the
day’s
only
rainsquall
so
far.
There
are
mysterious
forces
-
-
Dry
one
soggy
(and
smelly)
Max
before
Claire
gets
home.
What
have
I
forgotten?
Tuesday
12th.
Three
sleeps
to
go.
Phil
rang
last
night.
He
has
a
new
job
and
has
to
come
to
the
city
for
a
conference
on
Thursday
so
Nell
will
also
come
with
him
and
get
in
a
bit
of
Duty
Free
shopping.
They
had
intended
to
drive
down
(or
up
or
across
or
whichever
way
it
is
from
Big
River
country)
on
Thursday
night
so
this
is
really
a
bit
of
a
blessing.
He
also
raised
the
question
of
a
small
Aussie
type
present
for
Liz
and
John,
the
American
couple
who
used
the
Bali
Travel
Forum
to
invite
people
to
their
Bali
wedding.
I
confess
I
hadn't
even
thought
of
it!.
My
suggestion
of
a
tea
towel
(dishcloth?)
with
an
Aussie
motif
drew
heaps
of
scorn
and
derision.
Claire
has
consequently
been
put
in
charge
of
research.
Yesterday
I
recalled
a
Forum
report
in
which
the
writer
described
the
smile
and
kiss
given
by
a
small
child
in
response
to
a
Chuppa
Chup
(small
sweet
on
a
little
stick
-
lollipop?)
gift.
It
was
an
image
which
I
couldn't
resist
and
so
I
went
down
to
the
corner
BiLo
store
and
bought
2
dozen.
The
pile
of
stuff
to
be
packed
continues
to
grow!
Thank
God
the
packing
is
Claire's
task.
I
just
buy
the
stuff.
Max
knows
something
is
afoot
I'm
sure.
He
regularly
jumps
up
onto
the
desk
now
and
quietly,
gently,
insistently,
puts
one
paw
on
my
hand
so
I
can't
continue
these
keyboard
entries.
I
give
him
a
bit
of
a
pat,
scratch
and
squeeze.
He
puts
his
chin
on
my
shoulder
for
a
few
seconds
and
then
curls
up
on
the
towel
next
to
the
mouse
mat
with
an
audible
sigh.
What
to
do
today?
*
Physio
first
at
9.30.
*
Downtown
Duty
Free
for
small
tape
recorder
and
supply
of
tapes.
*
Ring
Garuda.
*
Chemist
for
bottle
of
fluoride
tooth
scrub.
Should
try
for
'Aquaear'
also.
(Another
Forum
recommendation.)
I
had
an
ear
infection
there
last
time
and
it
was
a
miserable
two
days
that
I
don't
want
to
repeat.
*
Find
phone
number
for
'Baliopoly'
for
Nell.
In
Denpasar?
*
Claire's
end-of-term
school
faculty
dinner
tonight.
*
Try
to
remember
what
I've
forgotten
to
get.
Time
to
get
started!
Wednesday
the
13th.
Two
sleeps
to
go.
Last
night
on
the
way
to
Claire's
faculty
dinner
(that
dinner
is
probably
the
reason
the
letters
on
the
screen
look
crooked
this
morning)
she
suggested
giving
Liz
and
John
an
Ostrich
egg
for
their
wedding
present.
Well,
I
suppose
it's
uniquely
Australian
but
the
logistics
of
getting
it
to
Bali,
and
them
getting
it
back
to
the
States
in
one
piece
boggles
the
mind
despite
the
fact
that
the
shell
is
built
like
a
bomb
case!
And
what
would
they
think
of
an
empty
eggshell?
We
differ,
and
so
she
will
contact
higher
authorities
(fellow
travellers)
with
better
taste
than
mine
for
supporting
opinions.
Supporting
her
opinion
that
is.
Retired
teacher's
lunch
today.
I
can't
wait
to
casually
drop
to
old
friends
the
little
message
that
I'm
off
to
Bali
on
Friday.
Have
found
the
phone
number
for
Baliopoly
for
Nell
-
732
617
-
need
to
replenish
the
supply
of
Chateau
Cardboard
(carton
of
everyday
wine)
before
tonight.
Sew
the
dog
food
into
a
hessian
bag
for
transport.
I
guess
the
bag
might
be
useful
as
bedding
too.
Post
to
Helen
on
the
Forum
to
let
her
know
she
has
not
wasted
her
time
raising
the
needs
of
the
Bali
Street
Dogs
Foundation.
Feedback
for
good
deeds
is
too
often
forgotten
these
days
I
think.
Like
the
'Thank
You'
letter
to
hosts
after
a
visit
and
hospitality.
Am
I
showing
an
ancient
set
of
values?
The
ease
and
speed
of
the
net
makes
it
easy
to
do
these
things,
but
easy
to
overlook
them
also
it
seems.
Ah-ha.
I
find
that
Si
Badak
(of
high
status
on
the
Forum)
is
unexpectedly
going
to
Bali
on
Friday
too.
Be
interesting
to
meet
him
face
to
face
over
a
Bintang.
I
believe
he
drinks.
Remembered
to
put
the
waiters
friend
corkscrew
out
for
packing,
and
to
sharpen
the
blade
so
it
will
peel
salaks
and
cut
passion
fruit
(oh
boy,
I
can
taste
them
as
I
type
this)
and
mangosteens.
But
what
have
I
forgotten?
Thursday
and
one
to
go.
Claire's
gone
for
a
job
interview
this
morning.
Not
a
good
time
with
Bali
on
her
mind
but,
'poo
happens',
so
they
say.
Nell
rang
from
up-state
to
wish
her
luck
but
she'd
already
gone.
*
Physio
again
today.
Last
time
before
take
off.
Back's
not
good
and
I've
got
out
the
anti-inflammatory
pills
but
I
think
they've
given
me
the
wrong
ones.
Have
to
go
back
to
the
chemist
and
check.
*
New
flea
collar
for
the
cat.
*
Get
'Chateau
Cardboard'
that
I
forgot
yesterday.
*
Take
CD
player
for
repair
while
we're
away.
*
Check
Forum
for
new
tips
and
print
out
summary
of
recommendations
to
take
with
us.
*
Post
this
on
the
Forum
at
the
last
minute
with
a
separate
warning
posting
so
that
readers
know
what
to
expect.
I
see
on
the
Forum
weather
forecast
that
Bali
is
for
32
degrees
minimum
and
26
overnight,
55%
humidity,
slightly
overcast
and
with
a
14-knot
south-easterly
breeze.
This
is
expected
to
be
repeated
tomorrow
with
a
slight
clearing
of
the
overcast
and
a
consequent
rise
in
temperature.
Here
it
is
14
degrees
and
I
have
just
been
soaked
riding
home
from
the
physio's.
'Why
are
you
going
to
Bali?'
he
asked
me!
Perhaps
I
should
ring
him
from
Bali
tomorrow
and
tell
him?
If
you
have
persisted
this
far,
dear
reader,
you
can
give
yourself
a
grade
of
A++.
The
remainder
will
be
written
(and
posted)
after
our
return.
Filo.
Thursday
September
14,
2000.
LATER,
AFTER
OUR
RETURN
–
The
story
begins
-
If
you
want
to
press
on
to
the
second
episode
(I
promise
that
it's
shorter)
"Getting
There”
is
the
story
of
the
trip
to
Bali,
from
the
short
ride
to
our
airport
and
the
flight
across
the
centre
of
Australia,
over
the
Timor
Sea
to
the
first
glimpse
of
the
Island
of
Smiles.
Garuda Airlines 'Airbus Industrie A-330' leaving Adelaide Airport, 2000.
Up
a
bit
after
5.
AM
that
is.
Been
awake
since
the
toilet
trip
at
about
3
anyway.
Max
wakes
up
and
is
still
groggy
as
I
get
dressed
to
take
him
for
his
normal
walk
at
a
somewhat
abnormal
time.
He
doesn’t
care
–
a
walk
is
a
walk
in
his
world
and
nothing
starts
the
day
off
better.
He
follows
so
close
that
I
can
feel
his
ears
brushing
on
my
ankles
as
I
walk
around
the
house.
It’s
dark
and
cold
outside.
We
don’t
mind
the
dark.
He’s
grey
in
colour
and
I
loose
sight
of
him
as
soon
as
I
let
him
off
the
lead
at
the
oval.
That’s
not
a
worry
because
he
knows
the
check
points
where
we
sometimes
deviate
from
the
well
known
track
and
will
wait
for
me
to
point
if
we
are
going
to
change
directions.
Back
home
about
7
am,
Claire
is
up.
Get
breakfast
as
usual.
Check
e-mail
while
I’m
eating
it
as
usual.
Leave
a
farewell
message
for
friends.
Not
usual
and
I
smile
inwardly
as
I
do
it.
Finish
packing
and
close
the
bags.
Max
knows
now.
Start
loading
bags
into
wrong
car.
Get
the
message
and
correct.
No
1
daughter
Em
and
Max
get
into
car
and
off
to
the
airport.
At
least
this
year
we
wont
feel
the
need
to
apologise
to
a
taxi
driver
for
only
taking
a
short
2
km
trip.
Max
will
be
quite
happy
in
the
car
while
we
leave
and
not
so
upset
when
Em
returns
and
drives
him
home.
Our
departure
in
the
Garuda
Airbus
Industrie
A-330
is
delayed
20
minutes.
It’s
nervous
waiting.
What
do
you
do?
You’ve
said
your
goodbyes
and
checked
the
door
into
the
departure
lounge,
gone
through
the
list
of
things
to
be
done
at
home
while
you’re
away.
Mainly
you
just
stand
mute
and
look.
Eventually
the
door
opens
and
you
part
with
mutual
relief
I
think.
Off
to
the
lounge
and
eventually
to
board.
My
seat
is
38A,
on
the
left
side
against
the
window
and
towards
the
back
of
the
aft
section.
The
plane
taxis
to
the
beach
end
of
the
runway
and
turns
onto
the
runway.
10.10
am.
No
pause,
just
that
surge
of
acceleration,
the
rumble
of
the
wheels
felt
through
the
seat
and
the
floor
but
not
heard
over
the
deafening
roar
of
the
two
Rolls
Royce
engines.
This
is
a
roar
that
is
to
stay
with
us
for
nearly
5
hours
before
abating
as
we
descend
into
Ngurah
Rai
airport.
I
expect
the
take
off
to
be
over
the
city
but
we
begin
to
turn
left
soon
after
clearing
the
airfield,
climbing
at
an
almost
unbelievable
angle
that
I
don’t
recall
from
other
aircraft
in
the
past.
The
turn
takes
us
over
our
house,
or
at
least
looking
down
the
left
hand
wing
as
we
turn
it
seems
that
we
are
over
the
house.
I
can
see
the
clear
plastic
sheets
in
the
workshop
roof
quite
clearly.
The
trees
in
the
back
yard
rise
above
the
shadow
of
the
house
stretched
out
in
the
morning
sunlight.
The
turn
straightens
and
we
head
almost
due
north
up
the
coast
of
Gulf
Saint
Vincent.
Over
the
ICI
salt
pans
and
familiar
fishing
grounds
at
Outer
Harbour
where
the
sand
drifts
are
clearly
defined
in
the
shallow
water.
If
only
they
were
as
clear
from
our
boat
when
we
were
looking
for
productive
fishing
drops!
The
other
side
of
the
gulf
is
also
easily
visible
beyond
the
mangrove
swamps
that
stretch
up
the
eastern
side
of
the
gulf.
The
ground
becomes
a
patchwork
of
many
coloured
fields,
greens
and
yellow
mainly,
with
an
occasional
brown.
Spencers
Gulf
appears
as
we
pass
Port
Wakefield
and
begin
a
left-hand
turn
towards
Bali.
We
have
never
flown
this
way,
always
having
gone
on
the
round-the-world
route
with
Ansett
or
Qantas
via
Melbourne
at
least.
That
route
seems
to
always
have
a
lot
of
cloud
cover
and
is
pretty
dull,
colourless
and,
eventually,
boring.
The
enchantments
of
this
track,
up
the
gulf
and
then
turn
half
left,
are
the
variety
of
the
scenery
(even
later
as
we
cross
the
desert)
and
the
clear
skies
which
enables
you
to
see.
Time
will
tell
if
they
are
enduring
enchantments
I
suppose.
Port
Pirie
and
Whyalla
come
and
go
under
our
left
side
wing,
Port
Augusta
seen
down
through
the
windows
on
the
right
as
we
are
allowed
to
walk
around.
The
shallows
and
the
ship
channel
are
clearly
visible.
Past
Whyalla
the
lines
of
the
Stuart
Highway
heading
north
and
the
Trans
Continental
Railway
going
north
of
west
at
this
stage,
are
visible
landmarks
and
show
that
our
track
is
north
west.
The
occasional
pattern
of
fenced
paddocks
quickly
gives
way
to
endless
scrub,
marked
only
by
red
tracks.
The
video
screens
along
the
cabin
relay
a
steady
stream
of
flight
information
before
the
movies
start.
I
am
curious
and
find
this
of
interest.
We
are
at
10,500
meters
or
34,000
feet,
travelling
at
792
kph
and
we
will
arrive
in
Bali
in
4
hours
and
11
minutes
but
I
don't
think
that
this
takes
into
account
the
time
zone
difference.
Maps
of
both
large
and
small
scale
show
our
little
‘plane
progressing
across
southern
Australia,
or
across
a
much
larger
map
of
this
part
of
the
world,
toward
our
destination.
We
are
all
sitting
in
a
line
directly
across
the
cabin,
which
makes
conversation
impossible
from
end
to
end
due
to
the
noise.
Some
of
us
occasionally
meet
at
the
rear
toilet/crew
bay
where
we
have
a
‘hooligan
soup’
or
two.
Urgent
messages
to
see
this
and
look
at
that
are
relayed
across,
mouth
to
ear.
Into
the
heart
of
central
Australia
the
earth
patterns
are
wandering
black
lines
of
trees
along
dry
watercourses
against
red
sand
soil.
Shadows
show
an
occasional
change
of
elevation
as
a
ridge
appears
or
a
gully
is
deep
enough
to
be
shaded
along
its
bottom.
These
are
the
drainage
patterns
marked
by
vegetation
along
(presumably)
dry
river
and
creek
beds
in
the
Gibson
Desert.
Occasional
red
roads
go
straight
towards
the
horizon
where
they
disappear
in
the
hazy
mists
of
the
distance.
The
graceful
arc
of
the
silver
and
grey
wing
rises
from
the
yellowish
grey
of
the
inversion
layer
along
the
horizon
up
to
the
bright
winglet
at
the
tip
that
itself
contrasts
against
the
deep
blue
of
the
sky
above
us.
Multicoloured
salt
lakes
in
whites,
pinks,
red,
buff,
tan
and
lemon
yellow
appear
sharp
against
brick
red
sand
drifts
and
a
camouflage
pattern
of
blackish
green
strips
of
scrub.
How
far
out
from
the
aircraft
at
this
height
can
you
see
into
the
distance
before
the
features
are
lost
in
the
haze?
If
we
are
at
12,000
meters
can
we
see
12,000
meters
away
from
our
track
across
the
ground?
This
would
mean
that
the
line
of
sight
angles
downwards
at
45
degrees
if
we
ignore
the
earth’s
curvature.
It
seems
to
me
that
I
can
see
at
a
shallower
angle
than
this.
Not
as
little
as
30
degrees
down
from
the
horizontal,
I
think
the
yellowish
mist
is
at
about
that
angle,
but
perhaps
35
or
40
degrees
down.
If
I
am
right
how
far
am
I
seeing?
How
far
away
are
those
distant
lakes
with
the
black
borders?
I
resolve
to
ask
old
friend
Ralph
who’s
a
boffin
and
does
lots
of
flying
with
a
laser
mapping
mob.
He’ll
come
up
with
an
answer
in
a
wink,
and
he’ll
probably
be
right
too.
Is
that
meandering
track
the
stock
route
from
Godfrey
Tank
to
Liberal
Well?
Is
that
patch
Tobin
Lake
or
Percival
Lakes?
And
there
are
two
roads
that
actually
intersect!
What
meetings
might
occur
at
that
lonely
place?
Do
drivers
stop
when
they
arrive
here?
Does
one
give
way
to
the
other
on
his
or
her
right
if
two
vehicles
actually
arrive
together?
Have
two
vehicles
ever
arrived
together?
A
station
property
appears
just
under
the
haze.
As
it
approaches
sheds
are
clearly
visible,
and
a
dirt
airstrip
stands
out
in
a
broad
stroke
of
colour.
Many
tracks
lead
out
from
the
hub
of
the
buildings,
meandering
away
into
the
scrub.
From
here
there
are
no
visible
reasons
for
their
changes
of
direction,
seemingly
at
random
but
probably
not
so.
I
look
up
again
from
making
notes.
It
is
gone!
Were
there
people
down
there
looking
up
as
I
was
looking
down?
Did
anyone
see
our
track
and
remark
on
it?
Are
we
leaving
a
track
to
be
seen?
Ah
ha!
Lunch.
Now
here’s
the
acid
test.
I
select
the
prawns
from
the
menu,
I
think
they
were
described
as
‘spicy’,
rather
than
the
chicken.
Accompanied
with
a
white
wine
that
I’ve
never
heard
of
but
which
turns
out
to
be
a
nice
surprise.
And
so
are
the
prawns.
They
are
very
tasty
and
the
salad
is
crisp
and
cold
with
a
good
dressing.
Prawns
seem
to
be
the
favourite
all
around
me
and
everyone
agrees
that
they
are
good,
even
magnificent
for
airline
food,
certainly
not
to
be
complained
about
anywhere.
The
dessert
is
chocky
sponge
pud
with
raspberry
sauce.
Sweet
for
some
but
the
two
and
a
half
that
I
had
were
all
OK.
Some
of
us
are
still
boozing
but
I’ve
chickened
out
on
this
trip
of
the
refreshment
cart
and
gone
for
lemonade.
There
are
no
complaints
about
the
regularity
of
its
visits,
with
those
who
developed
a
thirst
between
trips
quickly
served
at
the
push
of
the
cabin
crew
button
on
the
seat
handle.
Full
marks
to
Garuda.
Our
concerns
about
flying
cheaply
now
all
dispelled.
The
scenery
out
the
cabin
window
is
pure
central
Australia
in
all
of
its
spectacular
desert
wilderness
best.
Row
upon
row
of
sand
hills,
standing
in
serried
ranks
off
to
the
murky
horizon.
Silver-grey
salt
lakes
on
a
bright
copper
background.
Occasional
green-grey
trails
wander
across
the
canvas.
Dull
colours,
but
sharply
contrasting
one
with
the
other,
and
colourful
none
the
less.
For
over
half
an
hour
the
sand
hills
march
on.
This
must
be
the
Great
Sandy
Desert.
It
is
great.
The
red
turns
to
a
bright
coral
pink
but
the
ridges
go
on.
It
looks
far
more
fascinating
than
the
whorls
of
dots
on
the
map
that
I
am
following.
More
of
the
same
and
yet
more
of
the
same
follows
more
of
the
same.
Then
the
roads
begin
again,
red
lines
through
the
Mandelbrot
patterns
of
scrub
and
sand.
The
coast
must
be
near.
Will
I
see
enough
shape
to
pinpoint
it
on
the
map?
There
it
is.
An
enormous
pattern
of
sweeping
scallops
and
deep
indentations
pointing
to
what
must
be
rivers.
Wide
bays
and
narrow
inlets,
with
short
lengths
of
cliffs
separated
by
splashes
of
broad
cream
coloured
sandy
beaches
edged
with
white
surf
separate
what
must
be
deep
swathes
of
mangroves.
I
have
no
idea
where
we
are
and
the
scale
of
the
map
is
obviously
no
help
in
pointing
to
the
reality
of
the
landscape
shapes
seen
out
of
the
window.
Never-the-less
imagination
reigns
supreme
and
I
convince
myself,
with
the
aid
of
the
little
plane
on
the
map
covering
the
video
screen,
that
we
are
over
the
coast
near
Broome.
But
if
the
great
circle
route
takes
us
north
of
a
straight
line
on
the
map
then
we
are
nearer
Derby
and
King
Sound.
If
southwards
then
closer
to
Lagrange
Bay
at
the
top
end
of
Eightymile
Beach
pointing
further
south
towards
Port
Headland.
(The
trip
home
suggests
that
this
might
be
the
more
accurate
location.)
Magical
names
of
mysterious
places
–
heard
of
but
unknown
although
clearly
pictured
in
the
imagination.
The
curve
of
the
wing,
lifting
towards
that
elegant
winglet
at
the
tip,
has
remained
rock
steady
against
the
azure
of
the
sky
for
so
long
that
it
comes
as
a
bit
of
a
surprise
when
there
is
unexpected
turbulence
which
lightly
shakes
the
seat
as
we
cross
the
coast.
The
blue
and
featureless
expanse
of
the
Indian
Ocean
swallows
the
land
features
that
I
can
point
at.
Somewhere
between
Rowley
Shoals
and
Scott
Reef
I’m
sure.
(I
can
imagine
Ralph
the
Rabbit
reaching
for
the
LADS
maps
I’m
sure
he
would
have
created
with
DSTO
surveys
he
was
doing
before
retiring.)
The
ailerons
on
the
trailing
edge
of
the
wing
have
not
perceptibly
moved
for
as
long
as
I
have
been
able
to
stare
at
them.
We
seem
suspended
and
immobilised.
Absolutely
static
in
a
world
consisting
of
dark
blue
sea
and
deep
blue
sky
with
that
thin
yellowish
haze
marking
the
boundary.
We
seem
to
hang
in
that
line
between
space
and
sea.
Only
the
steady
roar
of
passing
air
and
jet
engines
establish
life,
motion
and
reality
beyond
the
window.
Then,
at
the
precise
time
that
the
toilet
called
me,
turbulence
began.
It
is
difficult
to
control
bodily
functions
when
the
whole
world
between
the
incredibly
close
walls
of
an
aircraft
comfort
station
is
pitching
and
rolling.
It
would
be
incredibly
embarrassing
to
miss.
Perhaps
the
enclosing
size
is
designed
deliberately
to
keep
one
facing
the
right
direction
and
more
or
less
upright.
Relief
at
last.
Stagger
to
the
safety
of
the
seat
and
collapse
into
its
welcoming
security.
Below
us
those
little
puffy
cotton
balls
of
clouds
stand
out
against
the
sea
and
the
streaky
white
washes
that
appear
to
move
above
the
more
defined
clouds.
Where
do
the
cotton
balls
come
from?
What
suddenly
creates
them
here
in
the
unchanging,
featureless
emptiness
of
sky
and
sea?
I
have
spilt
the
toilet
perfume
over
me
(I
only
meant
to
splash
the
wash
basin
surround.)
and
I
stink.
I
think
everyone
is
looking
at
me
as
they
walk
past
in
the
aisle,
wondering
just
what
I
have
done
that
merits
this
excess.
The
clouds
begin
to
disappear
but
the
turbulence
continues
with
the
wing
tip
now
describing
vertical
arcs
across
the
sky,
dipping
down
towards
that
yellow
haze
and
then
rising
into
the
blue.
The
ailerons
are
now
moving
perceptibly.
The
engine
and
wind
noises
continue
without
change.
The
immigration
and
customs
forms
are
brought
around.
Confusion,
and
when
filling
it
in
I
make
an
unforgivable
blunder
of
blatant
honesty
about
alcohol
without
thinking.
I
must
ask
for
another
one.
What
will
they
think?
Will
they
want
the
old
one
to
inspect?
The
request
is
met
without
even
a
tremor
of
an
eyebrow
or
a
discernible
crease
of
the
immaculate
forehead.
The
loudspeaker
rasps
into
life
at
a
pace,
volume
and
pitch
that
each
makes
nonsense
of
understanding.
What
is
being
said?
Even
when
it
is
repeated
in
English
I
can
make
no
words
recognisable
from
the
accent.
I
have
yet
to
become
accustomed
to
the
Asian
pitch,
and
will
find
out
that
I
am
not
to
do
so
for
the
whole
holiday.
The
movies
are
finished
(the
first
one
makes
me
chuckle
aloud
here
and
there
as
indeed
it
does
again
on
the
return
flight)
and
the
earphones
are
collected.
The
little
plane
appears
on
the
big
map
again
and
flight
data
begins
to
roll
through
its
cycle.
39,000
feet,
835
kph
ground
speed,
time
to
destination
34
minutes.
The
picture
of
the
little
aeroplane
is
just
below
the
name
‘Denpasar’.
We
are
nearly
there!
Suddenly
the
engine/air
noise
dies
to
a
whisper
of
its
former
self.
In
the
silence
people
look
at
each
other
and
remarkably
change
to
normal
speech
volume
in
mid
conversation.
The
fuselage
tilts
down.
The
seat
belt
sign
comes
on
with
its
accompanying
gongs.
The
video
information
is
in
English,
Bahasa
Indonesian
and
Japanese
I
think.
Denpasar
is
289
km
away,
with
a
temperature
of
31
degrees
Celsius.
I
can
almost
feel
the
warmth.
How
marvellous.
We
are
on
a
long
glide
path
to
Bali.
The
pattern
of
the
re-appeared
cotton
wool
coalesces
into
broad
sheets
with
dimpled
tops.
The
aircraft
banks
left
and
then
right
for
no
apparent
reason.
Then
a
long
sweeping
bank
to
the
right
begins
with
the
wing
tip
on
my
side
climbing
up
into
the
sky,
well
above
the
now
clearly
defined
horizon
and
I
lose
sight
of
the
sea.
Through
the
window
on
the
far
side
I
can
see
only
cloud
tops.
The
air
is
calm
and
smooth
at
first,
then
little
tremors
again.
The
clouds
are
in
layers,
one
moving
over
the
other
as
we
pass,
but
the
surface
of
the
sea
remains
featureless.
This
is
so
peaceful!
A
sensation
of
just
quietly
floating
(well
almost
if
you
can
push
the
low
noise
of
the
passing
air
into
the
background)
with
only
an
occasional
slight
tremor
in
the
floor
to
underline
the
reality
of
our
motion
which
is
actually
quite
fast.
This
is
a
proper
way
to
approach
Paradise;
respectfully
and
peacefully.
714
kph
ground
speed
–
(444
mph)
–
55
km
to
go
–
(41
miles)
–
15
minutes.
The
flaps
lower
to
their
first
stage
and
the
noise
and
vibration
increases
slightly,
the
airframe
trembling.
The
nose
lowers
to
maintain
airspeed
as
the
aircraft
sinks
more
quickly
through
the
cloud.
A
long
banking
turn
to
the
right
and
as
we
straighten
out
waves
intermittently
appear
on
the
surface
of
the
sea.
Forehead
presses
close
to
the
Perspex
window,
peering
as
far
forward
as
possible
for
the
first
glimpse
of
our
destination.
The
little
plane
at
the
end
of
the
red
line
on
the
video
visibly
jerks
forward,
closer
to
‘DENPASAR’.
Steamy
clouds
obscure
the
view
briefly
as
the
flaps
go
down
further
with
an
hydraulic
whir.
Similar
noises
terminating
in
a
distinct
thump
as
the
landing
gear
goes
down
and
finally
locks
into
place.
A
line
of
surf
appears
forward
in
the
distance,
stark
white
against
the
sparkling
deep
blue
sea
surface
that
begins
to
turn
turquoise
over
patches
of
sand
within
the
darker
coral
reefs.
The
wake
of
a
little
boat
powering
along
in
the
same
direction
as
us
and
even
smaller
prahus
or
jukungs,
traditional
local
fishing
boats
now
devoid
of
their
traditional
crabs-claw
sails,
leave
outboard
motor
trails
in
long
loops
as
they
troll
for
fish.
We
approach
low
and
slow
for
a
minute
or
so
then,
forward
under
the
wing
tip,
appears
the
breakers
of
the
Tuban
reef
just
off
the
end
of
the
runway
that
juts
out
into
the
sea
at
this
western
end.
For
what
seems
a
long
time
we
hang
over
the
runway
which
flashes
by,
then
thump
and
wobble,
the
deceleration
of
heavy
braking
and
reverse
thrust
from
the
engines
cause
bodies
to
strain
forward
against
the
restraining
seat
belts.
We
seem
to
slow
only
just
at
the
end
of
the
runway
and
turn
quickly
into
the
last
run-off
leading
to
the
taxi
strip.
Left
turn
again
and
we
retrace
our
landing
path
back
towards
the
terminal.
My
view
now
is
across
the
airfield
to
the
bordering
banana
trees
and
coconut
palms
rising
over
low,
leafy
growth
and
rice
fields
rising
up
the
slight
slope
into
the
distance.
How
picture
book,
Hollywood,
tropical,
typical
Bali!
To
complete
the
Hollywood
atmosphere
there
is
an
old,
vintage
looking
biplane
parked
at
the
edge
of
the
runway.
It
is
more
remarkable
because
it
is
painted,
totally,
a
bright
lolly
pink.
We
stop
short
of
the
terminal
buildings
and
covered
stairways
are
wheeled
up
to
the
doors
while
buses
follow
quickly
to
their
bottom
ends.
We
gather
luggage
from
the
lockers
and
join
the
slow
queue
to
leave.
As
we
near
the
doors
the
warm
air
surrounds
us
and
perspiration
pops
out
on
foreheads
chilled
from
the
plane’s
air-conditioning.
A
short
ride
to
the
immigration
building
and
we
join
the
short
lines
forming
at
each
counter.
We
have
arrived,
and
it
feels
so
good.
Filo
2.10.00
. . . graceful arc of the silver and grey wing rises from the yellowish grey of the inversion along the horizon
to the bright winglet at the tip that contrasts against the deep blue of the sky above . . .
Now here are some links that will -
*
take
you
back
to
our
Home
page
-
*
take
you
to
more
photos
of
our
first
four
days
at
the
Sheraton
Nusa
Indah
in
Nusa
Dua.
BALI STORY 2000 - Day 1.
Our first four nights of the 2000 holiday were at the Bali Sheraton Indah Hotel, a large and luxurious place in the up-market tourist enclave of Nusa Dua, a district on the east coast of southern Bali.
Day 1 covers the drama of the short ride from the airport to the Sheraton, the things that just don't work in Bali - no matter which hotel you're in, "Pool side"?, money changing and - what comes next?
Permanent 'guests' in the grounds of the Sheraton.
Ducks
play
an
important
and
fascinating
part
of
Balinese
country
life,
but
you
do
not
expect
to
see
them
wandering
in
the
grounds
of
a
5*
hotel
!!
Not
only
do
they
provide
eggs
and
meat
for
the
Balinese
but
they
provide
a
profession
for
the
duck
herders
who
contract
to
clean
pests
from
the
rice
fields
with
their
flocks.
The
flock
is
trained
to
follow
the
shape
of
a
particular
tassel
suspended
from
the
tip
of
a
long,
light
bamboo
pole.
By
moving
the
tassel
right
or
left,
forward
or
back,
the
herder
takes
to
ducks
to
the
correct
fields
and
avoids
those
he
has
not
been
paid
to
clean.
I'm
told
that
in
the
Catholic
Parish
residence
in
Tuka
there
is
a
local
picture
depicting
Christ
as
a
duck
herder,
the
missionaries
finding
no
sheep
to
form
His
flock
in
Bali
they
wisely
substituted
what
was
known.
Friday
15
September
2000.
Day
1.
After
a
very
pleasant
flight
with
Garuda
and
a
smooth
passage
through
the
Immigration
checks,
with
none
of
the
delays
anticipated
from
previous
experiences,
we
secured
a
porter
with
a
nice
crisp
$5
note
and
waited
for
the
luggage
to
appear.
Again,
little
delay,
and
no
dreaded
chalk
crosses
on
the
cases
despite
being
more
than
1
or
2
kilos
overweight.
The
18
kilos
of
dry
dog
food
for
the
Bali
Street
Animal
Foundation
sat
in
its
hessian
sack
on
top
of
everything
else
as
we
marched
off
to
the
Customs
desk.
We
were
heading
straight
through
behind
the
porter
when
the
unusual
sack
caught
The
Man’s
eye
and
he
imperiously
pointed
at
it
and,
almost
in
the
same
motion,
beckoned
us
over.
Needless
to
say
we
obeyed
without
hesitation,
well
maybe
I
did
for
just
a
fraction
of
a
second
but
not
enough
to
be
noticed.
We
had
written
all
over
the
bag
what
was
in
it
and
to
whom
it
was
going,
but
we
were
required
to
explain
it
in
detail
anyway
for
his
benefit.
When
he
was
convinced
that
we
were
not
pulling
his
leg
he
broke
into
a
smile
which
may
really
have
been
a
restrained
laugh.
Who
would
ever
think
of
bringing
food
all
the
way
to
Bali
to
feed
the
dogs?
In
case
we
really
were
crazy,
and
it
might
have
been
catching,
we
were
quickly
sent
on
our
way.
The
glass
containers
of
bubbly
tea
and
the
cardboard
cartons
of
pre-mixed
coffee
remained
safely
where
they
were,
far
down
away
from
casual
eyes.
Nell
negotiated
a
6
seater
to
take
all
our
gear
and
us
from
the
airport
to
the
Sheraton
Nusa
Indah.
With
consummate
skill
and
little
delay
his
opening
price
of
$20
became
an
accepted
$10
and
we
were
loaded
and
away.
The
pleasant
ride
along
Jalan
By
Pass
Ngurah
Rai
to
Nusa
Dua
came
to
an
abrupt
end
when
the
proffered
$10
Australian
was
vigorously
rejected
and
$10
US
(nearly
double)
was
demanded
in
an
uncharacteristic
display
of
loud
anger.
Nothing
would
calm
the
situation
and
what
I
thought
was
a
reasonable
explanation,
that
he
was
meeting
a
plane
from
Australia
and
we
didn’t
sound
at
all
like
Americans
and
he
had
not
specified
US
dollars
in
the
negotiations,
were
a
waste
of
time.
The
offered
money
was
pushed
back
at
me
with
contempt
and
words
I
didn’t
understand
but
could
have
a
good
guess
at.
Eventually
he
stormed
off
and
I
went
to
join
the
others
at
the
check-in
desk
inside
the
hotel
with
the
money
in
my
shirt
pocket.
A
few
minutes
later
he
stormed
back
accompanied
by
(I
think)
the
hotel
Reception
Manager.
I
explained
what
had
transpired
in
detail
and
again
offered
the
money
that
was
again
brushed
aside.
He
was
asked
to
leave
and
stormed
off
once
more.
The
Manager
shrugged
his
shoulders
and
went
back
to
whatever
he
was
doing.
I
was
not
aware
until
later
that
the
driver
had
then
gone
to
Phil
and
demanded
his
money.
Thinking
that
I
had
already
paid
him
Phil
waved
his
hands
and
said,
‘No!’
This
did
not
ease
the
situation
and
shortly
he
was
back
yelling
at
me
again.
Again
I
offered
the
money
and
in
very
clear
English
he
asked
if
I
expected
him
to
give
me
a
tip
too,
and
held
out
a
note.
His
ability
to
use
quite
clear
English
that
I
could
now
easily
understand
suddenly
annoyed
me
and
I
said,
‘Thank
you’,
and
reached
for
the
note
he
was
offering.
It
was
withdrawn
with
the
speed
of
light
and
the
A$10
I
was
holding
out
snatched
up
at
least
as
quickly.
As
he
stormed
off
for
the
final
time
he
threatened
to
kill
Phil
which
I
thought
was
very
brave
of
him
as
Phil
is
not
a
small
mountain
of
humanity.
He
seemed
to
think
better
of
it
when
Phil
turned
and
looked
at
him,
leaving
without
any
further
word.
I
am
still
puzzled
by
this
confrontation,
as
it
is
quite
un-typical
of
the
people.
In
all
our
visits
I
don’t
think
any
of
us
had
seen
anything
like
it.
The
spacious
and
spectacular
towering
entrance
lobby
of
the
Sheraton
returned
to
its
normal
calm
and
we
relished
the
welcome
drinks
that
were
offered.
The
check
in
procedure
was
smooth
and
very
pleasant,
more
so
probably
in
comparison
with
our
recent
confrontation.
Even
the
sack
of
dog
food
was
calmly
stored
for
future
collection
and
an
official
receipt
issued
to
me.
Regrettably
we
were
all
allocated
rooms
in
different
wings
and
on
different
floors
of
the
hotel.
The
Sheraton
is
a
quite
large
hotel
and
we
were
to
get
lost
a
few
times
going
from
one
room
to
another,
hindered
by
the
lack
of
little
number
plaques
and
arrows
that
are
common
aids
in
other
places.
Our
room
was
supposed
to
be
a
‘pool
view’
room.
It
would
be
more
accurate
however
to
describe
it
as
a
‘poolside’
room
(as
opposed
to
an
‘outside’
room
I
suppose).
The
only
view
of
water
was
a
small
corner
of
the
duck
pond
visible
through
a
thinner
area
of
the
intervening
screen
of
coconut
palm
fronds
on
one
side
of
the
balcony.
‘Poolside’
too,
I
guess,
could
be
open
to
funny
interpretations,
as
we
were
certainly
not
near
the
side
of
the
pool,
which
was
quite
a
trek
away.
Our
decision
to
have
a
swim
before
heading
off
to
do
some
quick
shopping
for
sustenance
necessities
lead
to
the
discovery
that
the
shower
was
only
capable
of
dribbling
straight
down,
almost
against
the
wall
at
the
end
of
the
bath.
A
shower
over
the
bath
in
a
hotel
of
this
class
is
not
something
I
expect
(but
in
fairness
I
must
say
that
it
was
not
something
that
either
of
the
others
endured
in
their
rooms)
and
to
have
it
so
dangerously
unusable
was
a
nuisance.
A
quick
call
to
housekeeping
brought
the
promise
of
a
plumber
to
attend
to
it
and
I
had
no
sooner
hung
up
from
this
call
than
I
found
that
the
in-room
safe
would
not
lock.
Things
were
going
from
bad
to
worse.
I
was
getting
a
little
up
tight
as
I
made
a
second
call
to
housekeeping.
I
had
no
sooner
hung
up
from
this
call
than
Claire
began
to
orbit
at
high
speed
looking
for
the
two
bottles
of
Chivas
Regal
scotch
that
she
had
bought
Duty
Free.
And
her
new
sunglasses
were
also
missing!
The
door
chimed
and
the
plumber
materialised
in
a
remarkably
short
time
from
the
call
for
help.
Claire
disappeared
back
to
the
lobby
to
look
for
the
wayward
scotch
and
the
plumber
quickly
declared
the
shower
rose
broken,
promising
to
return
shortly
with
a
new
one.
To
my
utter
surprise
he
was
back
in
about
three
minutes
with
a
replacement
which
he
fitted
in
about
the
same
time
before
calling
me
to
inspect
and
approve
the
performance
of
the
replacement.
It
truly
was
a
transformation
and
I
congratulated
him
on
the
efficiency
and
quality
of
his
work.
He
confided
that
he
had
taken
the
replacement
from
the
vacant
room
next
door
and
would
bring
a
proper
one
later
in
the
afternoon.
I
was
astonished!
As
the
plumber
left
another
man
with
a
small
bag
and
a
screwdriver
arrived
to
fix
the
safe.
Ah
ha,
I
thought,
this
is
more
like
Bali
service.
A
screwdriver
to
fix
a
malfunctioning
electronic
safe
that
is,
I
hope,
securely
bolted
to
the
floor
with
tamper-proof
nuts.
Again
I
am
confounded
as
he
quickly
tries
the
locking
process,
nods,
and
prescribes
new
batteries
which
he
has
in
his
little
bag!
Well,
I
am
silenced
as
he
quickly
unscrews
the
inner
cover
of
the
door,
removes
the
small
plastic
battery
holder,
inserts
four
new
AA
batteries,
replaces
the
door
cover
and
demonstrates
the
success
of
his
work.
Less
than
five
minutes
again!
I
am
left
confused
by
feeling
on
the
one
hand
that
the
hotel
is
falling
apart
and
on
the
other
hand
applauding
service
that
I
would
probably
not
get
in
a
5*
hotel
at
home.
A
quick
trip
to
the
lobby
bar
secures
a
double
Chivas
over
lots
of
ice
and
a
splash
of
soda
to
ease
Claire's
anguish
at
her
loss.
It
helps
only
a
little.
Given
this
level
of
attention
to
life's
problems
things
are
looking
up
a
bit
and
positively
shine
a
little
later
when
Nell
turns
up
with
the
missing
scotch.
We
have
a
quick
dip
in
the
pool,
to
which
everyone
gives
a
big
thumbs
up
although
we
think
that
the
rooms
at
the
Hilton
which
we
had
last
year
were
larger
and
had
a
better
layout.
By
Taksi
to
the
PT
Money
Changers
at
the
Kodak
shop
opposite
the
Kin
Khao
Restaurant
on
Jl
Dewi Kartika.
We
used
Pt
Central
changers
exclusively
throughout
our
stay
and
never
faulted
them.
This
Kodak
shop
was
one
we
most
frequently
used
as
it
was
conveniently
located
for
us,
but
those
at
other
shops
and
the
main
Department
stores
like
Matahari
and
Ramayana
were
equally
trustworthy.
Our
only
complaint
was
the
delay
at
busy
times
and
the
annoying
frequency
that
Matahari’s,
in
particular,
ran
out
of
money.
I
think
that
this
was
sometimes
when
the
girl
just
wanted
a
break,
as
nothing
significant
seemed
to
happen
before
the
service
started
up
again.
The
rate
at
the
time
was
Rp4650
to
one
Aussie
dollar.
It
varied
at
least
once
daily,
from
a
low
of
Rp4550
to
a
high
of
Rp4700
as
we
were
leaving
to
go
home
two
weeks
later.
From
Kodak
to
TJ’s
restaurant
in
Poppies
Lane
for
dinner.
As
good
as
ever,
two
courses
and
three
large
cold
Bintangs
for
Rp57,000
(A$12.26)
on
average
for
each
of
the
six
of
us.
Not
the
cheapest
meal
we
would
find
in
Bali
but
we
didn’t
expect
it
to
be.
We
knew
we
would
be
satisfied
with
the
quantity
and
quality.
Sure
enough,
everyone
is
Happy
as
we
stroll
out
into
the
cooling
night
air.
What
a
pity
such
good
food
and
service
is
marred
by
toilets
which
I
graded
only
4/10.
Off
to
Matahari’s
for
the
essential
stocks;
cheese,
biscuits,
mixer
drinks
etc,
and
then
a
Taksi
back
to
the
Sheraton,
well
satisfied
with
our
short
first
day.
Coming
with
Garuda
certainly
beats
arriving
at
midnight
or
after
as
we
have
done
before
on
other
carriers.
It
really
adds
a
bonus
half
day
to
the
holiday
and
you
wake
up
fresh
for
the
start
of
the
first
full
day,
not
feeling
as
though
you
had
celebrated
a
bit
too
much
the
night
before.
We
all
gave
it
a
big
tick
of
approval!
3.10.00
From
here
you
can
go
on
to
Day
2
which
tells
of
the
pool,
the
beach
and
the
first
massage.
Breakfast
at
the
Galleria
and
flirtatious
locals.
Shopping
prices,
spectacles
and
Versace.
The
search
for
a
white
shirt
and
dinner
prices
in
Bualu
village.
If
you
would
like
to
see
more
photos
of the
first
4
days
of
our
stay
at
the
Sheraton
Indah
in
Nusa
Dua
you
can
click
this
link.
If
you
want
to
go
to
our
Home
Page
and
follow
other
links
to
different
stories
or
other
Bali
site
links
you
can
click
on
this
link.
An
early
morning
view
of
the
Sheraton
Nusa
Indah
pool
and
south
wing
of
suites.
There
are
many
more
people
later
in
the
day.
Dawn breaks and two fishermen tend their traps at the edge of the reef just off the Sheraton beach.
Saturday
16
September
2000.
An
early
morning
swim
and
the
pool
at
the
Sheraton
Indah
is
still
very
nice.
There
are
few
people
around
in
the
hotel,
not
in
the
pools
nor
in
the
restaurants
or
in
the
bars
or
on
the
beach.
I
decide
to
go
for
a
bit
of
an
exploratory
walk
along
the
beach
to
get
then
lie
of
the
land.
The
tide
is
out
leaving
the
roped
floats
which
mark
the
hotel’s
piece
of
(partly
cleared)
sand
resting
on
the
flat
reef,
pools
and
patches
of
sand.
Further
out
towards
the
main
reef
fishermen
are
lifting
and
re-setting
their
strip
bamboo
traps,
tying
them
to
lumps
of
dead
coral
with
flimsy
and
much
knotted
string.
The
idea
seems
to
be
to
anchor
the
‘bottom’
ends
so
that
the
opening
faces
down
tide
flow,
thereby
encouraging
fish
to
swim
up
current
and
into
the
one
way
opening.
Others
are
wading
the
shallows
with
floating
baskets
or
foam
boxes,
bent
double
and
peering
intently
down
into
the
water.
The
Security
Guard
tells
me
that
they
are
collecting
shells
and
small
crabs.
Southwards
down
the
beach
there
is
a
small
headland
joined
to
the
shore
by
only
the
narrowest
of
sand
strips.
At
this
distance
there
appears
to
be
a
building
on
the
crest
of
the
headland
and
I
think
that
it
would
be
the
sort
of
place
where
you
could
expect
to
find
a
temple
of
some
sort.
I
decide
to
wander
along
the
beach-edge
path
in
the
opposite
direction
this
morning
and
investigate
the
headland
later.
As
I
walk
along
the
waters
edge
sellers
appear
out
of
the
palm
trees
at
the
northern
end
offering
sarongs,
shells,
kites
and
massages.
The
girls
get
some
sarongs
that
are
a
bit
different
to
those
of
past
years
and
I
opt
for
a
back
massage
for
Rp
25,000
for
half
an
hour.
The
massage
is
good
but
hard,
and
probably
overpriced
but
really
it’s
only
A$5.50
and
this
is
Nusa
Dua
after
all!
Looking north, up the beach. At low tide the edge of the reef appears near the groynes. - Looking south. The shallow bay is just behind the end of the trees on the left.
We
decide
to
breakfast
at
the
Nusa
Dua
Galeria,
(a
collection
of
shops
of
all
kinds
originally
set
up
the
cater
to
Nusa’s
Japanese
clientele,
and
therefore
rather
high
class
and
certainly
high
priced
compared
with
similar
outlets
at
Tuban/Kuta/Legian/Seminyak)
a
short
walk
away
in
the
warming
morning
air.
After
investigating
the
nearest
few
restaurants
we
decide
on
UNO’s
near
the
supermarket.
An
American
breakfast
is
Rp86,031
for
two,
with
tax
and
service
charge
added
and
after
a
30%
discount
was
applied.
Nice,
but
not
that
nice,
and
not
a
filling
quantity
either.
We
lined
up
at
a
money
change
situated
in
a
small
booth
near
the
restaurant
and
waited
–
and
waited
–
and
waited!
The
rate
was
comparable
with
what
we
later
saw
in
Kuta
but
the
computer
connection
was
soooo
slow.
While
the
others
went
off
to
spend
their
recently
gained
rupia
I
had
a
chat
to
two
locals
at
the
nearby
Information
Booth.
One,
a
particularly
attractive
young
girl
perhaps
in
her
20’s,
was
badly
scarred
on
her
arm
and
shoulder
from
a
motorbike
accident
and
probably
earnest
but
terribly
unskilled
plastic
surgery.
They
marked
on
my
map
the
location
of
the
Dijon
Deli
that
we
had
heard
about
and
wanted
to
visit.
Each
year
we
seem
to
take
over
kilos
of
nibbles
in
the
form
of
cracker
biscuits,
pates,
cheeses,
smoked
oysters,
dips
and
so
on.
We
had
noticed
the
increased
range
of
some
of
the
more
common
items
and
brands
in
Matahari’s
but
would
be
very
happy
if
we
could
fill
out
the
selection
at
Dijon's
and
so
save
the
weight.
As
it
turned
out
we
looked
in
vain
for
Dijon's
as
we
passed
the
God
statue
with
the
coiled
snake
quite
a
few
times
but
never
saw
it
and
did
not
stop
to
really
search.
Our
conversation
soon
attracted
a
couple
of
the
local
lads
who
were
probably
there
chatting
up
the
girls
(it
goes
on
in
every
culture
I
think,
doesn’t
it?).
The
usual
‘Where
are
you
from?’
questions
prompted
a
mini
geography
lesson
with
a
(dodgy)
map
of
Java,
Bali
and
Australia
drawn
in
my
notebook.
(Chris
actually
carries
printed
maps
of
this
section
of
the
world
with
the
various
names
of
places
written
in
Indonesian.
They
are
an
instant
hit
when
he
pulls
one
out,
and
it
inevitably
gets
passed
around
with
much
interest.)
I
am
regularly
surprised
by
their
knowledge
of
Australian
cities
but
the
concept
of
‘states’
bothers
them.
I
tried
this
year
to
use
the
analogy
of
the
divisions
in
Java
but
it
was
not
a
total
success
because
I’m
not
sure
of
the
system
there
myself.
I
have
to
say
that
their
knowledge
of
Oz
is
far
better
than
my
knowledge
of
even
the
main
islands
of
Indonesia.
I
make
a
formal
introduction
between
the
young
girl
and
Chris.
She
agrees,
shyly,
that
he
is
a
very
handsome
man
and
that
he
has
nice
pale
skin
and
beautiful
fair
hair,
blushing
all
the
time,
I
think.
We
are
really
never
satisfied
it
seems.
She
was
the
first
but
not
the
last
to
express
admiration
for
light
skin
and
hair
and
blue
eyes
(even
though
Chris
insists
in
great
detail
and
absolute
sincerity
that
blue
eyes
are
no
good
in
the
dark).
Most
of
us
westerners
with
these
traits
however,
spend
countless
hours
in
the
sun,
and
considerable
agony
at
times,
trying
to
achieve
what
the
Balinese
already
have
but
don’t
desire.
Did
I
mention
shoppers
and
shopping
earlier?
Well
would
you
believe
that
within
walking
distance
there
is
Armani’s,
D
&
G’s,
etc,
etc,
etc.
And
I
missed
out
on
all
of
them
–
this
time
round.
We
did
later
wander
into
the
Keris
Department
Store
in
the
Galeria
where
I
checked
the
prices
of
some
items
that
did
interest
me;
-
Jacobs
Creek
Chardonnay
’99
Rp160,000
(A$34.50),
-
Hardy’s
Nottage
hill
Chardonnay
’99,
Rp164,350
(A$35.35),
-
Rosemont
Shiraz
’99
Rp205,100
(A$44.10),
-
Houghtons
White
Burgundy
’99
Rp164,350
-
Martini
Bianco
Vermouth
Rp183,700
-
Chivas
Regal
Scotch
375
ml,
Rp240,500,
(A$51.75),
-
750
ml
Rp396,400
(A$85.25)
-
Penfolds
Semillon
Chardonnay
’97
Rp203,000
-
Wolf
Blass
Shiraz
Cab.
’98
Rp
248,925
(A$53.55)
-
Rosemont
Estate
Traminer
Riesling
’99
Rp173,850,
and
so
on.
At
the
upstairs
Keris
Café
where
we
had
a
late
lunch,
a
small,
cold
Bintang
was
Rp12,000
(at
most
restaurant/cafe
happy
hours
a
large
Bintang
is
Rp7,000)
burgers
were
Rp13
–
18,000,
fries
Rp5,000,
spaghetti
bolognaise
Rp18,700,
nasi
goreng
(very
nice
but-)Rp19,500
(A$4.20).
Now
many
would
argue
that
A$4.20
is
damn
cheap
for
a
spag
bol,
and
it
is
(or
it
would
be
if
you
could
get
it
at
this
price
in
a
mid-class
eatery)
in
Australia.
But
we
are
not
in
Australia,
we
are
in
Bali
where
we
were
to
have
many
similar,
good
meals
at
half
these
prices,
and
no
one
was
going
‘bunk
root’
because
of
those
prices.
There
is
much
nice
dress
jewellery
at
the
foot
of
the
stairs
leading
up
to
the
Keris
Café,
but
when
you
have
made
your
selection
the
difficult
part
comes
and
you
have
to
run
the
gauntlet
of
the
serving
tribe.
First
you
have
to
find
the
right
cashiers
table.
The
wrong
one
simply
wont
do,
but
you
will
be
escorted,
with
great
respect
and
dignity
but
no
haste,
to
the
correct
one
–
which
is
not
always
the
nearest
or
the
most
obvious
one
from
where
you
made
your
selection.
Even
the
Shop
Assistant
who
writes
you
the
required
triplicate
docket
and
must
accompany
you
on
your
journey
may
take
you
off
in
the
wrong
direction.
(Is
this
just
because
they
want
to
see
a
friend
along
the
way?
Or
is
it
in
hope
that
you
might
see
something
else
in
their
department
that
you
will
buy?)
Eventually
the
goods
and
money
are
passed
on
to
a
Checking
Assistant
who
inspects
the
docket
and
the
counts
the
cash.
The
checking
Assistant
then
passes
the
cash
on
to
the
cashier,
who
counts
it
again
and
works
the
money
till.
Meanwhile
the
goods
and
the
second
docket
are
passed
to
the
wrapper
who
checks
the
goods
against
the
docket
triplicate
that
is
vigorously
stamped
before
the
goods
are
wrapped.
Any
change
due,
and
the
duplicate
docket
is
passed
back
to
the
checker
who
counts
it
out
for
you
to
also
check
and
accept
and
finally
staples
the
triplicate,
stamped
docket
over
the
opening
of
the
little
(or
big)
carry
bag.
After
nods
and
‘Terimah
kasihs’
(‘Thank
you’)
all
round,
with
smiles
of
course,
you
are
able
to
wander
off
and
the
Shop
Assistant
goes
back
to
her
allotted
station.
This
system
is
not
peculiar
to
Keris
I
must
say.
All
of
the
larger
stores
more
or
less
follow
a
similar
pattern.
There
really
should
not
be
any
unemployment
in
Bali.
This
system
could,
with
a
little
imagination,
be
extended
to
street
and
beach
sellers,
taxis
and
other
areas,
thus
possibly
requiring
even,
the
importation
of
labour
from
other
islands.
We
also
lined
up
for
prescription
eye
glasses
at
the
Optic
store
in
the
Galeria.
Frame
prices
ranged
from
Rp65,000
(less
than
A$15.00)to
over
Rp2,000,000
for
Italian
frames.
Yes,
that’s
2
million
rupia.
A$430
!
With
cheaper
frames
my
single
focus
glasses
for
use
at
the
computer
(and
not
to
be
taken
down
to
the
workshop,
I
promise)
cost
Rp275,000
(less
than
A$60.00).
These
were
more
expensive
that
those
chosen
by
the
others
because
my
eyes
don’t
both
look
in
the
same
direction
as
most
peoples
do.
The
others
were
ready
next
day
but
mine
took
a
week
and
I
had
to
pay
a
Rp
50,000
deposit.
Off
to
a
taxi,
via
a
second
visit
to
the
Versace
shop
where
there
was
up
to
70%
off
‘normal’
prices.
But
I
didn’t
understand
that
the
girls
needed
new
clothes
for
tomorrows
wedding
in
Ubud.
This
visit
takes
three
quarters
of
an
hour
and
a
few
hundred
thousand
rupia.
I
also
didn’t
understand
how
you
could
wear
5
pairs
of
jeans
(all
new)
to
the
wedding.
I
am
indeed
a
simple
soul!
I
am
assured
however
that
they
are
cheap.
Genuine
Versace
jeans
for
Rp169,000
(A$35),
tops
for
Rp100,000
(A$21.50).
And
then
to
the
taxi
–
but
not
to
the
hotel.
We
first
need
to
stop
at
the
local
markets,
on
both
sides
of
the
road,
at
the
end
of
Jalan
By
Pass
Ngurah
Rai.
I
think
Phil
must
have
known
about
this,
or
at
least
suspected,
but
didn’t
warn
me.
He
and
Jay
decided
to
walk
back
to
the
hotel!
By
the
time
we
have
finished
‘just
5
minutes’
at
the
markets
I
am
sure
that
I
have
walked
ten
times
that
distance.
I
bought
a
floppy
hat
to
keep
the
sun
off
my
dome
whilst
standing
and
walking.
I
paid
Rp15,000
and
later
bought
another
identical
one
at
the
Kuta
markets
for
Rp10,000.
But
we
had
to
find
a
new
white
shirt
for
the
wedding.
A
pity
really,
but
we
didn’t
find
one.
I
can’t
believe
that
still.
Mind
you
we
did
manage
to
load
a
few
bags
into
the
taxi
eventually.
‘Jalan,
Jalan,
Jalan’.
Walking,
walking,
walking!
‘Jalan!
And
I
really
did
think
I
was
going
back
to
the
hotel.
I
realised
that
I’ve
fallen
for
a
three
card
trick
again.
Eventually
we
did
get
back
to
the
hotel
and
a
dip
in
the
refreshing
pool.
A
champagne
or
two
and
a
couple
of
beers,
shower,
dress
(some
of
those
new
jeans
got
a
try
out
before
the
wedding
I
have
to
say)
and
off
to
Hann's
restaurant
in
Bualu
for
a
much
anticipated
dinner.
The waterfall in the Sheraton pool.
There is a pool bar to the left when you go through under the waterfall.
At
Hanns
restaurant
regular
whisky
is
Rp27,000
(A$5.80),
premium
whisky,
Johnny
Walker
Black
Label,
Jack
Daniels,
is
Rp29.700
(A$6.40).
Cocktails
are
Rp33,000,
(A$7.10)
Mumm
Cordon
Rouge
Champagne,
750
mils,
is
Rp850,000
(A$182.80)or
Rp37,500
by
the
glass
(A$8.10).
House
wines
are
Rp37,500
(A$8.10)
by
the
glass,
a
half
litre
carafe
Rp105,000
(A$22.60)
or
1
litre
is
Rp210,000
(A$45.20).
Rose
house
wines
are
a
little
cheaper.
It’s
probably
the
local
Hattens
wine.
A
small
Bintang
is
Rp10,900
(A$2.35),
large
Rp16,000
(A$3.45),
beer
by
the
pitcher
Rp50,000.
(A$10.75),
Fosters
and
VB
is
Rp30,500
(A$6.56),
I
guess
by
the
can
or
small
bottle.
Soft
drinks
are
Rp8,000,
Diet
Coke
Rp12,000
(A$1.72
and
A$2.58).
We
have
been
fans
of
Hanns
since
we
first
ate
there,
and
I
have
regularly
recommended
them
on
the
Bali
Travel
Forum,
but
this
year
was
a
great
disappointment
to
us.
We
sat
at
our
table
for
almost
half
an
hour
before
we
approached
a
waitress
and
asked
for
drinks.
She
suggested
that
we
go
to
the
bar
and
order
what
we
wanted.
At
the
bar
we
were
initially
refused
service
but
eventually
our
order
was
accepted,
but
not
at
Happy
Hour
prices
as
it
was
one
minute
past
the
deadline!
Our
protests
that
we
had
been
waiting
fell
on
deaf
ears
until
the
manager
(?)
was
approached
and
eventually
agreed
that
we
could
have
one
round
of
drinks
at
Happy
hour
prices.
Eventually
our
orders
were
taken
but
delays
continued.
A
New
Zealand
couple
and
their
two
children,
who
shared
the
bus
from
the
Sheraton
to
Hanns,
finished
their
meal
and
were
leaving
as
the
first
of
our
entrees
was
served.
The
restaurant
did
not
seen
to
be
totally
full
and
we
did
book
beforehand.
Our
plans
to
return
to
the
Hann
for
breakfasts
while
we
were
at
Nusa
Dua
went
out
the
window.
My
entrée
of
Crispy
Spring
Rolls
(Rp15,000),
were
very
tasty
but
were
NOT
crispy.
The
main
course
of
Crispy
Prawns
with
lemon
sauce
was
Rp45,000.
5.10.00
Day 3 involves massages, more money changing, breakfast in Benoa, Sukawati, the wedding we didn't get to and compensation.
Sunday
17
September
2000.
START
THE
DAY
WITH
A
MASSAGE
ON
THE
BEACH
!
Now
there’s
a
motto
for
life;
and
one
to
live
for.
If
only
.
.
.
.
.
.
This
morning
she
gets
those
sore
spots.
Just
when
you
are
about
to
cry,
“Hold.
Enough!”,
she
smooths
it
all
down
in
the
opposite
direction,
just
like
settling
a
cat’s
fur.
But
when
you’re
feeling
nice
and
relaxed
again
those
thumbs,
without
any
hesitation
or
warning
search,
hit
them
dead
on
again.
Bullseye!
Aaarrrgh
!
Have
a
swim
–
and
yes,
the
pool’s
still
nice.
Check
the
e-mail.
Down
towards
Benoa
to
change
some
money
ready
for
the
day’s
activities
but
the
Kodak
shop
changer
recommended
on
the
Forum,
opposite
Club
Bali
Mirage,
is
not
open.
With
a
taxi
waiting
this
is
no
time
to
quibble.
Ten
paces
further
down
the
street
there
is
a
little
stall
with
one
of
those
sandwich
boards
on
the
footpath
that
we
seriously
try
to
avoid.
Boldly,
hoping
our
suntan
is
dark
enough
already
not
to
mark
us
as
fresh
off
the
plane
and
ready
for
plucking,
we
take
a
fresh
grip
on
our
calculators
and
step
up
to
the
mark.
‘Do
you
have
big
notes?’
we
ask,
perhaps
hoping
she’d
say
‘No’
and
we
could
avoid
the
issue
and
depart.
‘Oh
yes!’
she
replies,
‘100,00
rupia
if
you
want
them.’
OK.
I
brace
myself
and
step
forward
to
go
first.
Travellers
Cheque
given
a
cursory
glance,
‘Sign
here’
she
says,
‘name
on
back
and
address!’
‘You
want
hundreds?’
She’s
obviously
done
this
so
many
more
times
than
I
have
its
plain
that
if
I’m
going
to
be
swindled
I’m
probably
not
going
to
know
about
it
until
much
later,
and
at
least,
I
console
myself,
I’m
going
to
be
swindled
by
someone
who
is
pleasant.
With
great
care
and
what
I
hope
is
an
air
of
casual
expertise
I
start
counting
the
money,
spilling
it
all
over
the
counter
half
way
through.
DAMN.
Start
again,
with
Claire
watching
intently.
All
correct
I
think.
I
glance
sideways
at
Claire
and
she
nods
in
agreement.
I
look
up
at
the
lady
and
say
‘Terimah
kasih’,
thank
you.
Is
that
the
wisp
of
a
smile
at
the
corners
of
her
mouth?
Claire
changes
(much
more
than
I
do)
and
we
climb
back
into
the
waiting
taxi
and
head
off
to
the
Mini
Restaurant
for
breakfast.
The
Mini
Restaurant
is
just
where
the
posting
on
the
Forum
said
it
would
be,
opposite
the
Novotel
Hotel
but
there’s
no
one
in
it.
Still
it’s
fairly
early
on
Sunday
morning
after
all
and
the
waiter
comes
to
greet
us
in
a
friendly
manner
as
we
pay
the
Taxi
the
Rp6,500
meter
fare
which
includes
waiting
time
at
the
money
changer.
$2.68
in
home-money
terms!
I
don’t
think
I’ll
ever
again
look
an
Aussie
cabbie
in
the
eye
without
smiling.
I
think
Claire
gave
him
Rp10,000
which
is
our
normal
habit
if
we
can
get
the
guy
(are
there
any
female
taxi
drivers
in
Bali?)
to
talk
to
us.
If
we
only
get
grunts
to
our
enquiries
about
how
long
has
he
been
on
this
shift?,
or
is
he
the
person
who
keeps
the
taxi
so
very
clean?,
we
wait
to
get
the
change
(or
to
see
if
we’re
offered
change)
before
deciding
what
we’ll
pay.
Because
the
restaurant
is
deserted
we
would
probably
have
looked
elsewhere
if
the
waiter
had
not
advanced
to
open
the
door
for
us.
I
think
that
it’s
the
little
thing
in
life
that
seem
to
guide
our
actions
in
ways
that
are
so
subtle
that
we
usually
don’t
recognise
them
and
in
fact
we
probably
don’t
even
recognise
that
we’re
being
guided
along
certain
paths
and
guided
away
from
others.
Is
there
really
a
grand,
divine
plan?
Hell,
this
is
Bali.
Forget
the
philosophy
and
get
back
to
the
diary!
We
opt
for
the
Rp12,500
(A$2.68)
American
breakfast
again,
in
my
case
to
compare
it
with
the
disappointing
Rp43,000
one
at
the
Galeria
in
Nusa
Dua
yesterday.
It’s
about
the
same
but
we
get
both
fruit
juice
and
fresh
fruit
this
morning
whereas
yesterday
we
had
to
choose
one
or
the
other.
Even
if
we
add
in
the
cab
fare,
this
one
still
wins
hands
down,
and
we’re
not
surprised.
We
hail
a
Blue
Bird
taxi
for
the
trip
back
to
the
Sheraton.
Beware
the
blue
taxis
that
are
just
a
shade
darker
in
colour
than
the
Blue
Birds
but
are
not
so
reliable
in
their
use
of
the
meter
and
the
sign
on
the
roof
spells
'TAKSI'
not
'TAXI"
as
we
are
used
to.
I
can’t
remember
one
occasion
when
I
got
into
a
Blue
Bird
taxi
and
the
driver
had
not
already
put
the
meter
on
or
was
reaching
to
do
so.
That’s
so
much
better
than
needing
to
ask,
and
I
suppose
I’ve
got
to
admit
that
asking
is
still
a
long
way
in
front
of
forgetting
and
being
stung
for
five
times
the
correct
fare!
And
I’ve
also
got
to
admit
that
that
did
happened
to
me
once
on
this
trip.
But
more
about
that
later.
We
stop
on
the
way
to
pick
up
a
Fuji
Superia,
200
ASA,
‘4th
colour
layer’,
20+4
shot
film
for
Rp25,000
on
the
way
back
to
the
hotel.
The
taxi
fare
was
Rp9,300
because
it
is
apparently
necessary
to
drive
up
around
the
Bualu
markets
on
the
way
back,
avoiding
a
one-way
section
of
Nusa
roadway.
This
is
the
day
for
the
wedding
at
Ubud
which
we
are
looking
forward
to,
so
the
day
is
planned
around
much
shopping
on
the
way.
The
Sukawati
Markets
(which
are
supposed
to
be
the
market
at
which
the
ordinary
street/Kuta
sellers
buy)
are
almost
the
same
as
ever
but
this
year
we
find
out
where
to
get
a
drink
way
down
the
side
street.
It
makes
it
almost
bearable.
The
main
market
building,
that
multi
storey
concrete
monster
crammed
with
material
goods
and
humanity,
is
so
crowded
that
the
walls
seem
to
be
bending
outwards
under
the
pressure!
I
kid
you
not,
it
was
so
obviously
packed
that
the
girls
unanimously
decided
against
entering
and
opted
for
the
stalls
down
the
side
road
instead.
Now
that’s
FULL!
Evidently
a
more
or
less
regular
trip
is
organised
by
sellers
in
Java.
They
come
over
by
the
bus
load
to
buy
in
bulk
for
their
businesses
in
Java
-
and
today
was
the
day!
I
suppose
that’s
what
you
get
for
trying
to
shop
on
the
Lord’s
day!
I
am
intrigued
by
a
fast
flowing,
concrete
contained
stream
which
I
find
disappearing
under
the
north
side
of
the
road
but
can
see
no
sign
of,
even
behind
the
houses,
on
the
south
side.
The
map
certainly
shows
a
river
flowing
through
Sukawati
at
about
where
I
think
we
are
standing,
and
which
reaches
the
Selat
Badung
(Strait
of
Badung)
near
Segara
north
of
Sanur.
None
of
the
locals
seem
to
know,
or
indeed
care,
where
the
miserably
littered
stream
goes.
One
points
vaguely
along
the
road
and
allows
his
hand
to
wander
off
to
the
left
somewhere
between
here
and
the
horizon.
Does
it
indeed
go
along
under
the
road
before
being
turned
left
and
spilling
it’s
load
of
foetid
God-knows-what
across
the
rice
fields
behind
the
village?
If
it
does
then
the
thought
of
driving
over
it
along
that
road
will
forever
haunt
me,
and
considering
the
Balinese/Indonesian
disdain
for
any
sort
of
standards
in
their
civil
engineering
road
collapse
is
not
beyond
reality.
It
would
be
like
putting
your
foot
down
an
open
cover
into
the
drains
under
the
footpaths
of
Kuta,
but
on
a
much
grander
(is
that
really
an
appropriate
word
for
these
circumstances?)
scale.
Now
there’s
a
thought
to
put
you
off
your
lunch.
I
am
a
little
concerned
that
we
will
be
late
for
the
wedding
in
Ubud,
but
it
seems
that
I
am
mistaken
because
we
head
off,
not
to
the
wedding
but
to
the
Ubud
Markets
from
Sukawati.
More
of
the
same
there
but,
somehow
that
I
don’t
understand,
its
different!
Along
the
way
we’ve
identify
Ananda
Cottages
where
the
wedding
is
to
be
and
the
Indus
Restaurant
where
we
will
have
dinner
afterwards.
We’ve
brought
along
two
bottles
of
my
favourite
Sparkling
Burgundy
Champagne,
with
champagne
glasses,
so
that
we
can
share
a
toast
with
the
bride
and
groom.
It
should
be
easy
to
get
back
there
after
the
markets.
And
so
it
proves
to
be,
with
about
3
minutes
to
spare
before
the
reality
that
I
have
of
this
image
of
the
shyly
smiling
bride
gliding
down
some
sort
of
an
aisle
towards
a
trembling
groom.
Some
of
us
gather
around
the
back
of
the
mini-bus
changing
our
sweaty
clothes
before
we
take
up
our
places.
Jay
is
amongst
the
leaders
rushing
into
the
Cottages
reception
area.
When
I
turn
around
the
next
time
I
can
see
him
coming
back
to
the
bus.
‘It’s
not
until
tomorrow.’
He
says.
!
!
!
!
I
think
I
must
have
frozen
in
my
tracks,
and
Nell
says,
‘That’s
right.
You’ve
got
the
date
wrong.’
In
a
mental
fog
I
go
back
through
the
e-mails
I’ve
received
and
clearly
remember
the
last
one
that
confirmed
the
change
from
Monday
to
Sunday.
I
forwarded
that
to
everyone
else
so
that
they
all
knew.
What
could
have
gone
wrong?
To
this
very
day
I
don’t
know,
but
I
do
know
I
was
on
the
receiving
end
of
some
less
than
funny
remarks
for
a
few
days
–
and
I
still
am
when
the
occasion
presents
itself.
Well,
never
let
a
good
opportunity
pass
by
without
profit,
is
the
motto
of
some
people,
so
it’s
back
into
the
bus,
open
the
Sparkling
Burgundies
and
head
off
to
the
new
Galeria
shopping
complex
which
includes
a
new
Matahari’s.
Along
the
way
we
stop
to
have
a
walk
across
the
old
Dutch
bridge
and
inspect
Murnie’s
Warung
nearby.
I’m
invited
by
the
hostess
to
walk
down
the
stairs
to
the
bottom
level
close
to
the
river
where
the
world
is
lost
under
a
dark
green
cover
of
forest
lifting
up
the
sides
of
the
ravine
that
the
river
has
cut
over
the
years.
I
am
told
that
the
lower
levels
are
lit
by
naturally
occurring
glow-worms
at
night.
It
certainly
looks
as
though
it
could
live
up
to
the
recommendations
that
it
has
received.
Waterfalls along the river at Murni's Warung restaurant.
This is where the glow worms display their talents at night.
The
new
shopping
centre
is
very
impressive
with
a
grand
entrance
and
well
spaced,
gleaming
service
counters
amongst
the
displays.
It's
not
yet
finished
and
construction
work
and
fitting
out
is
still
going
on.
This
is
now
Sunday
night,
remember.
Never-the–less
there
are
things
to
be
purchased.
I
think
I’ve
said
that
before
somewhere.
All
prices
are
in
US
dollars
and
it
doesn't
take
too
many
conversions
of
the
price
tickets
to
scare
us
off
into
the
adjacent
Matahari's.
Eventually
back
into
the
bus,
back
to
the
Sheraton
and
a
Room
Service
dinner
for
all.
A
day
to
be
remembered,
or
a
day
to
be
forgotten?
I
guess
only
time
will
tell
but
it
seems
to
me
that
the
time
between
the
end
of
breakfast
and
bed
was
pretty
much
a
waste
of
a
day
in
Paradise.
7.10.00
Where
would
you
like
to
go
today?
Now Day 4 does mention massages again, but also raises the question of whether the Galleria can be cheaper than the beach for shopping. I get stung by the hotel's taxi service, Benoa fishing village and the beaches, Jl Pratama restaurants.
Day
4.
-
Monday
18
September
2000.
The
by
now
obligatory
massage
and
swim.
How
tough
can
life
get?
I
wanted
also
to
buy
scarves
on
the
beach
for
friends
wives
back
home
but
they
were
much
dearer
than
those
that
Nell
thought
were
nicer
at
the
markets.
Rp
70,000
here
whereas
those
at
the
Galeria
were
Rp15,000.
Now
there’s
a
change
–
the
Galeria
appears
cheaper
than
the
beach.
It’s
at
times
like
these
that
life
gets
complicated
for
a
simple
bloke.
I
prevaricate
despite
the
advice
that
comes
thicker
than
the
fleas
on
a
Bali
dog’s
back!
Now
you
all
know
that
not
much
can
compare
with
that.
We
are
to
meet
at
10.15
for
a
late
breakfast,
or
early
lunch
or
something.
It’s
at
times
like
these
that
you
begin
to
realise
that
the
Balinese
habit
of
eating
when
you’re
hungry
and
not
when
the
clock
says
its
time
makes
absolute
sense.
Until
then
we
do
our
own
thing.
There
are
a
lot
of
fancy
fountains
along
the
road
through
Nusa
Dua
so
I
set
out
to
get
some
photos.
I
have
decided
that
the
photo
theme
this
year
is
to
be
water,
in
any
form.
I
have
been
practising
with
long
exposures
when
the
opportunity
presented
itself
and
got
some
nice
shots
earlier
in
the
year
when
I
went
to
see
Daughter
#2
at
Alice
Springs.
Funny
how
all
the
good
intentions
of
life
go
out
the
window
when
the
crunch
comes.
I
think
I
got
really
serious
about
water
about
three
times
in
the
whole
trip
and
but
was
captivated
by
new
flowers,
again,
far
more
often.
Ah,
well
–
Bali
time.
Maybe
next
year.
After
walking
for
about
half
an
hour
because
I
took
a
wrong
path
I
find
that
I’m
down
to
the
last
shot
on
the
last
film.
I’ve
been
a
banker
to
Claire
and
find
that
I
don’t
have
enough
money
left
to
buy
more
film,
or
enough
to
get
a
taxi
back
to
the
hotel.
Walk
some
more.
I
eventually
find
one
particular
fountain
that
I
wanted
and
set
up
for
the
last
shot
in
the
locker.
I
take
extra
care
(and
time)
because
I
know
that
I
can’t
bracket
a
series
of
shots
around
what
I
think
are
the
right
camera
settings
but
need
to
get
it
right
first
time.
I
must
really
look
odd
because
I
attract
the
attention
of
first
one,
then
two
security
guards.
The
first
just
comes
over
and
watches
the
antics
closely
from
a
seat
under
a
tree,
but
the
other
is
evidently
more
serious
about
his
job
and
questions
me
closely
with
an
apparently
casual
air
for
a
minute
or
two.
After
a
short
conversation
between
them
they
evidently
come
to
the
conclusion
that
I’m
not
planning
to
steal
the
fountain,
or
blow
it
up,
or
whatever
concerns
they
actually
have.
Number
One
becomes
really
curious
now.
He’s
evidently
never
before
seen
a
mad
photographer
with
heavy-duty
tripod,
several
lenses,
multiple
coloured
and
close-up
filters
and
remote
shutter
release,
all
stuffed
into
a
canvas
bag.
As
I
move
around
and
add
or
subtract
bits
and
pieces
I
invite
him
to
have
a
look
through
the
viewfinder
each
time.
He
seems
particularly
enthralled
with
the
graded
blue
filter
that
I
can
put
into
the
frame
one
way
and
get
a
blue
sky,
or
reverse
and
get
blue
water.
He
even
sneaks
a
quick
look
into
the
lens
from
the
wrong
direction
when
I
go
off
to
the
bag
on
one
occasion.
I
wonder
what
he
would
think
if
he
saw
the
result
a
day
or
so
later?
Not
that
I
would
have
shown
him
or
anyone
else,
it
was
a
total
disaster.
I
have
to
rush
off
back
to
the
hotel
because
all
this
has
made
me
a
quarter
of
an
hour
late.
Too
late
as
it
turns
out
and
I’ve
been
abandoned.
Little
Astini
whom
we’ve
befriended
is
working
in
the
lobby
bar
and
gives
me
a
big
ice
water
drink
while
she
rings
all
the
rooms.
No
answers
so
as
a
last
resort
I
amble
off
to
the
pool
in
the
hope
that
they’re
even
later
than
I
am.
There
is
no
sign
of
anyone.
Knowing
that
breakfast
was
to
be
at
the
Galeria
I
decide
to
walk
off
down
there
to
find
them.
I
can’t
see
them
anywhere
so
its
off
back
to
the
hotel
to
get
some
travellers
cheques
so
that
I’m
financial
again
and
can
put
at
least
part
of
the
day
in
at
Tanjung
Benoa,
which
no
one
else
seems
very
interested
in.
When
I
get
to
the
room
I
find
a
note
that
Claire
has
left
me,
-
‘Change
of
plans
.
.
.
.
.
‘.
Ah
well,
a
day
on
my
own
wont
kill
me
but
more
shopping,
even
with
lunch
at
Momma
Luccia’s
just
might.
I
load
up
with
the
necessities
and
a
couple
of
cheques,
ready
to
set
off.
I
ask
for
a
Blue
taxi
at
the
lobby
transport
desk
and
settle
down
to
wait.
In
a
short
time
a
white
cab
comes
and
the
Transport
Manager
beckons
me
over.
This
is
not
the
blue
cab
I
asked
for
but
he
manages
to
convince
me
that
it’s
just
the
same
when
the
hotel
calls
them
so
off
we
go.
First
stop
is
the
Kodak
Money
Changer
by
the
Mirage
which
was
closed
when
we
called
there
yesterday.
The
changing
is
faultless
but,
Oh,
so
s -
l -
o -
w
!
Waiting
for
the
computer
to
make
its
connection
and
print
out
the
receipt
takes
more
than
five
minutes
for
each
customer.
Eventually
I
get
to
the
counter
and
receive
a
wallet
full
of
Rp20,000
notes
from
an
exchange
rate
of
4675
rupia
to
the
dollar,
and
I
mean
FULL.
The
next
stop
is
for
film
because
I’ve
forgotten
it
at
the
Kodak
shop
and
don’t
want
to
wait
in
the
queue
again.
There
is
a
little
shop
a
few
doors
down
with
a
Fuji
sign.
The
lady
serving
speaks
very
clear
English,
even
to
these
old
ears,
and
her
little
daughter
is
engaging
as
we
exchange
‘Ayo’s’
and
‘Terimah
kasihs’.
I
got
two
films,
24
shot
Fuji,
one
100
ASA
and
the
other
200
ASA.
At
the
time
I
intended
to
see
what
differences
there
were,
if
any,
in
the
end
results
from
the
different
speeds.
Like
the
intention
to
concentrate
on
a
water
theme,
this
was
another
thing
that
I
never
got
around
to
doing.
Loaded
up,
into
the
cab
and
off
to
the
fishing
village
and
market
right
at
the
tip
of
the
peninsula.
The
driver
decides
that
I’m
mistaken
and
stops
at
the
hotel
strip
about
a
kilometre
short.
I
eventually
convince
him
that
I
do
want
to
go
to
the
end
and
we
continue.
The
trip
takes
about
five
minutes
more
and
we
stop
almost
on
the
water’s
edge
of
the
very
old
and
picturesque,
but
very
dirty
village.
As
I
gather
up
the
gear
and
look
at
the
meter
to
find
the
cost
I
realise
that
I’ve
fallen
for
the
oldest
trick
in
Bali.
The
meter
is
not
on!
‘Rp30.000’,
he
says.
‘How
do
you
know?’
I
ask,
‘The
meter’s
not
on.’
‘Meter
stops
when
taxi
stops’
he
lies.
‘Then
why
didn’t
it
stop
when
I
changed
money?
I
ask
in
futile
frustration.
This
is
too
much
for
him
and
he
can
only
say,
repeatedly,
‘You
pay
Rp30,000’
So
I
paid,
and
as
I
got
out,
from
sheer
frustration
and
anger
at
myself,
I
wrote
down
the
cab
number
in
my
notebook,
resolving
to
tell
the
Transport
Manager
that
I
mean
Blue
next
time
I
want
a
taxi
at
the
hotel.
From
here
the
day
looked
up
considerably.
Across
the
narrow
harbour
entrance
there
are
surprisingly
large
and
modern
freighters
seemingly
only
a
stones
throw
away,
crossing
wakes
with
little
jukungs.
Speedboats
towing
terrified
tourists
nearly
airborne
crossing
wakes
on
long
inflated
banana
floats
and
jet
ski’s
more
nearly
out
of
control
than
usual
because
of
their
riders
obvious
inexperience,
as
they
frequently
fall
off
just
sitting
there
or
when
climbing
back
on.
Boats
without
observers
tow
brave
parachutists
back
and
forth
before
dumping
them
(particularly
the
Japanese
girls)
into
the
groping
arms
of
the
dozen-strong
beach
retrieval
teams.
Oblivious
to
all
this
fishermen,
barefoot
on
the
stony
ramp
and
coarse
sand
beaches,
continue
to
clean
plastic
crates
and
drums
in
the
shallows
edging
the
channel.
Outside
the
entrance
the
waves
surge
onto
the
beaches
and
the
anchored
boats
of
all
descriptions
tug
against
their
anchors
and
stern
lines
leading
onto
the
beach.
Everything
seems
to
be
ready
to
come
apart
at
the
seams
and
would
give
the
Harbour
Master
at
the
Royal
Yacht
Squadron
instant
apoplexy.
The fishing village at the end of the Benoa peninsula. Across the entrance, just a few hundred metres away, is Benoa Harbour and Sanur.
The distance from here to there by road however is over 20Km which is why a bridge is often proposed, but abandoned because of religious sensitivities.
I walked around Benoa, sticking fairly close to the beach as I went and eventually got down as far as the Novotel and about half way back to the fish markets again, with several stops for Aqua along the way, including one with the nice lady at the Fuji shop. Her little daughter was still there and joined me at the street side table for conversation as I refreshed myself and un-parched a very dry throat. Mother is listening closely to the conversation from the shop counter and several times helped her daughter with a troublesome word. When I had finished I thanked them both, and they thanked me in a embarrassingly warm way, the little girl holding my hand in both of hers. This is the Balinese friendliness that you don’t easily get used to if you come from a ‘civilised’ country.
It's HOT on Benoa beach.
I
walk
perhaps
five
fascinating
kilometres
in
all
before
eventually
hailing
a
Blue
Bird
cab
back
to
the
hotel.
His
fare,
on
the
meter,
was
Rp7330
for
the
return
trip
of
perhaps
a
kilometre
shorter
than
the
outward
journey.
I
mentally
kick
myself
again,
not
because
I’ve
lost
maybe
five
dollars
but
because
I’ve
been
suckered.
It’s
the
ego
that’s
the
problem!
Seasoned
Traveller
Falls
on
Face!
reads
the
headlines
in
my
mind.
The
Lobby
Bar
rescues
me
with
a
long
Bintang
and
some
of
those
small,
sweet
Indonesian
(or
are
they
Balinese?)
peanuts.
When
I
have
re-gained
my
breath
I
order
a
Club
Sandwich
for
my
room
(Club
Sandwiches
in
decent
hotels
in
Bali
are
a
fair
meal
for
two)
and
I
have
a
warm
shower
before
it
arrives.
Replenished
I
decide
to
investigate
the
pools
of
the
higher
priced
Sheraton
Laguna
right
next
door
to
our
Indah.
I
have
noticed
in
passing
that
at
least
one
of
their
pools
has
little
sand
beaches
and
am
curious
to
find
out
how
this
is
achieved
without
sand
getting
everywhere
and
migrating
off
the
‘beach’
to
the
lowest
point
of
the
pool.
The
water
in
the
first
pool
is
very
warm
and
the
spa
section
rather
weak
when
I
turn
it
on,
comparable
to
a
small
school
of
farting
fishes,
so
I
soon
move
on
to
the
next
(main?)
pool
that
has
the
sand
beaches.
The
beach,
I
find,
is
fairly
well
contained
by
a
sharpish
rise
in
the
bottom
that
forms
a
containing
rim
to
hold
most
of
the
sand
in
place.
There
are
actually
two
beaches
and
I
am
surprised
to
find
that
the
pool
has
a
flexible
vinyl
liner
on
the
bottom
like
many
home
pools
in
Australia.
The
tiles
visible
above
water
stop
about
one
tile
row
beneath
the
surface.
This
is
a
much
larger
pool
and
is
a
little
cooler
than
the
first,
perhaps
due
only
to
its
larger
size.
As
with
the
Indah
pool
much
of
the
return
water
comes
into
the
pool
via
a
waterfall
which
probably
helps
aerate
the
water
and
keep
it
fresher.
There
is
also
a
little
‘river-rapids’,
running
over
large
rocks
that
are
piled
up
from
the
bottom
of
the
pool
and
rise
up
over
the
edge.
I
think
that
the
Indah
pools
are
better
than
these,
but
the
filtering
in
neither
is
really
good
which
is
particularly
surprising
here
as
there
seems
to
be
so
little
use.
Surrounding
these
two
pools
is
a
wide
strip
of
garden
landscaping
which
separates
them
from
the
third
series
of
pool
that
run
right
along
the
front
porches
of
the
ground
floor
rooms.
These
rooms
each
have
a
set
of
steps
that
provide
private
entrances
to
this
long
curving
‘Laguna’
or
lagoon.
Little
bridges
cross
the
Laguna
at
intervals
and
provide
access
to
various
bars,
cafes
and
the
beach.
Beside
myself
there
are
only
three
other
people
in
these
pools
and
no
one
in
the
bars
despite
the
fact
that
it
is
quite
late
in
the
afternoon,
almost
Happy
Hour
time.
In
the
hour
or
so
that
I
am
there
I
see
only
a
few
people
come
up
from
the
beach.
It’s
sort
of
eerie,
but
the
distinct
impression
is
that
the
hotel
has
very
few
guests.
This
indeed
is
confirmed
later
in
our
stay
when
I
have
an
early
morning
conversation
with
a
Security
Guard
on
the
beach.
Many
staff
have
been
put
off
over
several
months
and
he
is
concerned
that
his
job
too
will
also
soon
go.
I
decide
to
try
the
Jl
Pratama
restaurant
strip
for
dinner.
Coming
from
Nusa
Dua
the
first
Café/Restaurants
are
the
Sari,
Hemingways
(with
one
‘m’)
and
the
Arena,
then
a
short
break
to
the
Beringin.
For
me,
the
first
of
note
is
the
Jukung
on
a
dark
section
of
Padama
road
almost
opposite
the
Peninsula
Beach
Resort.
It
has
lots
of
patrons
and
seems
fairly
large.
Next
is
the
Bumbu
Bali,
opposite
the
Nusa
Dua
Clinik
which
I
am
sure
is
not
a
bad
omen
as
it
too
is
very
busy.
It
is
easy
to
find
groups
of
three
to
six
eateries
almost
adjacent
to
one
another
along
this
road.
I
stop
near
the
Club
Bali
Mirage
where,
between
the
Club
Bali
Mirage
and
the
Grand
Mirage
there
is
the
Café
Bagus,
the
Padma,
the
Warung
Bali
and
the
Kecak
Restaurant
and
Cooking
School.
As
I
walk
along
the
street
looking
at
the
menus
displayed
with
unfortunately
faded
photos
of
the
fare,
I
am
earnestly
but
not
aggressively
invited
to
enter.
I
select
the
Café
Bagus
and
Bar
for
no
good
reason
when
compared
with
the
others.
I
am
given
a
complimentary
drink
in
a
small
shot
glass
with
a
plate
of
generous
prawn
crackers
that
are
still
warm
from
their
preparation,
as
I
settle
down
to
select
from
the
menu.
The
drink
looks
like
watered
down
orange
juice,
and
tastes
like
that
initially,
then
the
Arak
bites
and
I’m
glad
the
bit
of
orange
juice
is
there
to
protect
my
tonsils.
As
it
is
Happy
Hour
large
icy
Bintangs
are
Rp7,000
and
I
select
a
Carlsberg
at
the
same
price.
Gado
Gado
is
Rp
9,500
(this
is
becoming
a
favourite
of
mine
and
later
in
the
holiday
I
begin
to
wonder
if
I’m
missing
out
on
other
delights
each
time
I
find
myself
leaning
towards
it.)
Nasi
Goreng
Special
is
Rp13,500,
Chilli
Prawns
Rp30,000,
Nasi
Campur
Rp25,000,
Chap
Cay
Rp10,500
(another
favourite),
Sweet
and
Sour
Pork
Rp16,500,
a
Club
Sandwich
Rp18,500
(it
comes
with
fries
and
salad
I
observe),
Sirloin
Steak
with
garlic
butter,
Rp24,500
and
Hatten
Rose,
a
local
Balinese
wine,
Rp70,000,.
I
have
the
Gado
Gado,
which
is
not
a
very
large
serve
but
adequate.
The
vegetables
are
hot
and
crunchy
while
the
salad
is
fresh
and
cold.
The
accompanying
peanut
sauce
is
mild,
tasty
and
smooth.
With
the
initial
plate
of
prawn
crackers
this
satisfies
me
and
I
ask
for
the
bill
which
totals
Rp18,150
including
tax.
Adding
the
cost
of
the
taxi
from
Nusa
Dua
(Rp5,000
including
tip)
the
evening
has
so
far
cost
less
than
A$5.00.
Who
should
complain
really?
The
Café
is
not
large,
seating
perhaps
40
diners,
about
two
thirds
under
cover
and
the
rest
under
the
stars
where
it
is
nice
and
cool
in
the
breeze
and
not
too
noisy
from
the
street
traffic.
The
toilet
(singular)
would
rate
9/10,
but
it
wouldn’t
flush
as
the
handle
had
come
unfastened
from
its
internal
mechanisms
somehow.
Bed
calls,
as
the
legs
are
nearly
down
to
numb
stumps
from
all
the
walking,
which
really
is
the
best
way
to
see
things
if
you’ve
got
the
time.
A
Blue
Bird
taxi
stops
without
my
bidding
and
I
am
on
my
way
to
the
land
of
nod.
9.10.00
On
to
Day
5.
Massages
again
would
you
believe?
The
temple
headland
and
the
waves
on
the
reef.
Moving
to
the
Inn
at
Tuban.
Day
5.
–
Tuesday
19
September
2000.
This
morning
I
went
to
the
little
headland
just
off
the
beach
to
the
south
of
the
Sheraton
beaches.
As
has
been
usual
the
tide
was
low
and,
of
curiosity,
I
looked
at
the
figures
on
the
blackboard
by
the
water
sports
lockup
at
the
Laguna.
It
seems
incredible
that
High
Tide,
due
about
midday,
was
shown
as
21
feet
or
about
6.5
meters
for
residents
of
the
non-imperial
world.
The headland is joined to the beach by a narrow but steep edged sand bridge perhaps less than 100 metres long. It must surely be washed away at stormy times of the year but now the sand on the top half is quite dry and loose. Walking up the slope of the edge reveals for the first time just how narrow this neck of sand really is, and how deeply scalloped and narrow is the next bay. At this stage of the tide it is almost cut off from the sea by the reef which seems to start at the next headland south.
The temple headland. Just after dawn and at low tide. The shallow bay on the other side of the temple headland.
The enclosed area of this small inlet is perhaps four or five Aussie football fields in area and fairly flat across in general terms, made up of flat coral reef lightly covered with yellow sand and with shallow, sand bottom pools all around the beach edge. The light morning breeze sends little ruffles of cats-paws wandering across the surface for a short distance before they seem to become exhausted by the effort and vanish.
Individuals
and
families,
from
what
appears
to
be
a
local
village
in
the
coconut
palm
groves
at
the
far
end
of
the
beach,
are
bathing,
playing
or
apparently
just
socialising
in
these
pools.
Each
group
has
its
own
pool
and
the
only
strenuous
activity
seems
to
come
from
the
smaller
children
who
run,
jump
and
splash
their
elders,
with
evident
glee
on
their
part
and
complete
tolerance
on
the
part
of
the
older
children
and
parents.
Many
a
‘Salamat
pagee
Papa’
brings
my
response
‘Pagee.
Apa
kabar?,
and
their
reply
‘Baik,
baik’.
-
‘Good
morning
father’,
‘Good
morning.
How
are
you?’,
‘Well’,
or
an
occasional
‘Bagus’,
‘Very
good’.
To
my
left,
in
contrast,
the
sellers
are
on
the
hotel
beaches,
the
shell
and
crab
gathers
are
intently
wading,
doubled
over
in
their
intense
concentration
and
the
fishermen
are
tending
their
traps.
On
the
reef,
which
stretches
away
as
far
as
I
can
see
in
this
direction,
the
ocean
waves
pound
the
outer
wall
and
send
up
sheets
of
spray
or
booming,
dumping
waves
depending
on
the
depth
of
water
over
the
reef
I
suppose.
The
ying
and
yang
of
the
Bali
Sea
Demons
are
plain
for
all
to
see
here.
Beyond
the
reef
large,
fast,
outboard
powered
jukungs
patrol
back
and
forth,
sprouting
the
rods
of
sport
fishing
tourists
hoping
to
catch
Yellowfin
Tuna
or
Mackerel.
From
the
sandy
link
I
can
see
large
waves
break
on
the
headland
to
the
south
then
run
across
the
reef
of
the
little
bay.
in
front
of
me
only
to
magically
re-appear
in
a
few
seconds,
running
up
the
reef
to
the
north.
Eventually
they
become
lost
in
the
distant
mist
of
the
spray
and
the
glare
of
the
still
low
sun
rising
towards
Tanjung
Benoa
and
the
port
of
Benoa
further
away
still.
'They disappear behind the headland . . . '
It’s
a
scene
that
I
think
I
will
always
remember.
Across
the
sand
bridge
a
few
cut
steps
rise
up
to
a
recently
laid
cement
path
(it
would
be
an
unwarranted
exaggeration
to
call
it
concrete)
which
seems
to
encircle
the
almost-island
around
its
lower
edge.
A
track
in
the
dirt
bridges
the
gap
between
the
lower
path
and
a
series
of
low
cement
walls
that
follow
the
rising
contours
towards
the
crest.
It
is
obvious
that
some
efforts
have
been
made
to
cultivate
the
flat
areas
between
the
little
walls
but
the
task
has
been
abandoned.
Straight
ahead
is
a
small
compound
enclosed
by
remnants
of
a
bamboo
picket
fence
and
unchecked,
rambling
shrubs.
A
small,
three-sided,
low
bale
is
set
along
the
right
boundary
and
there
are
carved
stone
altars
adorned
by
fresh
flowers
and
tattered
black
and
white
check
cloth
directly
opposite
the
narrow
entry
gap.
There
are
low
trees
to
the
left.
Building
sand
and
stone
are
piled
at
the
entry
signifying
the
intent
to
continue
the
restoration
or
new
building
works;
in
‘Bali
Time’
perhaps.
Behind
the
altars
the
ground
continues
to
gently
rise
and
investigation
along
the
wandering
dirt
paths
reveals
the
abrupt
edge
of
the
cliff
which
drops
down
perhaps
five
meters
to
a
narrow
ledge
just
above
water
level
at
this
stage
of
the
tide.
A
leaking
tap
at
the
end
of
a
partly
buried
irrigation
pipe
clearly
show
that
more
work
and
perhaps
even
planting
is
intended,
or
were
intended.
If
completed
the
whole
could
be
a
very
picturesque
and
peaceful
place
amid
the
roiling
sea.
On
the
northern
edge
of
the
cliff
I
look
down
on
an
old
fisherman,
and
I
mean
really
old
with
sparse,
wind
blown,
white
beard.
He
glances
up
from
setting
his
trap
and
looks
at
me
briefly
before
nodding
and
returning
to
his
task,
finishing
one
trap
before
picking
his
way
slowly
across
the
reef
to
the
next.
The
drum
type
of
split
bamboo
trap
is
tied
by
its
closed
end
to
a
lump
of
dead
coral
or
to
an
outcrop
that
can
be
encircled
by
his
piece
of
incredibly
knotted
cord,
like
Jacob’s
coat,
of
many
colours.
I
suppose
that
this
lets
the
open
end
face
towards
any
fish
that
are
swimming
into
the
current.
I
can
see
no
sign
of
any
bait
in
the
trap
and
wonder
if
the
turbulence
of
the
water
just
behind
the
end
of
the
trap
attracts
fish
to
that
area.
Here
the
current
would
be
less
and
a
fish
could
rest
a
little
before
swimming
forwards
again,
through
the
hole
in
the
end
and
into
the
body
of
the
trap.
Further
out
there
are
now
other
fishermen
with
small
hand
spears
and
clear
nylon
throwing
nets
which
sparkle
as
the
sun
catches
the
beads
of
water
flung
out
from
the
circle
as
they
are
thrown
over
what
it
is
obviously
hoped
will
be
a
small
school
of
small
fish.
The
returns
seems
hardly
worth
the
effort
but
I
guess
even
small
returns
are
better
than
no
returns.
Around
the
little
headland
I
finish
off
the
film
that
is
in
the
camera
and
wander
across
the
exposed
reef
in
a
shortcut
to
the
Hotel
beaches.
It
turns
out
not
to
be
such
a
short
cut
but
eventually
I
reach
the
path
with
wet
and
sandy
sandals.
I
use
one
of
the
Laguna’s
beachside
massage
tables
to
put
down
the
camera,
bag
and
tripod
while
I
try
to
clean
and
dry
my
feet.
The
Security
Guard
comes
along
to
check
up
on
me
and,
deeming
me
harmless,
sits
down
with
me
for
a
chat.
He
seems
to
think
that
I
am
from
Italy
and
I
have
to
bring
out
a
copy
of
Chris’
little
map
showing
the
local
world
with
Indonesian
titles.
He
is
enthralled
and
immediately
begins
an
animated
conversation
in
Bahasa
Indonesian.
I
eventually
convince
him
that
my
knowledge
of
the
language
is
confined
to
the
words
and
phrases
that
I
have
stuck
to
the
back
cover
of
my
notebook
and
that
I
am
not
Italian.
Although
I
insist
that
I
am
from
Adelaide
his
concept
of
Australia
seems
bounded
by,
‘Sydeney
Olympic
Games’.
He
bluntly
confirms
my
thought
that
there
are
very
few
guests
at
the
Laguna.
He
is
concerned
for
his
job
as
many
of
his
fellow
workers
have
already
left.
The
old
question
re-occurs
to
me,
what
do
you
do
when
you
lose
your
job
in
Indonesia?
Hey!
Its
Tuesday
confirms
the
waiter
at
the
Lobby
Bar.
This
is
the
day
we
transfer
to
the
Holiday
Inn
at
Tuban
(now
called
the
Bali
Hai
Resort
&
Spa).
We
are
due
to
depart
at
11.00
am.
On
Sunday
I
left
the
yellow
plastic
folder
holding
all
my
notes
in
the
back
pocket
of
the
mini
bus
seat.
I
have
tried
to
locate
the
driver,
through
the
remarkably
good
efforts
of
the
hotel
desk
staff,
to
no
avail.
I
decide
to
be
a
bit
pro-active
and
use
the
time
left
this
morning
to
see
if
I
can
find
his
contact
where
we
first
met
at
the
Galeria.
This
turns
out
to
be
a
fruitless
exercise
and
I
return
to
the
hotel
only
to
find
that
he
has
returned
it
in
my
absence.
I
am
stunned
with
my
good
luck.
As
a
reward
the
others
have
decided
to
use
him
again
to
transport
us
to
Tuban,
with
the
bag
of
dog
food
that
has
not
yet
been
collected.
It
costs
the
two
of
us
Rp600,000
to
check
out
of
the
Sheraton.
This
is
made
up
of
room
service
meals,
drinks
and
laundry.
$65
Australian
each
for
living
in
a
five
star
hotel
for
four
days
is,
we
think,
not
too
bad.
The
rest
of
the
day
slides
by
with
transport
and
settling
in
–
and
you,
dear
reader,
should
not
expect
another
afternoon
and
evening
to
go
by
so
easily
in
future
episodes
of
this
diary.
9.10.00
Day
6
tells
of
the
real
massage
that
my
back's
been
waiting
for.
An
emotional
home-coming
on
Tuban
beach.
Breakfast
at
the
Pantai.
ENI
Tailors,
Dolphin
Leather,
fixing
the
sandals
and
Margaret
arrives.
Check
the
photos
again?
This IS a long one, seven pages, partly because its got a bit of yesterday in it but mainly because I get a bit maudlin and introspective and sink into useless philosophising again.
If this is not to your fancy don’t go on, jump to Day 7.
Day
7.
-
Thursday
21
September
2000.
At
seven
pages
this
is
not
really
a
long
episode
considering
it
covers
our
day
trip
to
Lovina,
which
I
found
so
visually
different
and
fascinating
that
I
did
not
take
many
notes.
The
north
may
not
be
‘the
real
Bali’
as
some
like
to
claim
but
it
is,
without
argument,
a
different
Bali
to
that
found
in
the
south,
and
perhaps
more
intriguing
because
of
the
difference.
We
eventually
decided
to
do
this
trip
which
had
been
on
and
off
the
itinerary
so
many
times
it
was
looking
like
the
magician’s
rabbit.
We
were
to
do
it
on
the
cheap,
using
simply
a
local
driver
rather
than
a
specialist
northern
guide.
There
was
even
talk
at
one
time
about
going
in
two
taxis,
one
to
Git
Git
only
and
the
other
to
press
on
to
Singaraja/Lovina
for
those
who
wanted
to
go
that
far
in
one
day.
How
this
would
have
worked
out
as
far
as
cost
is
concerned
I
really
don’t
know.
As
it
was
we
used
an
8
seater
and
driver
whom
we
had
used
earlier
and
hoped
that
we
got
a
cheap
rate
because
of
our
more
frequent
use.
Because
the
driver
spoke
little
English
(supposedly
none
but
this
proved
to
be
not
quite
true)
his
friend
came
also
to
act
as
a
guide.
His
depth
of
knowledge
about
the
area
outside
Nusa
Dua
where
we
first
met
him
was
so
little
that
we
even
had
to
tell
them
the
way
to
Poppies
II.
When
it
came
to
information
about
the
north
you
can
imagine
how
deathly
the
silence
was
at
times!
There
were
only
five
of
us,
including
our
friend
Margaret,
so
space
was
not
a
problem
and
the
trip
was
quite
comfortable.
Our
route
took
us
north
of
course,
but
to
the
west
of
Denpasar
through
countryside
that
I
must
have
travelled
before
to
get
to
Tanah
Lot
on
the
central
west
coast,
but
which
I
could
not
remember.
The
growth
over
the
past
few
years
in
Legian
and
Seminyak
on
Jl
Legian
just
north
of
Kuta
was
amazing.
So
too
was
the
traffic
going
towards
the
south,
mainly
people
going
to
work
we
guessed
as
it
was
just
after
8
am
as
we
passed
through
these
‘suburban’
areas.
The
Money
Changers
at
Bemo
Corner
in
Kuta
was
not
even
open
as
we
passed
through,
that’s
how
early
we
were.
Jalan
Legian
changes
to
Jl
Seminyak
and
then
to
Jl
Raya
Kerobokan
as
we
head
north
to
the
west
of
Denpasar.
This
was
logical
progression
as
I
would
expect,
but
time
and
again,
particularly
as
we
searched
in
vain
for
street
numbers,
frustration
set
in
as
there
was
no
apparent
sequence
that
we
could
discern.
Through
Kerobokan,
which
I
remember
simply
as
a
village
linked
to
others
but
with
a
longer
length
of
straight
road.
Through
Celuk,
which
is
not
the
well-known
Celuk
of
silversmithing
fame
that
is
about
the
same
distance
to
the
east
of
Denpasar
as
this
one
is
to
the
west.
Through
Tegeh, Kapal,
Tambaksari
(let
that
one
roll
off
your
tongue
a
few
times),
Muncan,
another
Kapal,
past
the
cattle
markets
at
Bringkit
(not
as
in
‘bring-it-'ere!’)
and
eventually
Mengwi
and
the
old
‘Floating
Palace’
or
Pura
Taman
Ayun.
(‘Pura’
means
temple,
or
literally,
a
space
enclosed
by
a
wall.)
This
is
the
large
temple
of
the
old
Mengwi
Kingdom,
which
collapsed
about
1900
under
an
onslaught
from
their
neighbours
in
Tabanan
and
Badung.
It
would
be
our
first
stop,
about
24
kilometres
from
Tuban.
The
Floating
Palace
is
surrounded
by
a
rectangular
outer
moat
about
20
meters
wide
and
well
over
100
meters
long
on
the
front,
and
shortest,
side.
Hence
the
‘Floating’
Palace.
The
moat
is
largely
open
water
but
with
some
water
lilies.
A
wide,
arched
stone
bridge
crosses
this
and
leads
to
a
grassed
outer
courtyard
perhaps
100
meters
broad,
with
ponds
and
some
small
buildings.
Central
within
the
grass
area
is
the
inner
temple,
surrounded
by
a
grey
stone
and
red
brick
wall,
quite
tall
at
the
front,
rising
from
the
outer
corners
to
a
central
flight
of
several
steps.
A
pair
of
massive
wooden
gates
tops
these
steps,
hung
between
two
wide,
symmetrical,
carved
stone
and
brick
columns,
the
‘candi
bentar’.
Parts
of
the
carvings
are Raksa,
the
fierce
guardians
at
the
sides
of
the
door,
and
the
bhoma,
the
evil
face
with
outstretched
hands
above.
These
ugly
figures
are
intended
as
guards
to
deter
the
evil
spirits
from
entering
the
temple.
As
a
secondary
safeguard
there
is
a
wall
running
across
the
gateway
just
inside.
Since
evil
spirits
cannot
turn
right-angled
corners
this
is
an
effective
defence
against
those
not
frightened
by
the
outer
guards.
The
central
bridge
over
the
moat,
the
path
across
the
grass
courtyard
and
the
inner
wall
that
rises
up
to
the
towering
gates
are
all
aligned
on
the
longitudinal
axis
of
the
temple
which
points
towards
Mount
Agung
as
one
enters
and
to
the
sea
behind.
This
symmetry
gives
the
entrance
perspective
a
sense
of
order
and
an
elegantly
simple
design
that
I
have
not
noticed
expressed
so
strongly
at
other
temples.
The
contrast
between
the
simple
bridge
over
the
quiet
moat
and
the
wide
grass
expanse,
gently
rising
up
to
the
towering,
intricate,
forbidding
gates
is
stark
and
extreme.
The
opposing
forces
of
Ying
and
Yan?
The Floating Palace at Mengwi.
The
height
of
the
inner
wall
decreases
quickly
at
the
corners
and
from
the
simple
dirt
path
that
encircles
the
wall
it
is
easy
to
see
over
from
the
sides
and
rear
into
the
rectangular
expanse
of
the
temple
proper.
Just
inside
this
wall
is
another
moat
of
less
remarkable
width
which
encircles
the
inner
temple
area.
Four,
tall,
eleven
roofed
‘merus’
or
shrines
dwarf
the
many
smaller
buildings
contained
by
the
inner
moat.
Balinese
merus
always
have
an
odd
number
of
thatched
roofs
which
taper
upwards,
eleven
being
the
maximum
signifying
a
most
sacred
temple
such
as
the
Mother
Temple,
the
nine
Directional
Temples
or,
in
this
instance
the
most
important
and
central
temple
in
the
state.
Unlike
many
other
small
temples
the
inner
sanctum
here
is
not
open
to
visitors.
There
is
a
large
travel
group
at
the
temple.
At
least
40
or
50,
from
Central
Java,
not
just
Java
mind
you,
but,
they
emphasise
Central
Java.
They
want
us
to
use
their
cameras,
and
finally
mine
Claire
insists,
to
take
photos
of
them
with
Phil,
who
absolutely
dwarfs
them
all,
up
and
down
as
well
as
across,
and
fair-haired
Claire
who
also
stands
out
by
at
least
a
head
amidst
the
dark
haired
throng.
They
would
be
a
portrait
photographer’s
delight
as,
without
bidding,
they
fall
into
a
rectangular
mass
with
the
smallest
to
the
front
and
no
face
in
the
rear
ranks
covered
by
another
in
the
front.
They
are
perfectly
attentive
and
react
immediately
to
a
brief
hand
gesture
bidding
the
right
and
left
extremities
of
the
group
to
close
in
a
bit
and
then
move
back
out
a
modicum,
those
behind
automatically
doing
a
little
shuffle
to
clear
their
faces
anew.
All
join
in
singing
“Old
MacDonald's
Farm”
as
I
conduct
and
lead
them,
and
finally
all
count
down,
‘Three
–
Two
–
One!’
as
a
single
chorus.
It
shames
me
to
admit
to
this
unnecessary
manipulation
but
I
think
they
would
perhaps
have
taken
great
joy
in
their
performance
even
if
they
had
been
aware
that
the
directions
were
senseless.
Maybe
they
made
up
for
it
afterwards
when
every
man
Jack
of
them
and
every
woman
Jill
too,
insisted
on
saying
‘Thank
you’,
shaking
my
hand
and
bowing.
My
back
was
killing
me.
'
EVERYONE
BACK
ON
THE
BUS!'
On
to
Bedugul,
Lake
Bratan
and
Pura
Ulun
Danau
just
a
few
meters
off
its
shores.
Almost
at
the
peak
of
the
east-west
range
that
divides
north
from
south
Bali,
Bedugul
is
a
small
vegetable
growing
and
farming
village
that
just
happens
to
find
itself
on
a
growing
tourist
route
but
is
perhaps
not
quite
sure
yet
what
to
do
about
it.
The
same
cannot
be
said
for
some
obviously
rich
developers
who
are
in
the
throes
of
massive
constructions
on
the
most
scenic
ends
of
prominent
ridges.
The
Suharto
family
is
said
to
be
one
of
these
developers.
Artists
seem
to
flourish
in
Bedugul,
which
is
not
surprising
given
the
scenery
of
mountain
ridge,
plunging
valleys,
forests,
vegetable
fields
and
rice
terraces
evident
even
from
the
roadside.
Little
ramshackle
stalls
line
the
road
selling
drinks
and
paintings
of
great
diversity,
price
and
quality.
From
Bedugul
the
road
winds
down
into
the
extinct
volcano
now
filled
by
serene
Lake
Bratan.
Roughly
rectangular,
2
Km
by
3,
Lake
Bratan
this
morning
is
a
peacefully
calm,
an
almost
mirror
surfaced
sheet
of
grey,
reflecting
the
misty
overcast,
but
with
a
distant,
narrow
line
of
green
reflected
from
forests
along
the
far
shore.
This
is
a
transient
illusion
however,
as
a
loud
speaker
barks
from
what
looks
like
a
barracks
or
convention
site
far
across
on
the
southern
shore
and
echoes
around
the
caldera.
As
if
this
is
not
sufficient
affront
to
the
Gods
an
outboard
powered
speedboat
takes
off
from
a
small
landing
just
around
the
point
from
the
temple,
followed
by
an
unstable
Jet
Ski.
Thankfully
these
obscenities
are
intermittent,
but
the
canoes
quietly
and
slowly
leading
arrowheads
far
out
in
the
lake
look
far
more
suitable
for
the
area.
From
the
vehicle
park
the
path
leads
past
the
ticket
box
(Rp500
from
memory),
past
the
showmen
with
their
assortment
of
captured
wild
animals,
birds
and
reptiles
with
which
you
can
be
photographed
for
a
fee.
Then
into
the
grassed
gardens
of
the
outer
temple
area
where
an
enormous
Banyan
tree
seems
jacked
up
off
the
ground
by
a
thicket
of
roots
and
dominates
the
space.
To
the
side
here
there
is
a
Buddhist
stupa
(shrine)
containing
two
freshly
dressed
and
flower
bedecked
statues.
With
the
main
Hindu
temple
not
100
metres
away,
just
off
the
shore
by
a
stone’s
throw,
and
the
Muslim
temple
just
across
the
main
road,
this
site
is
a
prime
example
of
the
pluralisms
which
sit
happily
within
the
tolerant
Balinese
way
of
life.
This
is
a
smaller
temple
that
predates
the
Water
Palace,
Pura
Taman
Ayung,
at
Mengwi
by
over
a
century.
It
has
a
single
main
meru
with
eleven
thatched
roofs
and
three
roofs
on
another
meru
which
is
much
smaller.
The
split
gateway
has
no
doors,
perhaps
because
the
temple
sits
on
a
small
grassy
island
only
a
few
metres
larger
than
the
temple
walls
themselves,
and
this
isolation
is
seen
as
sufficient
protection.
Buddhist stupa. Pura Ulan Danau. Git Git falls.
On
to
Git
Git
Falls,
up
the
side
of
the
caldera
again
and
into
the
mountains.
Here
the
road
winds
along
the
sides
of
the
steep
valleys,
climbing,
falling
or
turning
as
the
terrain
demands.
There
are
no
bridges,
little
or
large,
over
the
heads
of
these
valleys,
nor
cuttings
through
the
ridge
crests.
Just
the
natural
fall
of
the
land
that
takes
the
road
around
hairpin
bends
in
the
depth
of
the
jungle
forest
or
out
around
a
reflex
angle
on
the
edge
of
nothing
as
it
passes
around
a
ridge.
The
mist
lowers
and
rain
begins,
gently
at
first
but
the
drops
get
bigger
and
denser
as
we
go
higher.
Occasionally,
through
a
lift
in
the
overcast
or
a
brief
space
between
the
showers
I
can
look
across
a
narrow
valley
and
see
the
road
we
have
just
traversed
apparently
a
little
over
an
arm’s
length
away
but
on
the
other
side
of
am
almost
sheer
ravine.
On
the
way
down
we
are
slowed
as
we
approach
an
accident,
a
sort
of
half-way-head-on
meeting
between
two
vans.
Its
not
hard
to
imagine
each
being
unseen
by
the
other
through
the
rain,
perhaps
a
windscreen
wiper
not
working
as
it
should
or
a
somewhat
bare
tyre
losing
grip
and
allowing
one
vehicle
to
slip
outwards
on
a
sharp
corner.
The
drivers’
side
of
each
is
crunched,
on
the
smaller
one
almost
right
back
to
the
door
pillar.
There
are
no
apparent
injuries,
which
the
damage
would
suggest
is
a
miracle,
and
a
group
of
men
are
trying
to
bounce
the
van
back
to
the
side
and
then
right
off
the
road.
I
find
myself
wondering
what
sort
of
trees
are
these?
I
try
to
imagine
meranti,
luan,
and
even
teak,
but
my
knowledge
is
deficient
and
I
can
only
wonder.
Frequently,
along
the
side
of
the
road,
there
are
stacks
of
timber
billets,
probably
firewood,
either
tied
into
bundles
of
carrying
size
or
staked
into
consecutive
heaps
that
are
perhaps
small
truck-size
loads.
Under
the
bark
the
timber
is
predominantly
white
which
does
not
help
my
efforts
to
identify
it.
The
car
park
at
Git
Git
has
an
adjacent
restaurant,
which
is
fortunate,
as
the
girls
decide
the
climb
down,
and
up
again,
coupled
with
the
rain
is
bad
karma
and
the
drink
house
looks
fortuitous.
The
path
leading
down
is
sort
of
paved,
with
a
variety
of
surfaces.
The
scenery
is
varied
also,
grassland
changing
to
rice
fields
and
to
terraces.
Further
down
ill
formed
steel
tube
handrails
with
angular
un-joined
ends
lead
past
sheer
cuttings
on
one
side
and
equally
sheer
drops
on
the
other.
Every
possible
site
contains
stalls
for
clothing
and
crafts.
Little
children,
much
less
than
10
years
of
age
and
perhaps
only
half
of
this,
offer
bracelets
and
necklaces
with
slick
patter
and
financial
aplomb.
At
the
bottom
of
the
falls
is
a
pool
with
some
hardy
fools
swimming,
and
a
small
roofed
shelter.
I
try
hard
to
get
some
photos
but,
with
the
rain
coming
down
and
the
spray
coming
up
I
really
need
wipers
on
the
lens.
At
the
choicest
shooting
site
Phil
and
a
tour
guide
try
holding
a
towel
over
me
and
the
camera,
but
its
hopeless.
I
try
shifting
under
the
roofed
shelter
but
here
I'm
facing
the
spray
rising
off
the
falls
which
immediately
coats
the
lens
with
trickles
of
water.
In
desperation
I
face
downstream
into
the
falling
gorge
and
snap
off
a
couple
of
shots.
Later,
one
turns
out
to
be
a
gem.
So
much
for
skill!
It’s
a
long
climb
down,
but
its
even
longer
climbing
up
when
your
shorts
are
sticking
to
your
thighs
and
the
towel
covering
the
camera
is
so
sodden
its
leaking
down
your
back.
Not
that
you
can
feel
it
running
down
your
saturated
back
but
the
steady
stream
falling
onto
each
rear-most
calf
is
telling.
Still,
I
suppose
it’s
a
long
way
up
even
when
it’s
dry.
The
girls
are
quite
happy
when
we
finally
arrive
back.
They’re
dry
on
the
outside
and
at
least
damp
on
the
inside.
The
old
Dutch
capital
of
Singaraja
is
next
and
as
its
early
afternoon
the
first
stop
is
a
fair
sized,
open
sided
restaurant
right
on
the
beach
facing
the
‘Laut
Bali’,
the
'Bali
Sea'
I
think.
There
are
sellers
there
of
course
because
this
is
a
common
stop
for
bus
tours,
but
they
seem
to
have
an
agreement
with
the
owners
and
do
not
encroach
past
a
low
line
of
stone
fencing
which
evidently
marks
a
boundary.
The
sand
here
is
a
very
dark
grey,
near
enough
I
suppose
to
justify
the
commonly
used
phrase,
‘black
sand
beaches’.
The
sea
is
calm,
different
from
the
south,
just
an
occasional
low
swell
heaving
itself
up
the
beach
with
a
tired
sigh,
and,
despite
the
rain
back
in
the
mountains
which
is
clearly
visible
from
here,
the
black
sand
is
hot
and
dry.
The
food
at
the
restaurant
is
good,
or
maybe
we’re
just
very
hungry
as
by
now
its
early
afternoon.
The
chicken
and
corn
soup
is
particularly
tasty,
as
is
the
sticky
rice
pudding
with
coconut
milk.
Phil
declares
the
Spring
Roll
disappointing
but
I
notice
that
it
takes
nine
over
two
servings
to
reach
this
conclusion.
Where
oh
where
in
Bali
can
you
get
good,
tasty
and
crispy
spring
rolls?
Just
behind
the
restaurant
there
is
a
series
of
rice
fields
and
in
the
lower
one
a
farmer
is
ploughing
with
his
water
buffalo.
The
temptation
is
too
much
as
I
think
of
an
old
Bali
Forum
friend
who
was
enamoured
of
a
similar
photo
that
I
took
last
year.
I
wandered
along
the
narrow
banks
between
the
paddies,
being
careful
not
to
tread
on
the
small
peanut
plants
atop
the
banks
that
looked
a
bit
like
young
beans.
The
farmer
saw
me
coming
with
the
camera
and
stopped
the
ox
at
a
point
close
to
my
position.
He
then
moved
around
to
the
side
of
the
nearest
animal
and
pushed
it
into
a
striking
pose
with
one
front
leg
stretched
way
forward.
He
then
took
up
his
own
preferred
position
with
a
pose
like
a
triumphant
ringmaster,
one
arm
held
high
and
the
other
outstretched
towards
the
animals.
I
tried
to
get
him
to
move
on
but
he
simply
urged
the
beasts
into
another
pose
and
changed
his
own
to
the
rear
of
the
plough,
still
with
the
same
arm
positions.
With
a
sudden
brilliant
flash
I
cranked
my
hand
in
the
motion
of
an
old
time
movie
camera
man
and
he
suddenly
nodded
vigorously
and
returned
to
his
ploughing,
waving
happily
as
I
packed
up
the
tripod
to
go
back
to
the
bus.
A real third world ham.
I
wonder
what
story
he
told
his
friends
that
night?
Through
Singaraja
too
quickly,
and
the
Lovina
beaches,
to
‘Air
Panas’,
the
hot
springs.
A
beautiful
setting
along
the
side
of
a
steep
gully,
with
tall
coconut
palms
silhouetted
against
the
blue
sky.
Equally
colourful
was
the
water
in
the
baths,
a
dull
lettuce
green.
I
tried
to
convince
myself
that
this
colour
came
from
some
sort
of
chemical
reaction
with
the
sulphur
content
of
the
hot-warm
water,
like
a
large-scale
school
chemistry
experiment.
The
first
footstep
on
the
stairs
leading
down
to
the
top
pool
belied
this
hope,
however,
as
the
surface
was
like
liquid
Teflon
underfoot.
Despite
the
embryonic
soup
of
neophytic
slime
and
Lord
knows
what
else,
no
one
seems
to
get
sick
because
of
it.
A
group
of
German
youths
defied
all
common
sense
though,
I
thought,
by
diving
in
from
the
sides
and
engaging
in
all
sorts
of
underwater
high-jinks
with
members
of
the
opposite
as
well
as
the
same
sex.
The
colour
of
the
water
in
the
pools
was
one
concern
before
entry
and
the
colours
of
the
toilet
equally
so
after
exiting.
The
only
toilet
that
was
worse
was,
I
think,
at
the
Ramayana
Department
store
in
Denpasar.
It
still
pays
to
heed
my
old
grand-mum’s
frequent
warning
–
go
before
you
leave
home.
' Air Panas. '
As
it
was
getting
late
in
the
afternoon
by
now
we
accepted
that
we
were
not
going
to
see
any
hotels
in
Lovina,
to
pave
the
way
for
an
extended
stay
here
next
year.
Nor
did
I
get
to
see
the
famous
statue
of
the
soldier
looking
out
to
sea
on
the
foreshore
in
Singaraja,
the
Independence
Memorial
I
think
it
is
called,
nor
the
equally
famed
dolphin
statue.
The
trip
home
got
faster
and
faster
the
further
we
went.
Phil
became
convinced
that
the
driver
was
on
a
promise
when
he
got
home,
or
at
least
another
driving
job
that
he
was
due
at
some
time
ago.
It
seems,
however,
that
the
speed
limits
(if
there
are
any)
do
not
apply
after
dark
if
you
don’t
switch
the
vehicles
light
on.
If
Phil
had
spoken
his
mind
I
would
certainly
have
agreed
with
him
even
though
I
was
in
the
back
seat,
not
the
front
where
it
was
even
more
hair-raising.
We
survive
however,
up
the
mountains
one
side
and
down
the
mountain
on
the
other.
Across
the
plains
at
the
highest
speeds,
on
the
remarkably
straight
(for
Bali)
road
back
to
Mengwi.
From
there
we
were
forcibly
slowed
again
for
the
more
normal
bends
and
corners,
and
the
evening
traffic
as
we
got
into
the
outer
‘suburbs’
of
Denpasar;
Seminyak,
Legion,
Kuta
and
finally
Tuban
and
the
friendly
Inn.
13.10.00
On to Day 8. - "Oleh-oleh" from the beach girls, Hero's Department store, Denpasar shopping, the pool and dinner at the Kin Khao Thai restaurant.
Day
8.
-
Friday
22
September
2000.
Day
7,
continued
–
just
for
a
bit
-
If
you
thought
yesterday’s
diary
ended
quickly
and
in
a
funny
way
you
are
right.
As
I’ll
record
later,
this
note
taking
is
being
influenced
by
‘Bali
time’,
and
I’ve
just
found
a
page
of
notes
made
way
out
of
order,
half
a
pad
away
from
where
they
should
have
been.
After
our
trip
north
we
had
arranged
to
meet
at
the
Pantai
for
dinner.
Claire
and
I
were
a
bit
late
and
when
we
arrived
the
atmosphere
was
tense
and
every
one
was
either
glum
or
angry.
Nell
and
Jay
had
not
gone
north
with
us
as
Nell
had
decided
to
have
a
rest
day
and
give
Jay
time
to
play
with
friends
he
had
met
and
made
at
the
hotel’s
Mongolian
Dinner
the
night
before.
While
they
were
off
sometime
during
the
day
Jay
had
been
ambushed
in
the
stairwell
by
other
boys
who
had
plastic
BB
guns,
replica
pistols
which
were
fairly
commonly
available
from
the
local
shops
and
which
fired
small
spherical
plastic
pellets.
He
bore
the
marks
of
a
number
of
shots
fired
sufficiently
close
to
leave
red
marks
and
bruises
even
under
shorts
and
shirts.
Upsetting
as
this
would
be
on
its
own
it
was
compounded
when
a
hotel
Security
Guard
he
asked
to
take
him
back
to
his
room
told
him
to
go
away
and
walked
off
leaving
him
to
face
further
assault.
The
real
clincher
was
the
attitude
of
the
assailant’s
parents
however.
When
approached
and
asked
to
take
the
pistols
from
their
sons
they
initially
laughed
and
eventually
became
abusive.
We
were
faced
with
the
prospect
of
living
in
this
atmosphere
for
another
week!
Eventually
the
hotel
management
intervened
in
some
way
and
there
was
no
further
sight
of
pistols
in
the
hotel,
but
there
was
a
noticeable
increase
in
the
Security
Guards
who
were
far
more
active
around
the
grounds
and
passageways.
Despite
the
gloom
I
have
to
say
that
the
food
was
great
again.
The
Chap
Cay,
(does
anyone
really
know
how
to
pronounce
this,
or
how
to
spell
it?)
(Later;
Spelt
‘Cap
Cay’,
pronounced
‘Chap Chay”.)
I
had
was
slightly
spicy
and
very
tasty
with
cool
and
crisp
salad
bits
on
the
side.
I
couldn’t
really
complain
about
the
Anker
beer
I
had
with
it
either.
We
tried
to
get
to
the
Kodak
shop
to
pick
up
some
prints
and
leave
another
film
but
they
were
closed
by
the
time
we
got
there.
A
cool
walk
back
to
the
Inn
followed
by
a
leisurely
swim
in
the
warm
pool
led
easily
to
bed
and
bliss.
Day
8.
Each
morning
we
have
little
presents
for
Wayan,
Mistri
and
Adi
on
the
beach.
Each
morning
I
say
to
myself,
‘This
is
not
necessary.’
but
the
next
morning
I’m
glad
I
didn’t
listen
to
myself.
There
will
probably
be
many
who
will
read
this
and
laugh
at
an
old
fool,
or
who
will
say
that
there
is
this
cause
or
that
cause
that
I
should
be
supporting
because
they
are
worthier.
And
they
may
be,
but
this
is
what
I
choose
to
do.
I’m
not
trying
to
change
the
world,
well,
maybe
I
would
like
to,
but
I
find
it
satisfying
to
try
to
make
some
difference
to
someone
some
of
the
time.
I
don’t
think
that
this
makes
me
unique
or
even
special
in
some
way,
it
just
means
that
I
am
able
to
do
something
for
people
or
things,
and
so
I
do.
There
are
many
others
who
do
the
same
and
many
who
do
more.
I’m
not
troubled
by
those
who
can’t
because
I’ve
been
there
myself,
but
I
do
worry
a
bit
about
those
who
can
but
don’t.
And
if
you’re
saying
I
shouldn’t
judge
then
you’re
right,
and
I
shouldn’t
preach
either.
But
this
is
my
diary,
mainly
for
me,
and
a
bit
for
my
family.
It
wouldn’t
be
worth
anything
if
I
didn’t
truly
say
what
I’m
thinking.
This
morning
Wayan
brought
us
two
small,
peeled
and
vertically
quartered
pineapples
from
her
garden.
We
could
eat
them
just
like
fat
sticks
of
celery.
They
were
just
as
crisp
and
crunchy
as
celery,
or
apples
straight
out
of
the
fridge,
but
the
taste,
the
sweetness
and
the
flavour
.
.
.
.
.
.
You
would
have
to
try
them
yourself
because
you
wouldn’t
believe
me
even
if
I
could
describe
the
sweetness.
I’m
sure
that
she,
probably
they,
was/were
really
happy,
more
than
just
pleased
that
we
so
obviously
enjoyed
them.
When
any
one
in
business
takes
a
new
step
forward
others
in
the
same
business
must
follow
or
their
business
is
likely
to
collapse.
You
would
consider
‘keeping
up’
essential
in
your
business
if
the
alternative
meant
that
you
and
your
family
didn’t
eat.
It’s
no
different
in
Bali
when
the
business
is
massaging
tourists.
Wayan
and
Mistri
each
bought
a
thin
foam
mattress
covered
with
vinyl
over
two
years
ago.
It
was
a
significant
step
forward
from
massages
on
the
sand.
The
cost
I
can’t
remember,
it
isn’t
important.
The
significant
thing
is
that
they
are
still
paying
for
them
and
will
be
for
at
least
another
two
years
unless
there
is
a
miraculous
change
in
the
level
of
business,
perhaps
even
longer
if
their
business
continues
in
the
decline
that
it
is
now
in.
The
interest
rate
on
their
loans
is
30%,
which
has
a
severe
effect
on
their
family
income.
This
situation
vexed
me
and
I
know
that
it
did
Nell
also.
Whatever
the
cost
of
these
things
either
of
us
could
probably
have
paid
for
them,
certainly
together
we
would
have
and
not
missed
the
cost
very
much.
But
how
to
do
this
vexed
us
even
more
and
we
could
not
see
a
satisfactory
and
fail-proof
method.
We
could
have
simply
given
her
the
money
but
were
not
convinced
that
she
would
pay
off
the
mattress
but
would
spend
the
money
on
the
family,
particularly
her
children
or
grandchildren.
To
pay
the
financier
directly
was
a
bit
risky
because
he
might
have
found
extra
‘expenses’
if
he
thought
a
sucker
was
on
the
horizon.
In
the
end
we
gave
up.
For
every
tactic
we
could
devise
we
could
also
think
of
a
hole
into
which
we,
the
cash
or
Wayan
and
Mistri
could
fall,
or
which
might
embarrass
them
or
make
them
indebted
to
us,
and
we
didn’t
want
that.
I
simply
resolved
never
to
haggle
about
the
price
of
a
massage.
It
was
easy
the
first
time
because
all
I
had
were
Rp50,000
notes
(A$10.75)
which
was
a
dead
cheap
massage
when
compared
with
costs
at
home.
The
next
time
I
found
it
just
as
easy
when
I’d
been
to
the
Changers
the
night
before
and
only
had
Rp100,000
notes.
Still
a
cheap
massage
by
home
standards
and,
what
I
didn’t
know
then
was
what
sort
of
massage
you
could
get!
But
I
found
out
from
then
on!
Nothing
funny
mind
you,
just
a
mixture
of
careful
and
sensitive
agony
and
bliss,
superbly
sensual,
almost
approaching
sexual,
with
what
seemed
a
total
fixation
on
my
smallest
reactions.
Nails
and
soles
of
feet
were
included,
potions,
ointments
and
salves,
pineapples,
bananas
and
little
sweet
rice
pudding
things,
home
made
I’m
sure,
tasting
of
dates
(?)
or
nuts
and
wrapped
in
aluminium
foil.
If
this
was
what
Salamat datang
meant
I
was
not
going
to
resist.
The 'morning beach' at Tuban. Mistri, Adi and Wayan under the massage trees.
Often
on
these
mornings
I
would
take
a
pocketful
of
sweets
and
pass
them
out
to
little
kids
on
the
beach
as
I
went.
One
morning
I
had
the
remains
of
a
packet
of
chocolate
éclairs
when
I
got
to
the
girls
and
passed
them
out
without
thinking,
simply
to
get
rid
of
them
before
I
lay
down.
It
created
an
instant
mini
crowd
as
the
other
sellers
and
even
the
Security
Guards
lined
up
for
one.
It
turned
out
that
Adi
has,
or
quickly
developed,
a
weakness
for
chocolate
éclairs.
Thereafter
she
always
looked
for
one,
happy
but
not
content
when
I
had
something
else.
On
our
last
day
when
we
simply
gave
them
anything
we
had
left
and
didn’t
want
to
pack
like
toothpaste,
shampoo,
soft
drinks
and
so
on,
we
made
sure
we
had
a
full
packet
just
for
her.
It
was
as
though
Father
Christmas
had
arrived
at
the
kindergarten
with
new
bikes
for
everyone.
On
another
occasion
I
ran
out
as
we
returned
to
the
Inn,
giving
out
the
last
two
sweets
just
before
we
reached
the
steps
over
the
breakwater.
One
last
little
boy
ran
out
of
the
trees
behind
us
and
I
could
only
fumble
in
my
pocket
and
come
up
with
nothing.
The
look
on
his
face
was
heartbreaking
and
in
desperation
I
called
him
back
as
he
turned
away
and
gave
him
a
5,000
rupia
note.
Although
he
could
have
bought
a
packet
for
himself
he
was
barely
consoled.
It
was
obvious
he
would
rather
have
had
a
single
lolly
like
his
friends.
Next
year
I
want
to
take
over
a
pack
of
plastic
spoons
and
see
what
sort
of
a
riot
I
can
create
with
a
tub
of
Streets
ice
cream
from
Matahari’s.
With
the
kids
of
all
ages
in
Bali,
you
certainly
get
a
lot
of
mileage
out
of
the
little
things.
My
promise
of
recording
relevant
details
each
time
I
took
a
photo
went
by
the
board
on
about
day
two
I
think.
I’ll
never
be
a
professional,
I
get
carried
away
by
the
vision
of
the
moment
too
much.
Similarly,
the
written
notes
I
have
been
making
so
that
I
can
write
up
this
diary
have
also
become
much
harder
to
maintain.
The
notes
are
getting
fewer
and
more
cryptic.
There
are
single
words
on
otherwise
blank
pages
that
just
don’t
ring
any
bells
now.
They
must
have
meant
something
at
the
time
or
I
wouldn’t
have
written
them.
Ah,
‘Bali
time’
again.
The
rest
of
the
day
was
spent
shopping
in
Denpasar.
Little
Astini
whom
we
had
met
and
befriended
at
the
Sheraton
a
few
days
back
came
to
the
Inn
with
her
husband,
who
has
a
'mini-mini'
van,
to
drive
us
and
be
our
guide
for
the
day.
In
passing
we
stopped
briefly
(I
write
in
jest
of
course)
at
the
Hero’s
Department
store
made
famous
for
its
pure
white,
triple
Velcro
sneakers
in
the
Bali
Saga
’99.
Readers
who
remember
that
epistle
will
of
course
recall
this
inspirational
part
of
the
tale.
To
the
Tiara
department
store
in
Denpasar,
a
new
provider
to
our
girls
who
left
no
goods
unturned
in
their
hunt
for
items
to
fill
the
required
number
of
plastic
bags.
While
this
was
going
on
I
left
to
go
to
the
computer
software
shops
on
Jl
Teuku
Umar
(Platinum
and
Harry’s)
and
nearby
Jl
Imam
Bonjol
to
'pcMac',
one
of
the
very
few
shops
in
Bali
–
are
there
any
others?
-
who
can
supply
Apple
Macintosh
discs.
I
suggest
that
when
anyone
thinks
of
all
Balinese
as
third
world
peoples,
and
it
happens
easily,
they
should
go
and
talk
to
some
of
these
guys.
The
breadth
and
the
depth
of
their
knowledge,
and
their
willingness
to
share
it
with
you,
is
astounding.
Very
little
is
impossible
and
given
only
a
little
time,
they
will
bend
over
backwards
to
fill
your
orders.
I
found
this
particularly
at
pcMac
where
their
business
is
hardware
rather
than
software.
I
was
also
very
impressed
with
Platinum
to
whom
I
had
e-mailed
a
base
order.
All
of
the
order
that
they
had
available
was
packaged
and
under
the
counter
waiting
for
me.
All
material
is
pirate
of
course,
and
illegal
outside
of
Indonesia,
if
not
within
it
as
well,
and
if
Bill
Gates
was
not
a
trillionaire
I
would
certainly
be
concerned.
I
now
have
several
friends
who
are
pushing
the
boundaries
of
their
minds
and
their
world
using
$10
programs
that
they
could
not
afford
to
buy
at
many
hundreds
of
dollars
in
retail
price.
I
left
to
meet
the
others
and
a
little
tour
of
the
Ramayana
store
followed.
I
picked
up
some
games
here
for
friends
and
a
bit
of
educational
resource
stuff,
while
the
girls
did
something
or
other
else
all
over
the
store.
I
am
not
a
little
surprised
when
it
is
declared
‘Panas,
panas’.
Panas
is
hot,
and
anything
repeated
is
more
so,
so
a
double
panas
was
stinking
and
sweaty!
Matahari's
is
postponed
for
another
day
and
we
flee
to
the
Inn
and
the
pool
before
setting
out
to
dine.
Dinner
is
at
the
Kin
Khao
Thai
restaurant
on
Jl
Kartika
Plaza
right
opposite
our
favourite
Kodak
money
change
where
the
rate
is
4725
to
the
dollar
tonight,
the
best
we
have
had
this
trip.
Not
surprisingly
several
of
us
find
the
need
to
cash
up
again
before
or
during
dinner.
Our
only
regret
is
that
they
have
only
old
Rp20,000
notes
and
the
thickness
of
$200
of
these
makes
it
impossible
to
fold
a
wallet
over.
I
wonder
if
there
are
any
new
Rp20,000
notes
in
Indonesia?
They
certainly
get
a
good
life
from
their
hard
used
currency
and
it
will
be
interesting
in
future
years
to
see
how
the
new
plastic
100’s
stand
up.
The
Kin
Khao
(Pron:
'kin
cow'.)
is
good
and
can
be
recommended
but
I
don’t
think
it
is
as
good
as
we
have
found
it
in
past
years.
It
has
been
my
absolute
favourite,
except
for
the
Viet-Thai
in
Adelaide,
for
crackling
Spring
Rolls.
This
time
they
are
disappointing,
tasty
still,
with
a
sharp
sauce,
but
lacking
that
snap
in
the
pastry
covering.
The
barbecue
cooked
on
a
brass
plate
over
a
brazier
of
coals
set
into
a
hole
in
the
middle
of
the
table
is
great
for
those
who
order
it.
As
for
the
others,
although
it
probably
keeps
the mozzies
at
bay,
it
is
just
uncomfortably
hot
on
bare
knees
and
legs.
The
quantity
is
sufficient
for
most
but
not
generous.
It
grieves
me
to
say
it
but
two
days
further
on
I
find
the
meal
is
generally
forgettable.
I
think
that
the
superb
service
of
the
past
has
also
lost
some
of
its
spark
but
it’s
still
prompt
and
not
intrusive.
A
mini
bus
back
to
the
Inn,
with
a
quick
stop
at
ENI
tailors,
a
brief
sojourn
at
the
Pool
Bar
and
another
day
in
Paradise
draws
to
its
inevitably
replete
conclusion.
The pools and the pool bar at the Inn.
Its
been
a
funny
sort
of
a
day
I
conclude,
sort
of
busy
but
quiet
too.
14.10.00
Day
9
takes
us
to
Dolphins
Leather
again,
to
the
Sri
Ratu
to
meet Si
Badak,
and
we
try
to
get
caps
for
Sammi
and
Sussi
who
keep
the
Forum
Bar
on
Legian
Beach.
We
have
dinner
at
Kori's.
Back
to
the
big
photos?
Day
9.
-
Saturday
23
September
2000.
This
is
the
eleventh
chapter
of
the
diary
of
our
trip.
It
is
not
the
usual
short
and
snappy
‘Just
Back’
report
but
it’s
only
three
pages
today.
Flowers cascade over the balconies at the Inn.
Should
I
tell
you
how
we
started
the
day?
Mistri
brought
us
pineapples
today
and,
if
Wayan’s
were
gob-smackers
yesterday,
these
are
the
original
nectar
of
the
Gods.
The
bananas
look
so
damn
awful
that
we
would
not
buy
them
at
home,
but
close
your
eyes
and
suck
them
in
and
they
are
incredibly
creamy
and
‘bananery’.
At
this
point
in
my
notes
I’ve
written,
“I
can’t
resist
–
I’m
going
to
have
one
now’,
and
there
is
an
oily
mark
on
the
corner
of
the
page.
Sort
of
mid-morning
we
picked
up
Margaret
at
her
Barong
Hotel
in
Poppies
Lane.
Two
star?
Three
star?
I
don’t
really
know
but
the
pools
were
nice,
the
first
floor
room
she
had
was
clean,
the
double
bed
looked
comfortable
enough
for
a
party
animal
to
sleep
soundly
in
it
early
in
the
morning
and
the
bathroom
was
more
than
just
adequate.
Surprisingly,
despite
this
being
mid
Saturday
morning,
there
was
no
street
noise
from
either
Poppies
Lane
traffic
or
from
that
in
nearby
Jl
Legian.
We
felt
venturesome,
and
didn’t
realise
the
distance,
so
the
vote
was
taken
to
walk
through
to
Dolphins
Leather
in
Melasti
Street
to
pick
up
our
order.
The
map,
when
I
looked
at
it
later,
shows
no
streets
directly
between
the
two,
but
we
walked,
one
left
–
next
right,
wandering
generally
north.
There
are
some
interesting
little
shops
and
stalls,
cafes
and
home
stays,
through
these
back
pathways
that
I
never
knew
existed.
We
are
greeted
warmly
at
Dolphins
again,
and
the
long
thin
bloke
breaks
out
into
unrestrained
laughter
when
I
walk
in
with
my
back
to
the
wall
and
obviously
keeping
a
firm
grip
on
the
top
of
my
shorts.
Last
year
when
I
was
trying
on
a
pair
of
trousers
I
was
told
to
hold
my
stomach
in.
I
did
so
and
the
trousers,
having
nothing
left
to
hold
them
up,
fell
to
the
floor.
There
was
stunned
and
embarrassed
silence
until
I
pulled
them
up
again
and,
after
a
brief
pause,
repeated
the
performance.
The
silence
turned
to
gales
of
laughter
and
when
I
pulled
them
up
for
the
third
time
‘long
and
thin’
sneaked
up
by
my
side
and
with
a
swift
and
un-ceremonious
yank,
repeated
the
show
without
my
assistance.
Claire
was
fortunate
to
catch
him
in
the
act
with
her
camera
and
it
is
one
of
our
treasured
snaps
of
Bali.
By
this
time
strangers
were
putting
their
heads
in
the
door
to
see
what
the
noise
was
all
about,
and
were
quickly
being
measured
and
given
quotes.
They
had
not
forgotten
the
incident,
or
us
when
we
first
came
in
to
place
our
order,
and
this
time
again
we
all
re-lived
the
fun
once
more
before
getting
down
to
business
over
a
cold
soft
drink.
One
of
the
earliest
things
I
remember
Chris
telling
me
about
his
impressions
of
the
Balinese
was
that
they
have
a
quiet
but
unquenchable
sense
of
humour.
That
he
is
right
was
shown
here
once
more.
From
Dolphins
by
taxi
to
the
Sri
Ratu
Hotel
in
Legian,
further
north,
where
‘Si
Badak’
was
staying
with
his
Sunshine,
Marie.
Si
Badak
is
the
web
name
used
by
a
garrulous
old
ex-Irishman
turned
garrulous
Ozzie
from
Western
Australia.
We
met
through
his
regular
polished
prose
and
God-awful
doggerel
on
the
Bali
Travel
Forum,
a
web
site
we
both
frequent.
Strange
thing,
as
we
walked
up
to
the
reception
desk
to
ask
for
him,
I
noticed
a
figure
sitting
in
a
breezeway
by
the
far
side
of
the
pool.
‘I’ll
bet
that’s
him!’
I
said
to
myself
with
unusual
certainty,
and
it
was.
Somehow
he
seems
to
have
transmitted
his
image
to
me
through
his
writing.
We
talked,
‘of
shoes
and
ships
and
sealing
wax’
over
a
couple
of
‘hooligan
soups’,
with
Marie
getting
in
an
occasional
word
too,
before
accepting
his
invitation
to
have
lunch
with
them.
Margaret
felt
quite
at
home
with
these
two
‘paddies’
as
she
had
just
spent
a
fair
bit
of
time
in
Ireland
and
could
swap
new
tales
for
old.
Lunch
was
good
and
plentiful
Mi
goreng
for
three,
with
drinks,
for
Rp45,000
in
total.
I’m
sure
we’ll
go
back
again
sometime.
We
had
to
leave
too
soon
to
go
back
to
Nusa
Dua
Galeria
to
pick
up
my
glasses
ordered
a
week
ago.
This
was
unknown
territory
for
Margaret
so
she
came
with
us.
I
think
the
guy
who
fits
the
lenses
into
the
frame
was
having
his
afternoon
sleep.
As
soon
as
I
asked
if
they
could
be
sent
to
the
shop
at
Legian
which
is
much
closer
to
us
it
seems
that
they
would
only
be
half-hour
we
if
we’d
like
to
wait
for
them.
This
is
particularly
fortuitous,
as
there
was
now
time
for
the
girls
to
slip
across
to
the
Armani
shop
and
pick
up
a
bag
or
two
of
jeans
etc.
The
glasses
eventually
turn
out
to
be
fine,
which
is
no
mean
feat
given
my
wobbly
eyes.
The
acid
test
would
be
when
I
get
them
home
and
sit
down
in
front
of
the
computer
with
them,
and
when
I
did
they
were
still
fine.
To
the
Inn
via
Matahari’s
in
Kuta
to
pick
up
the
caps
we
were
getting
embroidered
for
our
coming
visit
to
the
Forum
Bar
by
the
Life
Saving
tower
on
the
beach
at
Legian.
One
out
of
the
four
was
right
so
we
left
to
change
more
money
while
three
were
re-done.
This
also
provided
some
welcome
time
to
do
a
bit
of
shopping
in
Matahari's!
When
we
returned
one
of
the
re-done
caps
was
still
not
right
so
we
left
them
to
be
picked
up
later
and
headed
off
to
Happy
Hour
and
a
shower
at
the
Inn
before
dinner
at
Kori’s
in
Poppies
Lane
II.
Kori’s
will
never
make
the
list
of
the
10
cheapest
restaurants
in
Bali
or
the
list
of
those
with
the
widest
variety
of
cuisines,
but
neither
will
it
make
the
most
expensive
list.
It
may,
however,
make
the
best
food
list,
the
best
value
list,
the
most
reliable
list
and
the
list
of
those
with
the
highest
ceilings.
Claire
and
I
have
pre-dinner
drinks
at
the
bar
while
we
are
waiting
for
the
others
who
are
fare
welling
new
found
friends
who
are
off
home
tonight.
I’m
not
ready
to
think
about
going
home
so
I’m
a
bit
surprised
and
a
little
curious
when
they
all
turn
up
for
dinner
and
thoughts
of
home
come
to
mind
again!
It
seems
that
the
flight
is
delayed
and
instead
of
hanging
around
the
airport
for
three
hours
they
decide
to
try
the
highly
recommended
Kori’s.
We
had
the
Grilled
Bruschetta
almost
all
round
and
they
are
good.
Thick,
with
a
slathering
of
topping
loaded
with
garlic.
It’s
probably
a
good
thing
that
we
did
all
have
them!
Claire
has
fish
grilled
on
a
very
hot
stone
that
she
can’t
resist
and
declares
it
delicious.
I
have
the
Bombay
Curry
in
which
there
is
a
nice
contrast
in
textures
between
the
potato
and
the
cauliflower.
With
drinks
and
aqua
the
bill
is
Rp212,520.
It
sounds
a
lot,
and
in
Bali
it
certainly
is,
but
it’s
really
A$22.50
each.
We
can’t
think
of
too
many
places
in
Oz
where
we’d
get
this
quality
for
that
price.
The
taxi
ride
back
to
the
Inn
is
Rp4,750
–
A$1.00
before
tip,
and
qualifies
because
he’s
a
friendly,
talkative
guy
who
comes
from
Padang,
an
island
way
up
north
off
the
middle
of
Sumatra’s
south
coast,
beyond
Java
even.
A
long
way
from
home
to
get
work.
A
late
night
cool-off
in
the
pool,
shower
and
a
half-hour
trying
to
get
these
notes
into
shape
before
welcome
bed.
Another
quiet
sort
of
a
day
if
you’re
not
an
avid
shopper.
Tomorrow
is
another
day
–
and
a
new
notebook.
15.10.00
On
to
Day
10.
Today
we
visit
the
Street
Animal
Rescue
home
at
Sidakarya
village.
We
shop
at
Mayang
Bali
and
at
Matahari's.
We
get
to
Sammi
and
Sussi's
bar
with
their
caps
and
have
dinner
at
Mamma
Lucia's.
View
the
larger
size
photos
of
Days
5
-
10.
Home
Page,
for
a
new
direction.
Day
10.
-
Sunday
24
September
2000.
Would
you
like
to
guess
how
we
started
the
day?
Wayan
found
some
very
sore
spots
this
morning.
I’ve
not
been
doing
my
exercises,
I’ve
been
sitting
too
long
and
walking
too
much.
Now
I’m
paying
for
my
sins
of
omission
and
commission.
Despite
my
groans
she
keeps
on
returning
to
the
left
buttock
and
both
calves,
working
her
thumbs
in
deep
with
the
aid
of
something
that
smells
worse
than
Goanna
Salve.
When
I
think
I’ve
got
to
say
enough,
she
soothes
it
all
again
by
rubbing
with
the
flat
of
her
hands
in
the
opposite
direction.
When
it’s
all
eventually
over
she
helps
me
up
with
a
smile!
I’m
not
going
to
say
that
I
felt
better
(except
that
it
was
better
when
she
stopped)
but
I
am
consoled
when
I
find
later
that
I
have
continued
to
get
about
for
another
day
without
agony.
My
notes
say
that
I
have
just
stopped
for
a
couple
of
those
orange
coloured,
tennis-ball
size
Passion
Fruit.
I
can
now
see
the
evidence
in
the
purple
stain
of
their
skin
juice
on
the
page,
just
like
the
banana
oil
yesterday.
I
spent
half
an
hour
exercising
in
the
pool
afterwards.
Letting
the
warmth
of
the
water
soak
in
and
letting
the
Bintang
sweat
out,
watching
the
frangipani
flowers
fall
from
the
trees
and
listening
to
the
slap
of
the
waves
on
the
beach
which
covered
the
background
chatter
of
other
guests
at
breakfast.
Tough
life
this.
We
decide
that
this
is
the
day
to
go
to
the
Bali
Street
Dog
Rescue
Foundation.
We
see
from
Pamela’s
‘Thank
You’
card
that
it
has
now
been
re-named
the
Bali
Street
Animal
Fund
because
they,
and
the
volunteer
vets
from
Oz,
treat
anything
that
villagers
bring
them
or
that
they
find
on
their
street
sweeps.
This
has
included
an
elephant
recently,
and
as
she
says,
it’s
not
too
many
trained
or
trainee
vets
who
have
a
chance
to
work
on
an
elephant.
We
phone
to
get
some
clearer
directions
and
she
suggests
that
we
get
an
orange
cab
because
she
regularly
uses
them
to
retrieve
injured
animals
and
they
know
where
she
is.
We
accept
the
suggestion
and
the
hotel
phones
for
an
orange
cab
which
are
evidently
centred
in
Sanur.
Half
an
hour
later
we
are
still
waiting
and
the
desk
clerk
rings
again
only
to
be
told
that
they
have
no
cabs
in
the
Tuban
area
at
the
time.
We
abandon
the
wait
(foolishly
as
it
turns
out)
and
take
a
blue
cab.
We
showed
him
the
address
and
we
are
off,
getting
to
Sidakarya
Street
in
a
surprisingly
short
time.
The
village,
or
suburb,
of
Sidakarya
is
a
bit
over
halfway
between
Tuban
and
Sanur.
Number
2
is
at
the
start
of
the
street
but
we
can
not
find
2B,
or
anything
that
looks
like
a
dogs
home.
When
we
ask
a
man
sitting
in
a
drive
he
waves
further
down
the
street
but
all
we
can
find,
no
matter
how
far
we
go,
are
higher
numbers.
We
drive
up
and
down
the
street
four
times,
with
the
driver
asking
everyone
he
sees
and
they
all
wave
in
the
direction
of
the
street
where
it
ends
at
the
T
junction
where
the
numbers
are
in
the
60’s
70’s
and
80’s.
Eventually
a
man,
back
by
No2,
fabricating
what
appears
to
be
aluminium
display
shelves
for
shops
agrees
to
come
with
us
and
show
the
driver
the
right
place.
Although
Sidakarya
street
seems
to
end
in
a
T
junction
it
actually
continues
around
the
right
hand
corner
and
the
Foundation
is
in
a
cluster
of
houses
on
the
right,
not
far
around
this
corner
and
down
a
little
lane.
We
would
never
have
found
it.
Pamela
is
an
enthusiast,
and
it
should
come
as
no
surprise
when
you
think
of
what
she
has
dedicated
herself
to.
She
is
American,
a
negro,
and
has
the
biggest
eyes
I
can
ever
recall
seeing.
Her
white
hair
is
in
the
tightest,
scalp
hugging
curls
imaginable.
She
and
Max,
with
his
Astrakhan-like
coat
of
grey
(Ooops,
sorry,
SILVER)
twists,
would
make
a
great
double
act.
Having said that she is American do I need to note that she can talk?
Pamela and Herself with an inmate who has more important things on his/her/its mind.
The
house
is
traditional
Balinese
with
separated
building/rooms
linked
by
covered
bales
(areas
of
raised
floors)
and
breezeways.
There
is
a
little
cultivated
garden
but
mainly
neatly
trimmed
lawns
(read
‘grass’).
The
dogs,
of
normal
Bali
size
and
small,
including
a
few
pups,
behave
as
you
would
expect
dogs
to
do
at
home,
perhaps
with
a
bit
more
restraint
–
except
for
Stuart
Little
who
is
a
little
bucket
of
over
active
mischief.
One
of
the
more
recent
arrivals
sort
of
hides
for
much
of
the
time
under
a
long-legged
double
bed
in
one
of
the
breezeways
while
we
all
sit
there
sippin’
soda
and
nibbling
corn
chip
crackers
with
chilli
dip.
One
of
the
not
so
recent
arrivals
climbs
onto
the
lounge
with
us
and
innocently,
surreptitiously,
but
persistently,
adjusts
his
position
of
repose
in
such
a
way
that
“he”
is
forever
getting
just
a
little
bit
closer
to
those
corn
chips.
He
absolutely
oozes
across
the
covers.
It
seems
that
under
all
that
repulsive
stuff
that
surrounds
them,
if
you
can
ignore
it,
Bali
dogs
are
really
just
normal
dogs
in
an
abnormal
state.
This
is
one
of
the
thrusts
of
the
rescue
effort.
Although
a
number
of
dogs
are
put
down
if
there
are
not
the
resources
to
save
them
from
further
suffering,
those
that
can
be
rehabilitated
are,
with
the
aim
that
they
should
be
returned
to
the
Balinese
people,
either
families
or
individuals,
as
pets.
The
concept
of
a
dog
as
a
cuddlesome
pet
is
not
part
of
the
local
culture
and
if
the
children
can
be
given
a
feeling
for
pups
or
dogs
a
great
step
forward
in
the
care
of
animals,
and
importantly
in
the
control
of
animals,
will
be
taken.
There
are
signs
that
the
tactic
is
working
albeit
in
a
small
way.
Individuals
in
powerful
political
positions
who
offer
all
sorts
of
exotic
forest
animals
do
not
help
the
work
though.
If
you’ve
got
a
new
shopping
centre
to
open
they
can
hire
or
sell
you
such
attractions
as
tiger
cubs,
orang-utans,
baby
chimps,
birds
and
snakes,
all
at
a
couple
of
days
notice.
Where
they
come
from
and
what
happens
to
them
afterwards
seems
of
little
concern.
[LATER
INSERT.
A
few
days
later
I
found
out
that,
while
I
was
writing
this,
Stuart
Little
died
in
his
sleep.
He
had
evidently
been
ill
for
only
a
short
time
but
the
medicine
that
he
required
was
simply
not
available.]
The
web
site,
http://www.balistreetdogs.org.au,
is
an
Australian
support
organisation
and
gives
a
more
varied
account
of
the
work
being
done,
including
the
story
of
‘Lucky’.
You’ve
probably
guessed
that
we
support
their
efforts.
Back
to
the
Matahari
for
the
caps
to
take
to
the
Forum
Bar
on
Legian
Beach.
On
the
way
we
manage
to
do
a
little
shopping
at
Mayang
Bali,
an
apparently
high
quality
(and
high
price)
jewellery
shop
on
the
corner
between
Matahari
and
the
Kuta
markets.
It’s
not
all
high
priced
and
Claire
gets
some
more
small
elephant
pendants
for
about
A$15.
I
find
it
interesting
to
watch
the
little
group
of
jewellers
who
work
in
a
corner
just
inside
the
main
door.
The
place
really
looks
like
a
million
dollars,
and
I’d
be
surprised
if
you
couldn’t
spend
that
much
in
there,
but
there
are
still
some
bargains
amongst
all
those
sparkles.
From
the
Mayang
to
the
Matahari
we
have
to
pass
through
the
Kuta
markets
(Please
don’t
ask
me
to
explain,
in
a
geographic
sense,
how
it
is
necessary
to
go
south
west
in
order
to
get
north
east.
Just
accept
that,
in
a
shopping
sense,
it
is
so.)
to
pick
up
an
item
or
two.
In
relative
terms
this
is
a
quick
trip
but
I
find
it
wise
to
buy
another
hat
to
keep
the
sun
off
my
head
for
the
period.
I
surprise
myself
by
buying
it
cheaper
than
Claire
has
bought
one
for
a
friend.
I’m
surprised
also
to
find
that
I
can
buy
a
watch
for
Rp30,000
from
Arifa
at
shop
#22,
while
we
have
been
paying
a
‘good
customer
special
price’
of
Rp40,000
at
our
normal
suppliers.
It
is
a
sign
of
the
present
times
I
think,
and
we
are
only
mildly
surprised
when,
later
in
our
stay,
Claire
is
offered
two
watches
for
Rp25,000
in
Melasti
street.
Eventually
we
manage
to
get
to
Matahari’s
and
pick
up
the
caps,
and
a
few
other
things
as
well
of
course.
Back
at
the
Inn
we
have
lunch
around
the
pool,
with
a
libation
or
two,
shower
and
change
for
Sammi
and
Sussi’s
Bali
Travel
Forum
Bar
on
the
beach
at
Legian,
just
up
the
coast
a
bit.
Chris
and
I
have
been
looking
forward
to
this
ever
since
first
finding
out
about
it
on
the
Forum
ages
ago.
It
is
really
a
simple
thing.
A
Balinese
couple,
Sammi
and
Sussi,
fill
up
a
red
esky
with
beer
and
ice
each
afternoon
and
take
it
to
the
beach
by
the
lifeguards
tower
at
about
5
pm.
They
have
stools
to
sit
on
and
from
all
parts
of
the
world
Forumites
gather
for
refreshments
and
to
put
faces
to
names
they
have
‘met’
on
line.
This
goes
on
until
sundown.
There
is
a
tropical
and
romantic
aura
to
all
of
this,
and
a
history
as
well.
The
story
of
the
‘advertising’
umbrella
that
almost
required
the
presence
of
the
Indonesian
army
to
restore
order
will
surely
be
written
into
the
history
of
the
country.
Some
with
no
soul
will
say
that
it
is
all
a
ruse
to
get
a
group
of
tourists
to
sit
down
in
one
place
while
they
are
bombarded
with
the
wares
of
the
local
sellers.
We
were
disappointed
because
we
expected
too
much
perhaps,
or
perhaps
because
it
was
just
a
quiet
night.
It
was
good
though
to
meet
the
only
Forumites‘,
Bob
and
Ann
(Melb)’
who
talked
football
to
Phil
for
ages.
There
were
others
there
who
were
not
Forumites,
friends
of
‘Bob
and
Ann
(Melb)’
who
had
accompanied
them
on
their
trip
to
Thailand
and
an
American
who
traded
in
gems
which
he
had
set
in
Bali.
His
stories
of
passing
through
customs,
which
he
does
regularly,
were,
to
say
the
least,
entertaining.
The
best
was
of
the
time
he
was
asked
to
pay
greatly
more
than
usual
and,
after
protracted
negotiations
only
partly
succeeded
in
reducing
the
amount,
produced
a
US$1,000,000
note
to
pay
the
duty
and
asked
for
change.
He
described
the
circus
act
that
followed,
and
the
inevitable
accusation
that
the
note
was
a
fake.
To
this
he
retorted
that
the
gems
were
too,
and
his
description
of
the
laughter
which
followed
all
through
the
Customs
room
was
especially
poignant
to
those
who
had
been
recently
caught
with
an
excess
of
the
demon
drink
in
their
cases.
Their
feelings
were
not
eased
by
his
tales
of
buying
confiscated
wines
through
an
un-named
supplier
at
a
back
door
in
the
airport.
Recently
on
the
net
‘Bob
and
Ann
(Melb)’
reported
that
Sammi
and
Sussi
were
still
wearing
their
embroidered
caps
and
that
they
were
now
a
badge
of
identification
on
the
beach.
Come
sundown
and
we
were
off
to
Mama
Lucia's
for
dinner.
Italian
of
course,
with
a
bit
of
other
cuisine
thrown
in
for
non-followers
of
the
Orthodox
faith.
It
is
another
of
those
reliable
eateries
like
Kori’s
that
are
a
feature
of
the
Kuta
area.
(I
almost
said
‘a
feature
of
Bali’
but
I
had
visions
of
‘not
the
real
Bali’
reflected
in
my
glasses
and
just
caught
myself
in
time.)
We
went
armed
with
champagne
and
a
cask
of
good
South
Oz
riesling
to
celebrate
‘daughter
and
son-in-law’s
25th
wedding
anniversary’.
That
meant
Phil
and
Nell.
I
thought
it
was
a
much
better
thing
to
celebrate
than
my
equally
fictional
70th
birthday
that
Nell
had
dreamed
up
at
the
Kin
Khao
a
few
nights
ago.
This
is
strictly
an
excuse
to
drink
our
own
wines
after
having
a
few
of
their
beers
take
the
edge
off
our
thirst.
At
least
Papa
got
the
chance
to
make
the
speech
tonight,
which
the
staff
politely
applauded
at
its
conclusion.
Mamas
is
not
cheap.
20,000
for
a
Singapore
Sling,
12,000
for
a
large
Anker
beer.
Bruschetta
was
9,900
but
not
up
to
the
size
or
quality
of
Kori’s.
Grilled
Chicken
was
18,900.
I
had
a
pizza
for
30,000.
It
was
the
folded
over
type,
like
an
Aussie
or
Cornish
vegetable
pasty
in
shape,
but
with
great,
empty,
dry
ends,
and
no
tomato
sauce
to
fill
them
with.
The
bit
in
the
middle
was
tasty
though.
But
for
A$6.45
what
should
I
have
expected?
In
Bali,
more
than
this!
Bucatini
Ala
Amatriciana
(Rp40,900)
was
more
than
Nell
could
handle
but
Phil
is
not
one
to
be
beaten
and
cleaned
it
up
after
declaring
his
Spag
Bog.
(35.900)
partially
satisfying.
It
is
a
noisy
place
and
I
find
the
atmosphere
sterile
and
cold.
By
the
way,
it
is
interesting
that
the
two
good
drinkers
of
the
party
have
investigated
Huey’s
this
afternoon
and
given
it
the
big
thumbs
down,
despite
the
freebie
that
comes
after
a
couple
and
the
great
reviews
given
on
the
Forum.
If
you’re
under
30
maybe,
is
their
verdict.
The
too
rare
practise
of
including,
in
Forum
reports,
a
profile
of
the
writer
and
the
social
norms
of
the
party
clearly
have
value
for
others
trying
to
assess
the
information
and
translating
it
into
their
own
realms
of
personal
relevance.
What
suits
the
kids
(and
I’m
certainly
not
knocking
their
turn-on)
is
not
always
fodder
for
the
goose
and
gander.
To
each
his
own.
One
man’s
meat
is
another’s
poison.
Live
and
let
live.
Its
all
been
said
before
in
many
ways
but
its
easily
and
too
often
forgotten.
Also
by
the
by,
there
is
a
new
section
at
Matahari’s,
we
think
it’s
new,
offering
bulk
and
packaged
spices
of
all
sorts,
ice
creams
in
familiar
brands
and
Oz
and
NZ
cheeses.
Recent
postings
on
the
Forum
indicate
that
all
taxi
fares
have
gone
up
recently
so
you
may
no
longer
get
from
Kuta
to
Nusa
Dua
for
Rp15,000.
We
walk
to
the
end
of
the
street
and
catch
Taxis
back
to
the
Inn,
via
ENI
Tailors.
This
is
to
arrange
for
fittings
in
the
cool
of
our
hotel
rooms
tomorrow
morning.
It
is
not
nice
trying
to
fit
fitting
clothes
onto
a
body
that
is
hot
and
sticky
from
the
walk
down
the
street.
I
write
up
my
notes
while
the
others
wind
down
(or
up?)
at
O’Brien’s
Bar
under
the
Inn
lobby.
A
nice
shower
and
off
to
the
land
of
nod.
16.10.00
On to Day 11. Scot arrives today - to much excitement. I find the Bali Rock Crystal Natural Deodorant - I think. Fast Eddy and the Tuban markets. Dinner at the Pantai as the sun goes down.
Day 11. - Monday 25 September 2000.
The
big
news
is
that
Scot
is
to
arrive
this
afternoon,
just
after
3.
I
don’t
know
who
has
been
hanging
out
the
most,
his
dad
Chris,
or
his
playmate
Jay.
I
bet
that
they’ll
both
be
there
to
meet
the
plane!
The
question
of
the
day
was,
has
he
gone
solo
while
we’ve
been
loafing
around
over
here?
He’s
doing
pilot
training
at
Parafield
Airport
in
Adelaide
with,
I
think,
the
British
Aerospace
Flying
College.
His
aim
is
to
achieve
a
boyhood
ambition
to
join
the
RAAF
as
a
pilot.
Chris
thought
that
he
would
go
solo
the
previous
Wednesday,
in
a
Grob
G115,
while
we
were
having
a
quiet
day
of
shopping
and
getting
my
sandals
repaired
on
the
steps
of
the
Matahari.
I
want
to
hear
about
it
straight
from
the
horse’s
mouth
as
it
were.
I
remember
my
own,
and
want
to
re-live
it
a
bit
I
think.
For
two
years
I
have
been
trying
to
find,
or
re-locate,
the
supply
of
Bali
Rock
Crystal
Deodorant.
I
picked
up
my
first
one
quite
by
chance
and
was
very
impressed
with
it,
until
I
dropped
it
on
the
edge
of
the
hand
basin
in
the
bathroom,
whereupon
it
shattered
into
unusable
fragments.
Most
of
the
normal
deodorants
result
in
an
itch
from
armpit
to
a-----e
on
me,
or
don’t
do
a
damn
bit
of
good,
so
I
was
very
sad
at
its
demise.
I’d
kept
the
little
green
cardboard
insert
from
the
cellophane
wrapper
it
came
in
and
regularly
flashed
this
at
shopkeepers
in
the
vague
hope
that
someone
would
just
reach
out
a
hand
and
–
‘voila!’
–
there
it
would
be.
So
far
no
‘voila’,
but
lots
of
interesting
glances!
Quite
by
chance
I
was
down
at
the
desk
of
the
Inn
this
morning
and
as
I
opened
my
wallet,
out
it
fell.
The
Desk
Clerk
picked
it
up
and
glanced
at
its
aged
and
wrinkled
form
in
curiosity.
‘Do
you
know
it?’
I
asked.
He
looked
more
closely
and
slowly
shook
his
head.
‘Why
don’t
you
ring
them?’
he
asked,
pointing
to
a
prominent
phone
number
on
the
slip.
Well
now,
you
could
have
knocked
me
down
with
a
feather.
You
can
believe
me
when
I
say
that
I
had
never
even
noticed
the
phone
number
and
certainly
never
thought
of
trying
to
ring
anyone.
‘Would
you
like
me
to
call
them?’
he
asked.
Well,
would
I
ever!
Yes
please!
Oh,
thank
you!
So
it
came
about
that
I
located
the
very
original
source
of
it.
A
Furniture
and
Antique
shop
in
Kerobokan,
which
we
would
pass
through
on
our
way
north
and
a
bit
west
going
to
the
orphanage
later
in
the
week.
(The
‘Barang
Barang
Shop’,
No28X
Jl
Raya
Kerobokan
on
the
left
hand
side
of
the
road
as
you
come
from
Tuban/Kuta
if
anyone’s
interested.)
Everyone
who
has
ever
been
to
Tanah
Lot
Temple
will
have
passed
the
Barang
Barang
Shop
and
probably
never
noticed
it
although
it
looks
as
though
its
been
there
since
Tanah
Lot
was
new.
And
if
anyone
thinks
it
strange
that
a
second-hand
furniture
shop
should
also
manufacture
hypo-allergenic
deodorant
then
you
haven’t
been
to
Bali.
A
second
coincidence,
or
is
it
a
third?,
occurred
when
I
was
telling
Tony
Marrone
the
watch
seller
down
the
road
later.
‘I’m
from
Kerobokan!’
he
exclaims,
‘I
can
get
it!’
and
by
now
perhaps
he
has
and
you
can
buy
it
from
him
on
Jl
Wana
Segara
in
Tuban.
Claire
went
off
to
a
massage
this
morning
and
was
to
bring
back
an
order
of
scarves
for
some
very
old
friends
back
home.
But
I
was
trying
to
be
good
and
catch
up
on
my
exercises
in
the
pool.
Nell
was
doing
a
few
laps
just
to
show
me
up
by
going
much
faster,
and
Phil
and
Chris
had
gone
down
to
the
beach
to
meet
Shayasta,
our
favourite
Happy
Hour
cocktail
mixer.
He
has
recently
become
a
proud
father
and
the
chance
to
show
off
his
Number
1
son
to
old
friends
is
too
much
of
an
opportunity
to
miss.
It
is
a
lovely
morning
in
Bali.
You
might
ask
which
ones
are
not,
and
I
couldn’t
answer.
Yoyan,
from
ENI
tailors,
appeared
at
the
desk
while
I
was
there
and
I
checked
him
into
the
Inn.
He
would
not
move
out
of
the
lobby
without
an
escort
and
I
was
happy
to
take
him
off
to
Nell’s
room
to
start
the
fitting
session
arranged
on
the
way
home
last
night.
For
some
reason
I’m
not
invited
although
I’m
pretty
good
at
fits.
We
intended
to
get
some
watches
from
Fast
Eddy
in
his
new
shop
way
round
the
corner
of
Jl
Wana
Segara,
past
the
Pantai,
where
it
becomes
the
Kartika
Lane
I
think.
Eddy,
with
the
flashing
gold
tooth
that
was
the
symbol
of
his
wealth,
was
once
the
master
of
the
watch
sellers
in
Tuban,
always
sitting
on
a
bench
opposite
the
driveway
of
the
Inn
unless
he
was
off
to
Java
to
get
a
case-full
of
new
stock
for
everyone.
Eddy
set
the
prices
and
distributed
the
various
styles
to
the
other
sellers,
with
careful
consideration
for
the
market
demands
of
their
sites
and
with
a
fairness
that
apparently
never
ruffled
feathers.
When
street
selling
was
banned
a
bit
over
a
year
ago
all
the
sellers
had
to
have
a
shop
base
in
an
area
approved
by
the
government
in
Jakarta.
Every
one
had
to
tout
for
their
own
sales
and
to
advertise
their
trade
and
location
through
the
now
common
business
card.
Eddy
was
lost!
For
some
time
we
had
known
that
he
could
add
and
subtract
but
he
could
not
multiply
or
divide.
If
you
bought
nine
watches
at
Rp45,000
each
he
had
to
add
45,000
nine
times,
and
he
seemed
to
be
able
to
do
it
in
his
head.
What
we
didn’t
know
was
that
Eddy
could
not
read
or
write
either.
Those
little
rows
of
symbols
on
watches
that
made
up
a
name
were
simply
a
mystery
to
him
and
he
must
have
memorised
all
the
name
brands
that
he
handled.
He
could
not
write
a
business
card
or
an
advertising
sign
for
his
little
counter
next
to
the
Fuji
shop.
He
was
nearly
beside
himself
with
gratitude
last
year
when
I
made
him
a
sign
in
the
Inn’s
Business
Centre.
He
still
has
it,
wrapped
in
plastic
film,
on
his
counter.
The
young
lads
who
were
once
his
protégés
had
an
advantage
and
were
now
able
to
topple
the
Master
–
and
they
did,
not
to
take
his
place
or
to
put
him
down
but
simply
to
survive
themselves.
Eddy
is
surviving
but
only
just.
He
now
sells
from
a
quite
poor
site,
way
off
the
most
used
tourist
walks,
in
the
middle
of
a
street
replete
with
other
watch
sellers.
He
has
had
to
sell
his
precious
motorbike
that
gave
him
the
mobility
to
oversee
his
empire,
and
to
adapt
to
a
much
lower
status
amongst
his
peers.
As
I
found
out
later,
however,
after
others
had
failed,
he
still
has
the
best
contacts
when
a
watch
needs
repairing.
On
my
walk
I
found
a
woven
Table
runner
thing
that
I
have
been
searching
for,
for
another
very
old
friend.
It
came
from
a
new
market
we
had
not
seen
before
this
visit,
on
Jl
Kartika
Plaza
almost
opposite
the
entrance
to
the
Bali
Bintang
Hotel.
There
are
a
few
goods
of
a
different
variety
to
those
most
often
seen.
Claire
manages
to
fill
a
bag
or
two
while
I
was
doing
nothing
much
except
stand
around
practising
my
seven
Bali
phrases
ad
nauseam.
Again
it
was
obvious
that
the
sellers
are
doing
it
hard.
Not
only
those
in
newer
markets
like
this,
which
have
sprung
up
since
street
selling
was
banned,
but
also
those
in
the
more
established
places.
These
sellers
were
not
really
pushy,
but
every
one
tried
hard
to
catch
your
eye
with
something
and
as
you
passed
there
were
a
stream
of
offers
for
this
and
that.
If
you
bought
something
the
word
seemed
to
spread
and
you
were
besieged
with
offers
for
the
same
item
all
the
way
down
the
line
of
shops.
While
we
spent
about
an
hour
in
this
market
of
perhaps
60
to
80
shops
I
can
recall
seeing
only
one
other
couple
looking
at
the
goods
on
offer.
From
the
Inn’s
Business
Office
I
faxed
an
order
for
software
to
pcMac
in
Denpasar.
As
they
would
have
to
either
make
the
discs
or
get
them
in
I
felt
that
a
fax
from
the
Inn
would
give
them
some
assurance
that
I
was
a
genuine
customer.
I
gave
the
girl
in
the
office
a
little
felt
kangaroo
with
spring
grip
paws.
We
had
picked
these
up
in
long
packs
of
about
a
dozen
in
Adelaide’s
Central
Market
stores
before
we
left
and,
again,
it
proved
to
be
a
very
popular
gift.
When
I
got
back
to
the
rooms
the
cleaners
were
there
and
I
gave
them
one
each
also.
‘Kandaloo’
accompanies
the
little
squeals
of
delight!
Chris
rang
Scot
just
before
he
was
due
to
leave
and
he
confirmed
that
he
had
indeed
gone
solo.
I
was
surprised
that
I
got
a
real
stirring
of
the
blood
when
I
heard
the
news.
An
empathetic
adrenalin
rush
indeed.
At
the
pool
I
had
Spring
Rolls
and
share
champagne
for
lunch
before
getting
organised
to
go
out
to
the
airport
to
meet
Scot.
We
were
early
(or
the
plane
was
late,
I
can’t
remember
which)
so
there
was
a
chance
to
have
a
look
at
the
airport
complex
which
we
have
only
ever
seen
in
the
rush
of
disembarkation
or
the
darkness
of
leaving.
It’s
really
an
interesting
place,
particularly
the
new
departure
building
and
the
little
shops
along
the
outside
walkway
that
I
had
never
noticed
before.
I
suppose
that
we’ve
always
had
other
things
on
our
minds
when
we’ve
been
here
catching
a
flight
home
in
the
past.
I
also
noticed
that
lockers
are
available
and
things
can
be
stored
for
Rp5,500
per
item
per
day.
At
last
Scot
walked
out
the
door,
to
such
yelling
that
makes
some
obviously
demure
locals
decide
to
move
away
from
us
just
a
little.
Scot
had
a
mile-wide
grin,
as
did
Jay
who
grabbed
his
mate,
and
as
did
proud
Dad.
The
ride
back
to
the
Inn
was
full
of
talk
and
it
was
not
too
long
before
both
Scot
and
Jay
were
leaping
and
wrestling
in
the
pool.
We
eventually
struggled
off
to
the
Pool
Bar
for
Happy
Hour
and
to
program
the
evening.
The
heat
of
the
last
two
or
three
days
must
have
be
getting
to
us
and
we
concluded
that
we
could
only
raise
enough
energy
to
struggle
off
to
the
Pantai
for
dinner.
No
one
raised
any
arguments
against
the
plan.
Fransiskus
Ruben
came
to
greet
us
just
as
we
were
sitting
down.
I
asked
about
little
Ema
and,
proud
father
that
he
is,
he
launched
into
a
largely
unintelligible
story
of
her
latest
antics.
Normally
his
English
is
very
good
but
Ema
gets
him
excited
and
emotion
took
over
his
vocal
chords
and
they
just
seemed
to
tangle
while
his
tonsils
tripped
over
themselves.
I
manage
to
get
the
message
that
she
loved
the
toy
white
rabbit
that
we
had
brought
for
her.
It
was
her
favourite
amongst
the
others.
We
had
pink
(red?)
champagne
from
home
for
starters
and
our
waiter
wasted
no
time
in
getting
a
glass
for
his
first
taste
of
this
delight.
I
got
the
impression
that
he
was
not
delighted
but
was
too
polite
to
say
so.
My
Crab
and
Asparagus
soup
was
delicious
although
crab
is
not
my
favourite
taste.
This
was
followed
by
pork
with
mushrooms,
both
dishes
accompanied
by
chilled
Yalumba
Riesling
from
a
2-litre
cask.
Phil
swears
that
his
hamburger
was
as
good
as
he
has
had
anywhere
including
the
Hard
Rock
Café
but
he
needed
two
seafood
cocktails
first
to
take
the
edge
off
his
appetite,
and
those
were
not
small
entrees
either.
Chris
had
the
Avocado
Vinaigrette
and
simply
licked
his
lips
and
smiled.
Jay
had
fish
fingers
while
Claire
demolished
Grilled
Crabs,
leaving
the
waiter
in
awe
of
her
sparkling
plate.
I
can’t
remember
when
we
have
been
even
mildly
dissatisfied
with
either
the
meal
or
the
service
at
this
restaurant,
and
the
bill
at
the
end
never
caused
any
ripple
either.
If
only
the
toilets
rated
more
than
6/10.
But
then,
its
not
too
far
back
to
the
Inn.
Bali Travellers with Fransiskus Rueben at the Pantai.
16.10.00
On to Day 12. Day 12 sees us off to Denpasar for ordinary (?) shopping and for computer software. Shopping Bali style at Ramayana. The Lotus Tavern.
Day
12.
-
Tuesday
26
September
2000.
This
is
the
fourteenth
part
of
the
personal
diary
of
our
trip.
TRAVELLER'S
PROFILE:
Our
party
consists
of
-
*
Phil
and
Nell,
middle
aged,
with
12-year-old
son
Jay.
They
have
been
regular
overseas
travellers
for
the
last
10
years,
mainly
to
Bali.
*
Chris
and
his
son
Scot,
18
years,
are
also
regular
Bali
travellers.
*
Claire
and
myself
are
a
bit
older
than
the
others.
We
first
went
to
Bali
over
20
years
ago
but
did
not
return
until
5
years
ago
and
have
been
annual
visitors
since
then.
We
are
middle
class
professionals
in
upper
level
management
positions
or,
in
my
case,
retired.
The
two
boys
are
students.
Don’t
try
to
read
this
if
you’re
not
patient.
For
a
couple
of
days
at
least
I
haven’t
reported
on
the
massages
which
have
generally
started
my
day
or
have
been
slotted
in
at
some
time
later.
They
had,
however,
been
ongoing.
On
the
way
down
on
this
morning,
at
about
7,
I
tried
to
take
a
few
photos
along
the
water’s
edge
but
I
was
too
late
to
get
the
light
that
I
wanted.
If
Max
were
there
he’d
get
me
up
at
6.30
because
that’s
walk
time
and
I
would
really
have
had
no
choice.
Wayan
will
not
be
on
the
beach
tomorrow,
as
it
will
be
the
day
for
the
annual
ceremony
at
her
temple
of
origin.
This
devotion
which
pervades
Balinese
life
is
a
bit
difficult
for
the
average
western
semi-atheist
to
come
to
terms
with.
‘Pervades’
is
a
pretty
accurate
word
to
use
because
it’s
not
an
‘add-on’
to
their
lives.
Every
day
Wayan
puts
a
woven,
palm-frond,
offering
basket
on
the
beach
before
she
even
unpacks
the
mattress,
her
breakfast,
or
anything.
There
is
a
little
ceremony
that
accompanies
this
which
culminates
in
sprinkling
the
offering
with
water,
often
using
a
flower
as
the
water
carrier.
I’m
sure
that
she
would
have
done
the
same
thing
at
home
as
soon
before
she
came
to
the
beach.
Mistri
is
quite
sure
that
she
will
take
care
of
us
when
Wayan
is
away,
and
so
are
we.
Our
plan
this
morning
is
to
return
to
Denpasar,
me
to
finalise
the
purchase
of
software
for
myself
and
for
friends,
the
others
to
finish
(I
don’t
believe
it
for
one
minute)
shopping.
After
re-negotiating
friends’
purchases
with
them
via
e-mail
I
sent
a
fax
to
pcMac
yesterday
hoping
that
the
order
would
be
ready
to
collect
when
I
arrive.
The
reason
for
the
re-negotiation
was
because
the
estimate
I
had
given
friends,
of
about
$10
per
disc,
is
shattered
when
I
believed
the
quote
from
pcMac
to
be
over
three
times
this
amount.
Their
returned
fax,
therefore,
was
for
about
a
third
of
their
original
request
or
five
programs.
When
I
arrived
the
order
was
ready
for
me
but
there
were
only
two
discs!
Eventually
I
understood
that
the
price
I
have
been
given
per
disc
is
just
that
–
per
disc
–
containing
as
many
programs
as
they
could
fit
onto
each
one.
The
five
programs
that
I
ordered
are
not
Rp750,000
as
I
expected
(5
x
Rp150,000)
but
Rp300,000
because
they
all
fitted
onto
two
discs
–
at
Rp
150,000
each
disc!
Quick
as
a
flash,
before
the
rules
change,
(not
that
I
expect
they
would),
I
apologise
for
my
lack
of
understanding
and
re-order
the
other
programs
that
were
struck
off
the
list.
The
extra
programs,
I
found
out
at
2.00
pm
the
same
day
when
I
returned
to
pick
them
up,
fitted
easily
onto
one
disc,
so
the
unused
space
had
been
filled
up
with
other
programs
that
he
thought
we
would
like.
Now
that’s
service!
Bob
and
Geoff
will
have
an
interesting
Lucky
Dip
when
they
get
them.
I
also
called
in
to
Dragon
Bali
Computer
at
Jl
Imam
Bonjol
#336G
(pcMac
is
at
226)
which
I
had
been
told
about
by
a
pair
of
like-minded
Aussies
I
met
at
Platinum.
A
different
sort
of
store
again,
dealing
in
PC’s
and,
when
you
asked,
a
large
cardboard
box
of
software
was
produced
from
under
the
counter
which
you
rummaged
through
to,
hopefully,
find
your
needs.
For
this
inconvenience
the
programs
were
cheaper
than
elsewhere
at
Rp25,000,
but
it
was
strictly,
‘Seek
And
Ye
Shall
Find’.
The
normal
price
for
PC
programs
seems
to
be
Rp35,000
for
the
usual
one-disc
programs,
Rp60,000
for
two-disc
programs
and
Rp120,000
for
four-disc
programs
such
as
‘Office’.
I
returned
to
Platinum
to
correct
another
mistake
I
had
made
in
yesterday’s
order
and
found
out
that
they
are
almost
ready
to
open
a
store
in
Legian.
By
the
time
this
is
posted
it
could
be
open,
saving
the
trip
up
to
Denpasar
and,
hopefully,
give
knowledgeable
service
unlike
that
which
you
get
at
Matahari’s
that
is
a
bit
hit
and
miss
in
my
experience.
While
I
am
in
Denpasar
I
briefly
visit
Harry’s
Computer
College
and
eventually
found
the
way
in.
The
front
door
had
a
‘CLOSED’
sign
on
it
but
that
only
referred
to
this
particular
door,
not
the
shop
as
a
whole.
If
you
pressed
on
you
found
an
open
door
at
the
side
of
the
shop.
I
had
sent
three
e-mails
to
my
previous
contact
at
the
shop
but
never
received
a
reply.
I
was
eventually
approached
by
an
assistant
to
whom
I
expressed
my
disappointment,
not
failing
to
mention
that
I
had
now
filled
my
order
at
Platinum.
He
was
very
apologetic
and
gave
me
his
card
with
assurances
that
he
would
personally
attend
to
my
calls
in
future
–
and
I
really
believe
that
he
will.
After
all
of
this
walking,
with
a
bit
of
driving,
I
caught
a
cab
back
to
Ramayana
where
I
had
arranged
to
meet
the
others.
As
I
went
into
the
store
I
suddenly
realised
how
big
it
was,
and
how
lucky
I
would
be
to
find
them
in
the
throng
of
shoppers.
I
was
reckoning
without
the
bulk
of
Phil
who
stood
head
and
shoulders
above
most
of
the
displays.
Within
a
few
minutes
I
had
found
them
all.
While
here
their
range
of
very
small,
self-tuning
AM/FM
radios
tempted
me.
The
smallest
was
about
half
the
size
of
an
Aussie
matchbox
and
performed
incredibly
well
even
inside
the
store.
I
eventually
settled
for
some
a
bit
bigger
for
Rp
25,000
(about
$5)
as
presents
for
friends.
I
was
also
tempted
by
slices
of
Black
Forest
Cake
in
the
display
counter
near
the
radio/telephone
counter.
I
eventually
came
away
with
the
(not
very
nice)
slice
of
cake,
but
not
before
I
was
again
left
to
wonder
why
there
should
be
unemployment
in
Bali.
From
the
cake
display
counter
one
of
the
three
assistants
took
out
the
slice
that
I
pointed
to
and
gave
it
to
one
of
the
others.
The
third
wrote
out
a
docket
and
signalled
for
me
to
accompany
her.
Off
we
went,
into
the
nearby
food
supermarket
to
line
up
at
the
checkout.
We
eventually
progressing
to
the
cash
till
after
nearly
six
minutes,
the
docket
was
scrutinised,
with
explanatory
comments
(I
presume)
from
my
guide.
Money
was
passed
to
my
guide,
transferred
to
the
‘check-out-chick’
and
the
change,
by
the
reverse
route,
then
passed
back
to
me.
I
was
then
escorted
back
to
the
cake
counter
where
the
cash
register
receipt
was
scrutinised,
stamped
and
filed.
I
was
then
given
my
cake,
by
now
wrapped
up
–
and
I
do
mean
wrapped!
Quadruple
wrapped,
if
there
is
such
a
word.
When
it
came
out
of
the
counter
it
had
paper
on
the
cut
sides
of
the
wedge
and
under
the
bottom.
It
had
been
over-wrapped
on
these
three
sides
and
placed
on
a
small
triangle
of
cardboard.
The
whole
was
then
placed
into
a
paper
bag,
carefully
folded
so
that
nothing
touched
the
cream
and
shaved
chocolate
topping.
The
bag
was
then
stapled
twice
so
that
it
did
not
collapse
under
the
pressure
of
another,
totally
enclosing,
plastic
bag.
This
bag
was
sealed
by
adhesive
tape
and
had
a
small
carrying
flap
worked
into
the
top
above
the
centre
of
gravity
of
the
package.
By
the
time
I
got
it
open,
much
to
Phil’s
amazement
as
he
watched
the
execution
of
this
task,
I
needed
the
energy
it
provided.
It
was
a
real
pity
that
it
looked
much
better
in
the
display
case
than
it
tasted
in
my
mouth.
Today,
for
the
first
time
in
this
holiday
I
was
given
coins
in
my
change,
and
it
has
happened
twice.
I
normally
try
to
avoid
these,
as
it
only
seems
to
add
to
the
complexities
of
shopping
for
little
real
value.
If
you
can
find
a
small
and
innocent
child
they
can
be
given
away
if
the
parents
are
not
looking.
If
anyone
sees
you,
however,
there
is
no
doubt
that
you
are
immediately
branded
as
a
cheapskate.
I
have
collected
six
coins,
two
gold
(coloured)
Rp100
(worth
about
2
cents),
two
silver
(aluminium?)
Rp100
and
another
two
gold
ones
valued
at
Rp
500
each.
These
Rp500
gold
coloured
coins
are
almost
exactly
the
same
size
and
colour
as
Australian
$1
coins.
This
likeness
is
to
play
a
part
in
me
being
taken
for
a
ride
for
the
second
time
in
the
holiday
–
but
that
is
a
tale
for
later.
I
don’t
mind
the
little
lollies
that
the
supermarkets
give
you
as
very
small
change
however,
as
they
are
coffee
flavoured
and
nice
to
eat.
We
were
all
eventually
shopped
out
(only
a
temporary
condition
for
the
girls)
and
retreated
to
the
pool
again,
for
some
respite
from
the
heat
and
for
lunch
from
the
pizza
counter.
Another
small
Happy
Hour
at
the
Pool
Side
Bar
and
we
went
separate
ways
for
dinner
tonight.
The
two
boys
are
not
feeling
well
so
their
carers
decided
to
have
room
service.
Claire
and
I
eventually
settled
on
the
Lotus
Tavern,
one
of
Five
Lotuses
in
Bali
with
another
in
the
chain
in
Singapore.
The
Lotus
Tavern
is
in
Jl
Wana
Segara,
at
the
other
end
from
the
Inn,
near
ENI
tailors.
It
has
lotus
ponds
across
the
street
frontage
and
deeply
carved
wooden
panels
across
one
end
wall.
The
polished
timber
floors
are
topped
by
a
traditional
Balinese
roof
structure
of
open
poles
and
dressed
timbers
supporting
a
thatch
roof
that
has
beautiful
plywood
under
sheets
which
I
think
have
sliced
surface
veneers
of
cedar
and
the
inner
veneers
are
probably
cedar
also.
I
keep
forgetting
that
we
are
in
the
tropics
where
these
exotic
and
beautiful
timbers
grow,
so
I’m
regularly
amazed
to
see
them
used
for
such
mundane
purposes.
Just
before
the
Hot
Springs
(Air
Panas)
which
we
visited
west
of
Lovina
on
our
trip
north
a
few
days
ago,
there
were
a
new
group
of
shops
being
built.
We
stopped
to
watch
the
workers
for
a
while
and
it
suddenly
dawned
on
me
that
the
carpenter
sitting
just
in
front
of
me,
hand
planing
a
flitch
of
timber,
was
actually
working
on
an
enormous
slab
of
wonderfully
figured,
solid
teak.
The
waxy
surface
of
the
wood
gleamed
at
each
stroke
of
his
plane.
I
looked
carefully
at
the
timber,
and
at
the
construction,
and
had
to
come
to
the
conclusion
that
he
was
preparing
a
simple
roof
beam
to
go
across
the
front
opening,
bridging
the
gap
between
the
ends
of
the
side
walls.
I
tapped
the
piece
and
pointed
to
the
space
overhead
where
I
thought
it
was
to
go
and
he
nodded
in
agreement.
The
piece
he
was
working
on
was
about
5
meters
long
and
175
mm
wide
by
125
mm
thick
(16’
x
7”
x
5”).
My
guess
is
that
you
would
need
quite
a
few
hundred
dollars
to
buy
such
a
piece
at
home.
At
the
back
of
the
shop
there
was
a
stack
of
probably
ten
or
fifteen
such
pieces.
I
know
of
wooden-boat
builders
who
would
kill
to
have
such
a
stock
sitting
in
the
back
of
their
workshops.
That
roof
will
be
a
piece
of
generally
un-noticed
magnificence,
slowly
being
covered
by
dust
and
rat
droppings,
and
it
will
last
for
a
hundred
years
at
least,
if
it
doesn’t
burn
down.
But,
back
to
the
Lotus
Tavern.
I
had
to
keep
trying
the
Spring
Rolls,
still
looking
for
a
place
to
recommend.
The
Lotus
provided
two
only
for
an
entree,
but
they
were
quite
the
largest
spring
rolls
I
think
I
have
ever
seen.
But
best
of
all
they
were
crispy
and
tasty!
The
generous
dish
of
peanut
sauce
was
almost
crunchy.
All
in
all
worth
9/10
at
least
–
and
so
they
should
have
been
for
Rp13,000
+
10%.
All
prices
here
are
+
10%
here.
Some
restaurants
quote
full
prices
and
yet
others
quote
prices
+
10%
+
government
tax
which
seems
to
vary
from
10%
to
20%,
up
to
40%
for
some
alcoholic
drinks.
It
can
be
confusing
when
trying
to
compare
one
place
with
another.
The
Nasi
Goreng
Special
is
Rp26,000
and
good
but
not
as
good
as
that
which
we
had
at
the
Sri
Ratu
with
the
amiable
Irishman
a
while
back.
The
Soup
of
the
Day
is
Minestrone
for
Rp9,000.
It
is
salty,
with
an
unusual
although
not
unpleasant
spicy
tang,
but
no
pasta
content
at
all.
Herself
awarded
it
8/10
which
is
not
a
bad
recommendation
as
she
makes
a
deadly
minestrone
herself.
I
had
the
Balinese
Babi
Kecap
(pork
morsels
with
Balinese
spices
and
sweet
soy
sauce)
with
steamed
rice
for
Rp24,000.
The
meat
is
nicely
spicy
but
not
chilli
hot,
firm
but
not
tough.
The
bowl
of
steamed
rice
is
very
generous
and
it
was
came
with
a
very
small
dish
of
sliced
celery
and
carrot
that
was
delicious
and
a
nice
contrast
to
the
heavy
sauces
of
the
pork.
Claire
as
might
have
been
anticipated
chose
the
Grilled
Fish
for
Rp
34,000.
It
was
called
a
Red
Snapper
when
she
asked,
whatever
that
really
means.
It
came
sprinkled
with
olive
oil,
parsley
and
garlic
accompanied
with
a
small
dish
of
rather
nothing,
salty
vegetables,
and
not
the
spring
potatoes
that
the
menu
promised.
The
fish
was
generous
with
moist
and
tasty
flesh
and
nice
barbecue
flavours
on
the
skin
but
a
wedge
of
lemon
would
have
been
nice.
The
fish
was
awarded
10/10
but
the
rest
suffered
with
only
5/10.
When
the
mozzies
from
the
pond
got
active
it
was
a
sign
of
the
attentive
service
that
it
only
took
one
slap
of
the
ankles
for
two
smoking
coils
to
be
quickly
placed
under
the
table.
There
were
only
three
other
tables
in
use
but
we
found
that
our
waitress,
Putu,
was
charming,
helpful
and
unobtrusively
attentive.
Perhaps
we
expected
too
much
of
the
Lotus,
or
perhaps
some
of
the
meal
promised
so
much,
but
other
parts
did
not
live
up
to
that
promise.
The
Lotus
sits
in
the
great
divide
that
we
have
not
been
aware
of
in
previous
trips.
It
has
some
good
food
but
is
not
good
value
when
compared
with
others.
A
nice
Balinese
atmosphere,
if
you
can
ignore
the
muffled
disco
beat
competing
with
the
exhausts
on
the
street,
is
not
going
to
compensate
for
this
comparative
lack
of
value.
The
middle
to
higher
priced
restaurants
seem
to
be
cutting
quality
or
quantity
or
service,
and
in
so
doing
are
losing
out
to
the
cheaper
places
like
the
Pantai
and
the
SA
Café
where
the
overheads
are
probably
lower.
Whatever
the
reasons
it
seems
to
us
that
repeat
custom
is
going
to
focus
on
value,
and
the
more
fancied
eateries
will
suffer
from
this
trend
when
times
are
tight,
as
they
are
now.
Our
total
bill,
including
Aquas
at
Rp5,500
each,
comes
to
A$21.30
and
you’d
be
excused
for
asking
how
critical
can
you
get
for
a
meal
that
costs
$21.30?
A
good
question
but
for
an
answer
you
only
need
to
go
to
the
Pantai
where
the
food
is
consistently
good.
Here
the
Balinese
beach
atmosphere
is
supported
by
the
intermittent
splash
of
the
ocean
waves
on
the
beach,
the
quiet
sizzle
of
food
in
the
kitchen
and
the
murmur
of
conversation
floating
away
on
the
breeze
into
the
night.
I
find
it
hard
to
determine
value
when
I’m
eating
a
meal.
What
do
you
compare
it
with?
If
you
compare
it
with
a
good
average
restaurant
at
home
then
the
Bali
variety
has
good
food
and
always
wins
hands
down
for
value.
But,
‘When
in
Rome
–
‘.
If
you’re
in
Bali
you
compare
one
restaurant
with
the
others
there
that
you
can
choose
from,
and
some
come
out
better
than
others
in
the
comparison.
We
have
a
pleasant
walk
home,
not
too
far
to
the
Inn,
with
a
cool,
gentle
night
breeze
giving
the
local
bats
a
small
soaring
advantage
when
hunting
insects
in
the
glow
of
the
street
lights.
There
are
little
things
you
see
and
suddenly
remember
from
past
visits.
Like
the
small,
faintly
luminous
arrow
that
points
to
Mecca
on
the
ceiling
of
the
hotel
room.
18.10.00
Back to our Home Page to pick up a different thread? Perhaps 'The Owl and The Pussy Cat', or 'By Bike to Queenscliffe'?
On
to
Day
13.
The
boys
are
sick!
We
inspect
nearby
hotels
while
they
rest.
Photo
problems
and
wood
carving
at
the
Inn.
Some
odds
and
sods
and
education
for
the
watch
seller's
friends.
Day
13.
-
Wednesday
27
September
2000.
This
is
just
over
six
pages
in
length
and
nothing
earth
shattering
happens.
Don’t
even
try
to
read
it
if
you’re
not
patient.
Day
13
The
two
boys,
Scot
and
Jay,
are
not
well.
Scot
has
had
a
pretty
intensive
week
of
flying
and
study,
with
the
tension
of
his
first
solo
thrown
in
for
good
measure.
I
think
that
his
systems
have
just
begun
to
relax
from
the
high
that
he
has
been
maintaining
and
he’s
crumpled
into
a
heap.
He
has
a
bit
of
a
temperature
and
the
doctor
says
bed
for
a
couple
of
days.
When
he
turns
down
the
chance
to
go
White
Water
Rafting
he’s
certainly
not
on
top
of
the
world.
Jay’s
got
a
bit
of
a
cough
and
a
sniffle
but
he’s
also
had
a
pretty
tumultuous
month
or
so,
moving
from
Adelaide
to
the
country,
leaving
old
friends
and
making
new
ones,
a
new
home
and
a
new
school
in
an
unfamiliar
place.
His
funny
tummy
of
last
night
seems
to
be
a
bit
better
this
morning.
He
might
be
in
sympathy
with
his
big
playmate
too.
Whatever,
they’re
rooming
it
for
a
while,
under
watchful
eyes.
When
kids
are
sick
everyone’s
holiday
gets
put
on
hold
for
a
while.
Things
that
you
might
delay
about
at
home,
with
a
wait-and-see
attitude
suddenly
become
a
bit
more
of
a
concern
when
you’re
thousands
of
kilometres
away
in
a
somewhat
unfamiliar
country.
‘What
is
your
program
for
today?’
Every
one
seems
to
ask.
The
room
cleaners,
the
waitress
at
breakfast,
the
Desk
Clerk,
the
girls
on
the
beach.
Certainly
the
taxi
drivers
and
mini-bus
drivers,
and
if
you
don’t
have
one
they’ll
try
to
sell
you
one.
Rest
days
just
don’t
seem
to
be
very
satisfactory
for
them.
For
this
morning
ours
is
not
too
different
from
yesterdays
or
the
day
before
or
the
day
before.
The
girls
need
to
change
some
money
and
are
going
‘last
minute
shopping’
would
you
believe?
Since
this
is
Wednesday
and
we
don’t
leave
till
Sunday
morning
this
is
going
to
be
the
longest
‘last
minute’
in
history.
Phil
wants
to
have
a
look
at
some
alternative
hotels
for
future
consideration,
but
I
think
it
will
take
an
earthquake
to
shift
him
from
the
Inn
after
all
these
years.
And
he
makes
a
good
point
too.
We
have
tried
other
hotels
at
Nusa
Dua
and
at
Ubud
and
found
things
to
like
about
them
but
the
Inn
is
familiar
territory
with
more
that
a
few
good
points.
Yes,
its
tired
and
need
a
good
re-vamp,
and
my
pet
hate
is
the
short
necked
showers
which
lack
good
adjustment,
and
I
don’t
think
anything
that
wants
to
be
more
than
a
two
star
hotel
should
have
showers
over
the
bath.
It’s
uncomfortable
and
damn
dangerous.
But
the
place
is
right
on
the
beach,
and
that
means
right
on.
It’s
compact.
You
don’t
have
to
go
down
five
floors
and
walk
a
long
way
to
get
to
the
pool.
The
towel
shack
and
the
icecream
counter
and
the
pizza
hut
are
all
within
sight
of
the
pool
and
the
kids
playing.
The
grounds
and
gardens
are
not
really
big
but
they
are
interesting
and
varied.
The
staff
are
friendly
and
we
know
most
of
them,
and
its
not
hard
to
get
to
know
other
guests
if
you
want
to.
Perhaps
above
all
we
know
it
and
feel
comfortably
‘at
home’
there.
I
think
that
I’ll
go
with
Phil
on
his
investigations
and
so
do
the
others,
after
all
we’ll
be
walking
towards
the
markets,
old
and
new,
and
towards
the
shops
of
Kuta
and
Legian.
This
should
take
care
of
the
morning
program,
and
I’m
sure
the
afternoon
will
take
care
of
itself
when
the
time
comes.
One
of
the
images
I
have
of
several
hotels
along
the
way
to
Kuta
is
of
bright,
soaring
and
spectacular
entry
lobbies.
They
are
really
impressive
but
you
don’t
live
in
the
lobby
and
the
downside
of
this
space
is
that
its
just
so
much
further
to
go
to
get
to
the
pool
or
a
restaurant
or
the
road
or
your
room.
I
have
a
processed
film
to
pick
up
and
a
dozen
10R
Jumbo
enlargements
also.
10R
jumbos
are
31
cm
x
21
cm
and
cover
the
full
length
of
the
negative
which
is
best
for
very
rectangular
subjects
especially
panoramas.
10R
size
prints
are
a
bit
cheaper
but
you
loose
a
little
off
the
ends
of
the
negative,
which
is
OK
if
the
subject
is
squarish
or
round,
like
many
flowers.
The
10R
cost
is
Rp12,500,
A$2.70.
At
home
they
would
be
five
times
this
although
I
also
have
to
say
that
they
would
be
better
prints.
There
does
not
seem
to
be
any
quality
competition
amongst
the
processors
in
Bali.
They
all
tend
to
run
their
solutions
beyond
exhaustion,
allow
the
temperatures
to
vary
too
much
and
accept
the
machine’s
automatic
exposure
and
filter
settings
without
really
looking
at
the
image
and
making
manual
adjustments
to
best
suit
the
photo.
At
times
things
seem
to
get
just
too
much
out
of
whack
and
the
old
telltale
problem
of
the
photo
whites
being
grey
when
compared
with
the
paper
back
of
another
print
is
a
dead
giveaway.
Anyway
they
are
not
to
blame
for
my
images.
This
is
not
a
good
result
from
four
films,
three
decent
shots
per
film,
but
I
manage
to
convince
myself
that
I’m
still
getting
used
to
a
new
telephoto/macro
lens
and
coloured
filters
which
I
have
never
used
before
at
all.
I
seem
to
be
getting
better,
there
was
only
one
decent
shot
in
the
first
film
but
six
in
the
last
one.
At
the
Inn
there
is
a
wood
carver,
I
Nyoman
Sujana
who,
besides
the
usual
figures
and
scenes,
carves
all
sorts
of
name
plates
from
the
most
intricately
baroque
to
a
very
plain
piece
of
wood
if
that
is
what
you
want.
I
usually
get
some
thing
made
each
year.
These
have
included
a
business
card
holder
with
a
company
logo
carved
onto
it,
a
flat
wall
name
plate,
a
desk
stand
with
‘Ducatti’
on
it,
for
a
friend
who
restored
one
of
these
Italian
beasts,
and
a
couple
of
BMW
trademarks
as
paperweights
for
friends
who
own
these
bikes.
This
year
I
think
that
a
triangular
block
with
‘Grob
G115’
and
the
date
of
Scot’s
first
solo
flight
will
be
an
appropriate
memento
for
him.
The
letters
are
to
be
coloured
sky
blue
just
like
the
BMW
signs
that
he
did
for
me
last
year.
Nyoman
was
intrigued
with
this
unusual
sign
and
I
explained
to
him
what
had
happened.
He
was
a
little
amazed,
I
think,
that
young
Scot
can
really
fly
an
aeroplane.
The
sign
would
be
finished
this
afternoon
so
I
could
give
it
to
Scot
at
Happy
Hour
that
evening.
The
price
we
agreed
on
was
Rp30,000
and
a
daily
supply
of
Chuppa
Chups
for
which
he
has
developed
a
passion,
just
as
Adi
has
a
passion
for
chocolate
éclairs.
Every
time
Nyoman
saw
me
he
stuck
his
finger
in
his
mouth
and
sucked,
imitating
the
destruction
of
another
Chuppa
and
the
need
for
more
supplies.
The
price
is
a
reduction
from
Rp55,000
for
‘Good
customer
only.’
‘You
not
tell
friends!’
The
smiling
young
girl
at
the
icecream
counter
also
liked
Chuppa
Chups
but
could
not
eat
them
while
she
was
on
duty.
She
was
more
than
happy
however
with
a
small
koala
which
she
clipped
onto
the
lapel
of
her
white
jacket.
She
looked
for
me
every
time
she
came
past
our
favourite
sun
lounges
after
this,
just
to
smile
and
wave.
Or
was
it
just
to
see
if
I
had
more
Chuppa
Chups?
Nyoman’s
brother
(or
is
that
cousin?)
works
with
him
most
days,
painting
egg
shells
with
traditional
Balinese
themes
or
images
of
Bali
scenes.
The
work
is
executed
in
incredibly
fine
detail,
as
I
suppose
it
has
to
be
when
your
‘canvas’
is
limited
to
the
surface
of
an
egg,
and
in
rich,
brilliant,
glowing
colours.
They
have
devised
a
packaging
system
that
comes
in
the
price
and
which
virtually
ensures
the
eggs
safe
transport
back
home.
I
have
found
that
a
major
part
of
the
satisfaction
in
owning
one
of
these
is
that
you
can
actually
watch
it
being
planned
and
then
painted
day
by
day.
I
don’t
think
I
could
ever
buy
one
at
a
shop
now,
and
not
know
something
of
its
creation.
Little
bits
of
nothing
much.
–
*
At
the
Kuta
markets
software
CD’s
are
Rp50,000
compared
with
35,000
or
even
25,000
at
Denpasar.
*
Honda
Astrea,
or
Astrea
Impressa,
Astrea
Grande
or
Astrea
Supra’s
make
up
about
29
out
of
30
motorbikes
in
Bali.
The
other
one
is
either
a
Suzuki
Bravo
or
a
Yamaha.
The
police
bikes
are
Yamaha
250’s
and
I
don’t
think
the
cop
at
the
‘Station’
on
the
corner
of
Kuta
square
was
joking
when
he
offered
to
hire
me
one
for
Rp500,000!
*
A
brimmed
sun
hat
with
your
favourite
logo
printed
on
it
could
be
purchased
in
the
Kuta
markets
for
Rp120,000,
particularly
if
you
were
Japanese,
or
for
Rp7,000
if
you
were
a
really
persistent
haggler
and
the
day
had
been
slow
for
the
seller.
*
Today
a
Calvin
Klein
watch
could
be
purchased
for
either
Rp75,000
or
for
Rp35,000.
Tomorrow
the
price
was
to
be
two
for
Rp50,000.
What
really
is
the
cost
of
things
in
the
markets?
*
Matahari’s
has
fly
spray
and
insect
repellent
in
familiar
brands
such
as
Mortien
and
Johnsons.
This
is
cheaper
than
at
home.
*
Lea
&
Perrins
Worcestershire
Sauce
is
Rp18,500
for
150
mils.
*
Tomato
Sauce
is
Rp
4650
for
400
mils.
*
Smiths
crisps
are
Rp19,900
for
100
grams.
*
A
large
Anker
beer
was
Rp7,600
here
but
cheaper
in
the
street
shops
and
only
Rp7,000
served
cold
at
most
Happy
Hours.
*
Chuppa
Chups
were
Rp750
each.
When
I
bought
one
supply
of
Chuppa
Chups
I
offered
one
to
the
girl
who
served
me.
She
was
initially
very
reluctant
to
accept
but,
with
the
encouragement
of
the
other
two
assistants
she
eventually
accepted
it,
but
only
if
she
could
keep
the
sales
docket.
I
suppose
that
this
was
her
insurance
in
case
she
was
accused
of
stealing
it
as
she
left
the
store
after
work.
On
the
way
to
lunch
we
stopped
at
the
Kodak
shop
so
that
I
could
pick
up
the
photo
enlargements.
I
was
disappointed
to
find
four
of
the
twelve
were
covered
with
white
dust
spots
and/or
white
lines
from
either
hairs
or
scratches.
The
operator
did
not
want
to
re-print
them,
and
I
really
can’t
blame
him
as
there
was
a
large
building
project
in
full
swing
just
next
door
to
the
shop.
I
took
the
negatives
back
to
the
Kodak
shop
on
Kartika
Plaza,
opposite
the
Kin
Khao
restaurant
to
have
these
four
done
again,
as
well
as
two
from
the
new
film.
I
was
later
even
more
disappointed
to
find
similar
problems
remained
with
two
of
the
new
prints.
Without
asking
the
operator
here
offered
to
re-do
them
but
the
results
were
no
better
and
he
demanded
full
payment
even
though
the
spots
on
each
had
changed
places
on
the
new
prints,
clearly
indicating
that
the
problem
was
with
the
cleanliness
of
his
machine
and
not
with
the
negatives.
Later,
at
home,
I
had
them
done
at
my
local
store
which
is
a
Fuji
franchise.
The
owner
operates
the
printer
himself
and
I
think
is
a
photography
club
member.
He
is
sufficiently
interested
in
his
work
to
do
more
than
the
usual
amount
to
rescue
my
negatives
and
produced
two
prints
that
we
were
both
proud
of.
We
had
lunch
eventually,
at
the
SA
Café
in
Jl
Wana
Segara.
We
were
able
to
sit
in
the
raised
bale
at
the
side
of
the
café.
With
its
three
open
sides,
raised
and
tiled
floor
and
vaulting
roof
overhead
it
was
pleasantly
cool,
particularly
with
a
cold
drink
in
hand.
Our
food
choices
included
soups
for
Rp9,500;
Club
Sand
Triple
‘Dekker’
Rp
14,500
and
what
a
feed
it
was
with
fries
piled
on
top;
‘Chesse’
Burger
Rp14,500;
‘Mixican’
Burger
Rp
15,800;
Pastas
from
Rp
15,750
to
17,500;
Fillet
Mignon
with
Pepper
Sauce
Rp23,000;
Sweet
and
Sour
Fish
or
Fish
and
Chips
Rp20,000;
Nasi
Goreng
Rp13,500,Pizza
Rp15,500.
My
Bakmi
Goreng
was
spicy
and
tasty.
A
full
plate
for
Rp13,000.
House
wine
by
the
glass
was
Rp6,500.
The
toilets
were
graded
at
5/10.
The
atmosphere
here
is
nice,
cool
and
relaxed.
Roosters
crow
in
the
back
yard
under
the
row
of
bamboos
that
sway
in
the
afternoon
breeze.
A
large,
striking
cabinet
stands
against
the
wall.
It
is
made
from
solid
teak
with
carved
door
panels
and
back.
The
workmanship
is
good
and
the
piece
would
be
worth
a
fortune
back
home.
Here
it
just
sits
in
the
open
bale.
The
cavernous
ceiling
of
the
bale
is
lined
with
cedar
plywood,
clear
finished
and
with
marvellous
grain
patterns
in
many
sheets.
The
sheets
seem
to
be
at
least
9
mm
(3/8”)
thick
as
they
are
clearly
self-supporting
at
the
edges
between
the
roof
beams,
over
a
span
of
perhaps
600
mm
(2’)
or
more.
It
must
be
hot.
Even
the
locals
are
saying
‘Panas
panas’.
One
‘Panas’
is
enough
to
indicate
that
it
is
hot,
two
indicates
very
hot.
The
cardboard
covers
of
my
notebook
are
limp
and
the
paper
is
difficult
to
write
on
as
they
have
been
soaked
in
so
much
sweat
in
my
shirt
pocket.
Frequently
the
cab
drivers
don’t
turn
their
air
conditioning
on
until
they
get
a
fare.
Today
the
two
cabs
we’ve
caught
have
both
been
almost
chilly
inside,
instantly
cool
as
we
opened
the
door
to
enter,
indicating
the
drivers
have
felt
the
need
for
it
even
when
they
had
no
customers.
Back
to
pool-side
for
relief.
I
sat
down
to
talk
to
the
wood
carver,
Nyoman.
(The
name
is
virtually
universal
for
all
third-born
in
Bali.
I
Nyoman
signifies
male
and
Ni
Nyoman
signifies
female.
The
oldest
child
is
Wayan,
the
second
Made
and
the
fourth,
Ketut
meaning
tail.
If
there
are
more
children
the
cycle
is
often
repeated.)
Nyoman
wanted
to
see
what
I
had
in
the
cardboard
folder
so
I
took
the
photos
out
to
show
him.
Not
unexpectedly
all
the
nearby
clan
gathered
round
out
of
curiosity,
even
the
Security
Guard
and
the
girl
from
the
icecream
stand.
A
guessing
game
followed,
trying
to
identify
the
locations
of
the
photos.
Some,
such
as
those
of
the
temple
at
Lake
Bratan
and
the
‘Floating
Palace’
at
Mengwi
were
easy
to
identify
but
others,
particularly
if
I
had
used
a
colour
filter,
had
them
stumped.
They
were
a
very
appreciative
audience,
however,
and
I
rewarded
them
all
for
their
good
taste
with
Chuppa
Chups.
After
Happy
Hour,
because
we
had
a
late
lunch
and
were
not
yet
hungry,
we
walked
off
down
the
street
to
see
Yoyan
at
ENI
tailors.
There
was
another
fitting
as
it’s
cooler
now.
Some
pieces
were
OK
and
some
need
more
minor
adjustments.
Yoyan
took
it
all
in
his
stride,
calmly
and
with
diplomacy,
though
if
he
was
seething
inside
one
could
not
blame
him
too
much.
Those
items
that
were
deemed
OK
were
paid
for
as
we
go
so
that
his
cash
flow
is
not
disrupted
and
the
extra
workers
can
be
paid.
On
the
way
back
to
the
Inn
we
stopped
to
talk
to
Tony
Marrone
in
his
corner
of
the
shop.
A
number
of
his
friends,
probably
aged
in
their
twenties
or
early
thirties,
were
sitting
in
the
street
just
outside
and
gradually
became
involved
in
the
chatter.
Claire
turned
the
conversation
around
to
school
and
we
were
a
bit
surprised
that
some
of
them
had
only
gone
to
elementary
school
for
a
few
years.
They
are
mainly
from
small
villages
in
the
deep
country,
having
come
to
the
city
for
work
to
support
their
families.
Most
could
neither
read
nor
write,
Tony
being
the
exception
in
this
regard,
perhaps
indicating
the
reason
he
was
running
his
own
business
and
they
were
sitting
in
the
street.
All
of
them
could
handle
figures
with
an
easy
facility
and
had
an
apparently
good
command
of
several
languages
including
English,
Japanese
and
German.
The
lack
of
reading
and
writing
skills,
even
in
their
own
language,
was
a
handicap
they
regretted
and
of
course
it
was
the
one
that
fixed
their
employment
status.
Education,
and
even
access
to
books,
is
financially
way
out
of
their
reach.
I
resolved
to
try
to
get
an
Indo-English
dictionary
for
Tony
so
that
they
might
learn
something
from
it,
but
I
never
succeeded
in
this.
Maybe
next
year.
There
is
always
a
reason
to
go
back
to
Bali
it
seems.
An
e-mail
from
#1
daughter,
Emma,
lets
us
know
that
Max
has
settled
into
her
bed
each
night,
sharing
with
her
cat,
Sasha,
one
on
each
side
of
her
legs.
They
evidently
start
off
with
the
greatest
possible
distance
between
themselves
but
relax
more
as
the
night
goes
on.
I
readily
understood
that
there
was
not
much
room
left
for
her.
Champagne
and
nibbles
on
our
room
veranda
turned
into
room
service
for
dinner.
A
Bintang
or
two
for
me
leads
to
bed
after
a
quick
swim.
Some
of
the
others’
who
have
yet
to
come
to
an
understanding
of
the
reason
the
sun
goes
down
at
night,
carry
on
and
may
even
have
seen
tomorrow
arrive
if
they
were
alert.
That
reminds
me
of
the
old
army
joke:
BE
ALERT!
The
world
needs
more
lerts.
PS.
Yes,
the
day
did
start
with
a
massage.
20.10.00
Now
there’s
a
funny
date!
Reception,
observation
deck
and
shops
and
the
little
O'Brien's
'night
club'
are
in
the
top
right
hand
corner
building.
The
Ratna
Satay
bar
is
in
the
tower
to
the
left
of
reception.
Outdoor
dining
tables
are
set
up
for
a
Theme
Dinner
in
the
bottom
right,
and
the
Pool
Bar
is
under
the
square
thatch
roof
between
the
Dining
area
and
the
main
pool.
The
kiddies
pool
is
in
the
fore
ground.
The
Activities
Board
for
the
Kiddies
Klub
is
at
the
head
of
the
pools
and
the
Pizza
Bar
is
under
the
coconut
palms
to
the
right
of
the
board.
The
beach
and
sea
can
just
be
seen
in
the
top
left
over
the
tops
of
the
palms
with
Kuta
Beach
at
the
right
end
of
this
horizon.
The
accommodation
wings
are
just
out
of
the
photo
to
the
right.
All
nice
and
compact.
Quiet
at
night
when
you
want
to
sleep
but
an
easy
distance
to
the
excitement
of
Kuta.
Water lilies in the ponds at the front of the Inn.
This one is in a pedestal pond at the SA Cafe in Jl Wana Segara, Tuban.
Back
to
Day
12?
The
Day
5
to
10
photos
again?
-
or
the
Days
1
to
4
photos?
Sick
of
Bali?
Need
a
change
of
diet?
What
about
the
shoppers
friend
-
a
Cheat
Sheet;
or
a
brief
outline
of
Mans'
Demise?
Then
you
need
our
Home
Page
to
make
a
different
selection.
On
to
Day
14?
Day
14
includes
the
mysteries
of
massage,
Peter's
Dragon
kite,
the
fishermen
and
lunch
at
the
SA
Cafe
as
well
as
coconut
lessons
and
a
trip
around
the
reef
on
'Capt.
Wayan'.
Day
14.
-
Tuesday
26
September
2000.
Day
14
Had
a
late
massage
this
morning
as
I
slept
in
till
after
7.
Late
maybe,
but
still
good.
As
I
sit
here
now
writing
this
I’ve
just
paused.
I
can
feel
the
warmth
of
the
air,
hear
the
background
ssssss
of
the
waves
running
up
and
down
the
slope
of
the
beach.
I
can
hear
the
chatter
as
girls
who
are
arriving
even
later
than
me
exchange
morning
greetings
with
their
friends
before
setting
out
their
little
offerings
on
the
soft
sand
and
completing
their
ritual
with
a
sprinkle
of
water.
I
noticed
that
when
Adi
arrived
with
her
bags
of
clothing
she
quickly
sat
down
and
helped
herself
to
the
aromatherapy
cream
to
give
herself
a
work
over.
She
is
a
real
‘wild
woman
from
Borneo’
until
she
does
up
her
straight
black
hair.
The
mischievous
spark
lingers
in
the
corners
of
her
eyes,
however,
seemingly
a
reservoir
for
an
occasional
raucous
outburst,
which
is
surely
a
bit
rude
as
the
others
break
out
laughing.
A
little
shiver
runs
across
my
shoulders
at
the
memory.
Claire
started
and
finished
before
me
this
morning,
so
Mistri
simply
moved
over
to
my
right
side,
joining
Wayan
who
is
on
my
left.
They
chirped
away
softly
to
one
another
and
I
seemed
to
be
only
distantly
aware
of
their
kneading
and
probing.
Turning
over,
when
the
time
comes,
is
always
at
least
a
problem,
and
sometimes
nearly
impossible
without
help.
They
always
giggled
like
schoolgirls
when
the
mind
is
off
somewhere
and
the
muscles
won’t
coordinate,
but
they
always
assisted
firmly,
putting
wayward
limbs
where
they
wanted
them.
At
one
stage
this
morning
I
sort
of
opened
my
right
eye
and
found
it
was
firmly
focused
on
the
three
hair
stubbles
at
the
end
of
my
nose,
shaved
off
three
or
four
days
ago.
This
was
not
a
pretty
sight
but
it
slowly
dawned
on
me
that
I
didn’t
have
my
glasses
on,
and
even
if
I‘d
had
them
on
I
couldn’t
remember
the
last
time,
if
ever,
that
my
eyes
focussed
at
a
distance
of
about
two
inches
and
an
angle
of
60
degrees.
I
contemplated
this
for
a
while
with
my
eye
closed
and,
when
I
re-opened
it,
there
they
were,
still
in
sharp
outline.
In
case
my
eye
was
going
to
stay
where
it
was
I
closed
it
again
and
tried
to
ignore
the
situation.
The
connections
in
the
mind
must
do
strange
things
to
muscles
when
everything
is
relaxed.
The
knots
didn’t
hurt
so
much
this
morning
so
they
must
have
been
loosening
up
a
bit
at
least.
Wayan
brought
us
pineapple
again
and
smiled
when
I
immediately
opened
the
bag
and
began
to
eat
a
piece.
The
‘Adelaide’
T-shirts
which
we
brought
over
for
them
have
evidently
been
taken
by
husbands
or
sons
but
this
doesn’t
seem
to
matter
to
them,
so
why
should
it
matter
to
us,
if
we
have
helped
the
family
then
we
have
helped
them
too.
This
morning,
for
the
second
time,
an
exercise
team
came
along
the
beach.
All
males,
I
think
(my
eyes
aren’t
what
they
used
to
be),
about
30
in
number,
dressed
in
more-or-less
matching
dark
blue
shorts
and
sweatshirts.
They
came
jogging
down
the
beach
in
a
rectangular
formation,
turning
to
run
backwards
every
so
often.
At
the
front
of
the
Bali
Bintang
they
stopped
to
jog
on
the
spot
for
a
while
before
changing
into
stretching
exercises
and
one-on-one
strength
movements
that
were
reminiscent
of
an
army
squad
from
the
films
(movies).
After
about
5
minutes
of
this
they
re-aligned
their
rectangle,
about-faced
and
raced
into
the
sea
where
they
dived
under
and
repeated
the
beach
exercises
in
thigh-deep
water.
It
was
all
very
light
hearted
as
they
tried
to
resist
the
waves
and
burst
into
unrestrained
laughter
as
one
or
another
was
toppled
over
into
the
surf.
Eventually
they
ran
out,
re-formed
again
and
jogged
off
into
the
distance
towards
Kuta.
When
I
first
came
to
Bali
twenty
odd
years
ago
groups
such
as
this
were
a
common
sight
very
late
in
the
afternoon.
If
I
remember
rightly
each
village
had
a
marching
squad
which
competed
in
inter-village
championships.
There
seemed
to
be
an
emphasis
on
physical
fitness
as
well
as
marching,
and
martial
arts
movements
were
also
practised.
In
hindsight
this
sort
of
thing
could
well
have
been
encouraged
by
the
government
as
a
form
of
preliminary
training
for
future
enlistment
into
the
armed
services.
One
afternoon
on
the
beach
in
front
of
the
Inn
there
was
a
group
of
children,
aged
from
6
or
7
years
up
to
early-mid
teens
who
were
engaged
in
similar
marching
type
exercises.
They
were
all
carefully
presented
in
coloured
uniforms
of
trousers
or
skirts
with
jackets
buttoned
up
the
front
and
epaulets
on
the
shoulders.
After
exercising
as
a
whole
group,
they
broke
up
into
smaller
units
to
practise
different
skills
of
combat
style
exercises
with
sticks
or
marching
manoeuvres.
It
appeared
all
very
military
and
not
a
little
frightening.
Peter
the
kite
man
was
on
the
beach
when
we
returned.
He
too
remembered
me
as
I
have
regularly
bought
his
bird
kites
and
boat
kites
for
friends.
His
kites
are
beautiful
works
of
art.
They
are
carefully
hand
crafted
with
every
detail
expressed
skilfully.
Cheaper
copies
of
his
works
are
available
at
most
markets
after
a
while
but
they
lack
the
detail
that
Peter
put
into
his
work.
The
feathers
on
his
kites,
for
example,
have
each
part
of
the
feather
individually
painted
whereas
on
the
market
version
the
feather
is
made
by
one
stroke
of
an
almost
dry
brush.
He
greeted
me
warmly
with
the
little
touch
on
the
forearm
that
seems
to
be
so
often
used
by
Balinese
when
greeting
friends.
He
wanted
to
show
me
his
new
Dragon
kite
with
its
long
waving
tail.
There
is
little
wind
this
morning
so
the
kite
hangs
limply
on
a
post
stuck
into
the
sand.
It
is
a
development
of
his
bird
kite
and
each
scale
has
been
individually
rendered
on
the
built-up
three-dimensional
body,
carefully
formed
from
bent
bamboo
slivers.
The
carved
head
has
its
mouth
agape
with
a
blood
red
tongue
hanging
out,
waving
in
the
slight
breeze.
The
long,
flexible
tail
is
carefully
detailed,
as
are
the
spread
legs
and
talons
on
the
trailing
edge
of
the
wings.
The
colours
are
vibrant
shades
of
blues,
greys
and
pinks
with
darker
accents.
It
is
an
arresting
work
of
art,
not
just
a
kite.
He
has
also
further
developed
the
boat
kite
this
year
by
the
addition
of
a
noisemaker
that
is
also
available
as
a
stand-alone
item
in
a
larger
size.
The
noisemaker
is
an
ingeniously
constructed,
miniature
football
rattle
type
of
thing,
driven
by
a
tiny
windmill
about
75
mm
(3”)
in
diameter
at
the
front
of
the
boat.
The
main
axle
of
the
windmill
is
solid
bamboo,
carefully
rounded
and
a
bit
bigger
than
a
pencil.
At
one
end
it
is
split
into
four
quarters
and
cross
pieces
to
support
the
sails
of
the
windmill
were
pushed
into
the
splits.
Short
lengths
of
tightly
fitting
plastic
tube
slid
onto
the
axle
from
behind
and
in
front
of
the
cross
arms
to
contain
the
splitting.
The
axle
was
fitted
through
holes
made
across
a
rectangular
frame
fabricated
from
bamboo
about
the
size
of
the
ends
and
sides
of
a
matchbox.
A
carved
bamboo
ratchet
wheel
was
pressed
onto
the
axle
behind
the
front
bearing
hole
within
this
rectangular
frame.
Onto
the
teeth
of
this
clicked
one
end
of
a
sliver
of
bamboo
about
the
size
of
a
match,
held
in
the
centre
by
a
twisted
rubber
band
strung
across
the
middle
of
the
frame.
This
is
much
like
the
arrangement
of
a
Spanish
Windlass
that
farmers
use
to
tension
the
diagonal
supports
on
old
farm
gates.
The
other
end
of
the
bamboo
sliver
bears
lightly
against
the
paper
skin
of
a
tiny
drum,
about
the
size
of
a
cotton
reel,
mounted
in
the
rectangular
frame
at
the
opposite
end
from
the
windmill
axle.
This
sliver
is
flicked
back
and
forth
by
the
twist
of
the
rubber
band
each
time
a
tooth
of
the
rotating
ratchet
wheel
picks
up
the
end
and
then
releases
it
as
the
tooth
passes,
letting
the
other
end
tap
down
onto
the
drum
skin. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrr!
Rising
in
pitch
as
the
rising
wind
turns
the
sails
faster.
The
sails
that
drive
this
mechanism
are
brightly
coloured
silk
triangles,
(not
cotton,
as
you
will
later
find
in
the
markets
no
doubt)
glued
around
the
cross
arms.
The
trailing
corner
of
the
sail
is
held
into
an
aerofoil
shape
by
a
very
thin
sliver
of
bamboo
forming
a
square
around
the
ends
of
the
cross
arms,
and
holding
the
sail
corner
loosely
back
near
the
next
sail
arm.
Now
if
you
can
picture
that
then
I
must
be
a
brilliant
word
artist!
Complicated
you
think?
It
certainly
is,
and
to
be
not
only
created
but
also
constructed
by
a
delightfully
gentle
‘third
world’
man
on
the
beach
is
even
more
brilliant.
Here
my
notes
are
again
stained
with
the
purple
juice
from
the
skin
of
a
succulent mangosteen.
I
remember
the
juice
from
the
flesh
also
dribbled
out
of
my
mouth
and
down
into
my
chin
whiskers,
necessitation
a
wash-up
over
the
bathroom
basin.
Yuk!
How
do
I
stand
this?
Later
in
the
morning
I
walked
down
to
the
breakwater
south
of
the
Inn’s
beach
and
spent
an
hour
talking
to
three
fishermen
casting
out
into
the
rough
water
surging
around
the
end.
They
all
have
telescoping
rods,
one
a
recognisable
‘Daiwa”
rod
and
reel
combination,
the
others
of
a
brand
which
I
did
not
recognise.
They
used
live
prawns
for
bait,
kept
alive
in
an
insulated
esky
type
box
fitted
with
a
battery-powered
aerator
clipped
over
the
edge
and
bubbling
away
into
the
water
through
a
porous
stone.
They
used
a
single
hook
at
the
end
of
their
line
and
a
running
ball
sinker
stoppered
about
a
metre
(3’)
from
the
hook.
The
water
is
very
cloudy
as
it
is
stirred
up
in
the
swirling
current
around
the
end
of
the
breakwater
and
they
are
at
pains
to
cast
beyond
this
without
flicking
the
bait
off
the
hook.
I
would
have
used
the
floats
that
they
have
in
their
bamboo
basket
to
get
the
bait
out
into
clearer
water,
but
they
scorn
my
suggestion
and,
chastened,
I
shut
up
and
just
watch.
Their
bamboo
basket
was
a
work
of
art.
It
was
obviously
made
purposely
to
fit
over
the
top
of
the
railing
post,
holding
it
up
not
only
within
easy
reach,
but
also
to
stop
it
being
washed
away
in
the
occasional
wave
that
ran
over
the
top
of
the
breakwater.
Bamboo
is
certainly
a
versatile
material
in
this
region
of
the
world.
Its
use
has
been
developed
into
an
art
form,
over
centuries
I
suppose.
I
asked
them
if
they
ever
used
berley,
or
ground
bait
as
some
know
it,
but
the
concept
was
hard
to
get
across.
I
think
they
eventually
understood
what
I
meant,
but
the
idea
of
throwing
stuff
in
for
the
fish
to
eat
without
putting
a
hook
in
it
seemed
worse
than
a
waste
to
them
I
think.
About
noon.
Back
to
the
Inn,
the
room,
the
pool,
the
cool,
and
then
lunch.
The
S
A
Café
wins
out
because
it
is
only
a
short
walk
and
if
we
can
get
into
the
side
bale
again
it
will
be
nice
in
the
early
afternoon
breeze.
Phil
will,
predictably,
have
his
favourite
triple
decker
cheese
burger
with
two
Bintangs.
I
have
to
go
to
lunch
too,
as
I
seem
to
be
the
only
one
with
a
supply
of
money
left.
I
wont
be
having
a
hamburger
though.
Even
the
thought
seems
obscene
when
there
are
so
many
tasty
rice
and
vegetable
dishes
to
choose
from.
Perhaps
Gado
gado
today?
My
mouth
salivates
even
now
as
I
type
this.
It
is
not
to
be
however
as
I
am
tempted
by
the
Sate
Campur,
a
plate
full
of
eight
sates
bedded
on
shredded
cabbage
accompanied
by
a
bowl
of
rice
topped
with
slices
of
tomato
and
cucumber
on
a
lettuce
leaf.
This,
with
two
Bintangs
and
an
aqua
cost
A$6.55.
Claire
had
a
triple
burger
and
shared
the
beers
that
were
icy
cold,
at
least
to
start
with,
and
came
with
handle
glasses
straight
out
of
the
freezer
cabinet.
Neither
of
us
could
eat
any
more
when
we
were
finished
so
my
earlier
thoughts,
about
reducing
the
content
in
some
cafes,
certainly
do
not
apply
here.
Scot,
who
was
up
and
about
again,
and
Chris
did
the
surf
shops
over
for
the
latest
fashion
trends
in
teenage
clothes.
We
would
probably
have
an
extended
‘show
and
tell’
when
they
return.
A
little
bit
about
nothing
much
until
you
have
to
do
it.
To
open
a
coconut
first
remove
the
fibrous
husk
if
this
has
not
already
been
done.
On
the
inner
shell
you
will
see
three
faint
lines
in
shallow
depressions
running
from
top
to
bottom
of
the
‘nut’.
These
lines
are
spaced
at
fairly
even
distances
around
the
circumference.
Hold
the
nut
in
the
palm
of
your
hand
over
a
receptacle,
to
catch
the
water,
and
tap
on
each
of
these
lines
in
turn.
One
of
them
is
a
fissure
line
of
weakness
and,
as
you
tap
on
this
particular
line,
the
nut
will
simply
crack
open
in
your
hand.
After
lunch
I
strolled
down
the
beach
and
was
again
approached
by
an
old
man
who
had
given
up
trying
to
sell
me
things,
or
so
I
thought.
We
talked
about
the
weather,
the
beach,
the
fishing,
kite
flying
and
other
nothing-much
things.
Eventually,
out
of
the
blue,
he
asked
me
if
I’d
like
to
go
for
a
ride
around
the
reef.
Well,
I
had
wished
that
I’d
done
that
on
several
occasions,
so
we
began
to
settle
on
a
price.
After
starting
at
Rp300,00
for
an
hour
trip
we
eventually
agreed
on
Rp80,000
because
I
thought
that
was
about
all
I’d
got
left
after
lunch.
He
went
off
to
get
the
boat
and
I
went
off
to
get
my
wallet,
a
couple
of
towels
and
my
swimming
goggles
just
in
case.
When
I
returned
to
the
beach
he
was
nowhere
in
sight
but
after
a
short
wait
‘Capt.
Wayan’
poked
its
bow
around
the
end
of
the
breakwater
and
pulled
into
the
beach.
‘Capt.
Wayan’
is
called
a
‘jukung’
in
Indonesian
(I
think),
or
a
‘prahu’
in
Balinese.
It
has
a
single,
central,
wooden
hull
about
five
or
six
metres
long
(15’
–
18’)
and
about
600
mm
(2’)
wide.
This
hull
has
a
rounded
bottom,
carved
from
a
half
tree
log,
and
built
up
on
the
sides
with
a
couple
of
flat
planks
fixed
on
edge
to
the
top
edges
of
the
trunk
part.
There
are
two
arms
extending
across
this
hull,
lashed
down
to
it
firmly
with
coloured
polypropylene
cord
or
small
rope.
The
outboard
ends
of
these
beams
have
curved
timber
pieces
similarly
lashed
on
to
the
straight
cross
pieces
and
droop
down
towards
the
water
surface.
Their
tapered
ends
pierce
long,
slightly
curved
poles
of
bamboo,
also
lashed
on,
which
serve
as
outrigger
floats,
giving
the
whole
craft
great
stability.
Planks
fixed
across
the
central
hull
form
seats
for
crew
and
passengers.
In
the
old
days,
when
the
boats
were
still
commonly
sailed,
the
bow
was
carved
into
a
stylish
representation
of
a
sword
fish
head
with
round
eyes,
gaping
jaw
and
a
long
bill.
As
outboards
have
replaced
sails
the
carved
bow
has
also
begun
to
disappear.
This
year,
on
the
beach
at
Tuban,
I
saw
a
flat-bottomed
boat
made
from
sheet
plywood
covered
with
a
fibreglass
skin.
I
found
myself
wondering
if
this
was
really
progress.
The
old
man
hopped
out
and
beckoned
to
me,
introducing
me
to
the
driver
in
the
stern,
holding
the
tiller
arm
of
an
incredibly
old
25
hp
Suzuki
outboard.
He
also
introduced
me
to
the
young
lad
in
the
bow,
whose
job
it
would
be
to
point
out
all
the
just-under-the-surface
coral
outcrops
to
Captain
Ahab
(Captain
Wayan
really
maybe?)
in
the
stern,
as
it
was
almost
the
bottom
of
the
tide.
The
speed
of
the
current
over
the
reef
increased
tremendously
as
we
approached
the
only
opening
in
the
reef
through
which
we
could
pass.
The
passage
out
is
not
straight
at
this
height
of
water
and
I
began
to
recognise
the
necessity
of
the
sharp-eyed
lad
in
the
bow
who
held
out
right
or
left
hand
to
guide
us
through.
The
group
of
surfers
we
passed
near
the
end
of
the
passage
seemed
content
to
sit
on
their
boards
and
talk
as
we
passed.
The
water
was
too
low
to
surf
over
the
end
of
the
reef
where
small
waves
built
up
and
broke
into
foam
almost
immediately.
I
recalled
one
surfer
coming
back
through
the
grounds
of
the
Inn
a
day
or
so
past,
dripping
blood
along
the
path
from
his
shredded
leg
and
thigh
which
must
have
been
the
result
of
an
encounter
with
the
sharp
reef
corals.
Further
out
another
group
of
surfers
caught
the
occasional
wave
as
we
passed,
but
they
all
dropped
off
the
back
well
before
it
crested
and
fell
forward.
Still
further
around
the
reef,
towards
the
end
of
the
airport
runway
extension,
we
passed
through
a
long
loop
of
perhaps
eight
or
nine
boats,
similar
to
ours,
which
were
trolling
for
fish.
This
would
be
about
the
location
where
I
saw
the
boats
as
our
in-bound
plane
approached
for
its
landing
two
weeks
ago.
Their
trolling
speed
seemed
to
be
quite
high
compared
to
that
which
I
would
use
in
gulf
waters
at
home.
I
guess
that
they
were
hoping
to
catch
tuna
or
mackerel,
the
old
man
just
called
them
‘white
fish’,
but
whatever
they
were
they
must
be
much
faster
swimmers
than
the
snook
we
usually
target.
I
hope
to
see
one
caught
but
none
are.
That’s
fishing.
In
retrospect
I
am
a
little
surprised
at
the
relative
calmness
of
the
water
here.
There
was
a
small
wind
chop
of
200
–
500
mm
(a
foot
or
so),
and
this
on
top
of
a
long,
low
swell
of
about
a
metre
(3’)
coming
all
the
way
across
the
Indian
Ocean
and
around
the
bottom
corner
of
Java.
Not
a
drop
of
spray
came
aboard
the
boat,
however.
In
a
glass
tank
at
the
Dolphins
Leather
shop,
and
also
at
the
S
A
Café,
there
are
fine
examples
of
Saratoga
fish
which
are
also
caught
in
north
Australian
fresh
and
brackish
estuary
waters.
They
are
a
favoured
target
of
that
notorious
has-been
footballer
and
fish
kissing
gabbler
who
haunts
the
TV
on
weekends.
These
fish
must
be
quite
content
to
live
in
an
aquarium
as
the
one
at
Dolphins
has
been
there
for
five
years
that
I
can
remember,
and
they
told
me
that
it’s
the
same
fish.
No
one,
I’m
sure,
will
be
at
all
surprised
if
I
report
that,
in
my
absence,
the
others
had
gone
to
the
money
changers
and
then
intended
to
do
‘a
bit
of
shopping’
before
Happy
Hour!
I
had
another
passion
fruit
and
decide
that
they
really
are
my
favourite
fruit,
nice
though
others
such
as
Salak,
bananas,
pineapple
and
mangosteens
may
be.
The
passion
fruit
here
are
just
a
little
smaller
than
a
tennis
ball,
yellow-orange-brown
in
colour,
with
a
softish
eggshell
like
skin
that
you
can
break
by
pressing
with
your
thumb
nails.
They
are
usually
tied
up
in
threes
with
a
thin
piece
of
vine
when
you
buy
them
from
Matahari’s.
The
taste
is
marvellous.
Out
of
this
world.
If
you’re
lucky,
when
you
open
a
ripe
one
by
pressing
all
around
the
equator
with
your
thumbs,
the
bottom
half
of
the
skin
comes
away
cleanly,
leaving
a
mound
of
flesh,
juice
and
seeds
standing
up
to
be
enveloped
by
your
mouth.
A
quick
suck
and
the
whole
lot
comes
out
of
the
top
part
of
the
skin
and
you’ve
got
a
gob-full
of
the
most
delicious
taste
–
that’s
if
you
can
fit
it
all
in
your
gob.
If
you
can’t
it
just
runs
slowly
down
the
sides
of
your
chin
and
you
have
to
scrape
it
up
with
your
fingers
and
then
lick
them.
Ahhhhhh!
Bliss.
I’m
dribbling.
It
was
Scot’s
choice
for
dinner
tonight
as
it
was
really
his
first
full
evening
meal
since
he
came
over
and
shook
off
his
jet-lag
or
whatever
it
was.
He
elected
Kin
Khao
and
no
one
argued,
happy
to
go
back
again.
We
favour
the
upstairs
area
of
the
Kin
Khao.
Its
open
in
the
front
and
therefore
not
air-conditioned
but,
with
a
slight
breeze
blowing
across
what
used
to
be
a
waterfall
wall
its
not
too
bad.
Soups
are
from
Rp
20-32,000.
(A$4.30
–
6.90.)
Claire
had
Tom
Kah
Gai,
spicy
soup
with
chicken,
mushroom
and
coconut
milk
and
said
that
it
was
fantastic.
Her
Cordon
Bleu
taste
buds
say
it’s
not
chilli
hot
but
lemongrass
spicy
and
very
tasty.
She
also
reported
that
the
Crispy
Spring
Rolls
really
were
crispy
tonight.
My
appetiser
was
Prawns
in
Crispy
Pastry
w/-
sweet
chilli
sauce.
Rp22,000,
and
the
pastry
really
was
crispy.
Why
can’t
they
use
it
on
their
Spring
rolls?
Maybe
tonight
they
have.
Is
there
a
different
chef
on
tonight
perhaps?
Hotter
oil
in
the
wok?
Who
knows.
My
main
course
was
Special
Khao
Pad;
fried
rice,
mixed
vegetables
and
pork
pieces.
Rp18,000,
(A$3.90).
Lip
smacking
good.
The
Thai
barbecue
of
pork
spare
ribs
is
Rp22,000.
Grilled
Beef
with
seasoning,
herbs
and
chilli
is
Rp20,500.
Prawns
are
Rp170,000/Kg.
and
fish
is
Rp50,000/Kg.
Salads
are
Rp15-25,000.
Main
course
sea
foods
are
Rp22-32,000,
curries
Rp24-26,000,
stir
fries
Rp15-26,000.
Local
beers
(Bintang,
Anker,
San
Miguel)
are
Rp14,000,
(A$3.00).
Australian
imports
are
Rp15,000.
Cocktails
range
from
Rp21,000
to
Rp26,000.
Generally
we
are
much
more
pleased
than
we
were
last
time.
The
only
exception
is
that
one
of
our
party
complained
that
if
another
of
our
party
was
allowed
to
get
too
close
to
your
potatoes
with
a
fork
in
his
hand
before
you
had
your
last
half
potato
it
tended
to
disappear
much
faster
than
you
could
eat
it
yourself.
21.10.00
On
to
Day
15?
This
is
the
day
that
Claire
and
I
visit
the
orphanage
at
Tuka.
We
will
never
forget
it.
We
find
the
Bali
Rock
Crystal
deodorant,
the
Toilet
Test
emerges
and
disaster
at
Fat
Yogis.
I
am
going
to
find
this
one
hard
to
write
as
it
covers
our
visit
to
an
orphanage
just
north
of
Kuta,
in
a
village
called
Tuka,
a
few
kilometres
off
the
road
which
goes
to
the
Tanah
Lot
Temple.
Thousands
of
tourists
in
Bali
will
have
driven
past,
quite
close
but
unaware
that
it’s
there.
It’s
going
to
be
hard
to
write
about
because
you
can’t
help
getting
emotional
about
the
circumstances
of
these
kids,
and
also
because
the
government
seems
to
choose
not
to
know
it’s
there.
Day 15. - Friday 29 September 2000
The
ritual
massage
was
at
7.30
today.
It
seems
to
be
getting
later
each
day
as
we
slip
further
into
‘Bali
Time’.
Adi
has
an
‘oleh
oleh’
for
us
today.
It
is
a
perfectly
formed
pink,
purple
and
gleaming,
white
seashell.
Although
it
must
weigh
at
least
a
kilo
I
know
immediately
it’s
going
into
our
already
overweight
cases.
I’ve
heard
that
all
of
the
shells
sold
to
tourists
in
Bali
actually
come
from
Timor
these
days.
How
true
this
is
I
don’t
know,
nor
does
it
matter
to
us
much
as
far
as
this
particular
one
goes
because
it
will
always
be
special.
We
had
a
quick
dip
in
the
pool
on
the
way
back
to
our
rooms
and,
while
Claire
organises
our
gifts
for
the
orphanage,
I
walked
out
to
the
front
of
the
Inn
to
see
if
our
friend
Made
Dera
is
there
yet
to
drive
us
this
morning.
A
couple
of
years
back
we
used
Made
almost
daily
but
last
year
he
totally
slipped
through
our
plans.
Made
works
from
the
little
elevated
stand
on
the
Holiday
Inn
corner
of
Jl
Wana
Segara,
with
perhaps
half
a
dozen
other
guys.
I
don’t
think
they
own
their
vehicles
as,
at
a
few
minutes
notice,
they
usually
seem
to
be
able
to
get
bigger
or
smaller
and
faster
ones
if
the
need
arises.
Made
is
short,
with
a
bristling
black
moustache
and
thick,
shiny,
straight,
jet-black
hair.
He
has
a
quiet
voice
and
a
quiet
personality
to
go
with
it,
but
he
has
the
typical
(I
think)
Balinese
sense
of
humour
that
breaks
his
face
into
a
broad
grin
and
makes
his
eyes
sparkle
when
there
is
a
joke
around
or
a
funny
situation
in
the
offing.
His
English
is
not
Oxford
or
Cambridge,
or
even
Bostonian
or
New
York
I
suppose,
but
he’s
easily
understandable
in
a
conversation
and
he
knows
his
way
around
Bali.
He
is
a
very
smooth
and
careful
driver
which
suits
us
fine
as
we
like
to
relax
and
look
around
when
we’re
travelling,
without
having
our
minds
jerked
back
into
the
vehicle
as
corners
are
taken
a
bit
too
fast
or
brakes
are
jumped
on
a
bit
too
hard.
He
has
three
children,
the
oldest
a
girl,
Wayan
of
course,
aged
21
and
two
boys,
I
Made,
19
and
I
Nyoman
who
is
15.
I
think
we
got
away
about
9.30
as
the
morning
rush
of
traffic
had
subsided
to
the
normal
daily
rush
of
traffic
through
Kuta,
Legian
and
Seminyak.
Eventually
we
took
the
right
turn
onto
Jl
Raya
Kerobokan
again,
the
same
road
that
we
took
on
our
northern
trip
a
few
days
ago.
Somewhere
along
this
road
we
were
slowed,
and
eventually
stopped
in
traffic
that
had
been
halted
way
up
ahead
of
us,
perhaps
by
an
accident.
Made
swung
us
off
to
the
right,
along
some
back
roads
and
we
eventually
came
into
Kerobokan
from
the
east
rather
than
from
the
south.
To
our
left
as
we
approached
I
could
still
see
an
apparently
stationary
line
of
traffic,
perhaps
10
minutes
after
we
pulled
out
into
the
side
roads.
In
hindsight
it
may
have
been
quicker
to
Tuka
if
we
had
gone
straight
ahead
to
the
west
when
we
got
to
Kerobokan
but
we
turned
right
through
the
town
on
Jl
Raya
Kerobokan
again.
We
were
looking
for
the
shop
that
made
the
Bali
Rock
Crystal
deodorant
but
it
turned
out
that
we
had
missed
it
in
our
detour
and
left
it
until
the
trip
back
later
in
the
day
to
search
again.
On
through
Batu,
Celuk,
Pendem
and
Gaji
before
the
sharp
left
turn
that
leads
to
Tegah.
From
here
we
have
to
turn
back
towards
our
destination,
but
passing
through
some
very
picturesque
small-farming
country
and
tiny
clusters
of
rustic
houses
rewards
us.
It’s
only
about
three
or
four
kilometres
to
Tuka
and
we
are
there
too
soon
for
my
liking.
We
stopped
at
a
small
village
shop
to
ask
where
the
orphanage
was,
only
to
find
that
it
was
just
next
door
behind
a
substantial
wall.
Made
drove
us
in
through
the
gateway
and
parked
in
a
little
parking
area
opposite
a
small
but
sparkling,
clean
shop.
We
were
later
to
find
out
that
this
was
the
first
day
that
the
shop
had
been
open
and
we
could
have
been
its
very
first
customers.
The
purpose
of
the
shop
is
to
provide
cash
to
the
orphanage,
needed
to
pay
fees
to
the
childrens’
schools.
The
Indonesian
government
does
not
provide
any
funds
for
this
orphanage
as
Dutch
Franciscans
run
it
and
not
Moslems,
who
do
get
some
government
support
in
their
orphanages.
This
orphanage
must
be
totally
self-supporting,
even
being
required
to
pay
full
fees
for
all
the
kids’
education
at
government
schools.
It
was
disappointing
to
find
that,
with
one
vocal
exception
('Daisy'
if
I
remember
correctly)
and
a
few sickies,
all
the
kids
were
at
school
this
morning.
We
should
have
phoned
beforehand,
of
course,
but
at
least
we
were
still
welcomed
by
the
staff
and
were
able
to
look
around
all
of
the
facilities
which
we
would
not
have
been
able
to
do
if
they
were
full
of
kids.
We
were
met
by
the
Dutch
nun
who
was
in
charge
and
ushered
into
the
reception
area
in
the
office
building.
Seated
on
comfortable
chairs
we
explained
why
we
had
come
and
gave
her
the
bags
of
goods
that
we
had
brought.
We
were
thanked
warmly
but
later
embarrassed
by
the
inadequacy
of
what
we
brought.
Inadequate
in
terms
of
what
we
could
have
brought
and
inadequate
in
terms
of
what
the
real
needs
of
this
place
are.
In
tortuous
English
the
nun
described
the
activities
of
the
home,
how
they
received
children
(including
from
the
government),
the
number
and
ages
of
the
children
and
their
schooling.
The
welcome
cold
drinks
and
homemade
sweet
biscuits
we
were
offered
and
gratefully
consumed,
particularly
the
drinks,
left
us
wondering
which
child’s
snack
we
might
be
eating.
The
atmosphere
gets
you
that
way.
It
seems
that
the
greatest
need
of
the
orphanage
is
money
to
pay
the
government
school
fees.
Our
pencils,
papers,
erasers,
glue
sticks,
coloured
markers
and
other
school
items
were
certainly
welcome
as
were
the
hair
ribbons
and
shoe
polish,
but
of
little
use
if
the
kids
can’t
go
to
school.
The
single
little
three-year-old
girl
who
was
not
at
school,
and
who
clung
to
the
nun’s
robes
most
of
the
time,
thought
the
Chuppa
Chups
were
better
than
all
the
school
stuff,
anyway.
It
was
uncomfortable
when
she
wanted
to
kiss
our
hands
regularly
afterwards.
We
were
asked
to
sign
the
thick
visitors’
book
before
we
went
to
tour
the
buildings.
It
had
only
one
other
entry
in
English
that
I
could
see
in
the
pages
that
I
turned
back.
All
I
could
to
think
to
write
in
the
‘Comments’
column
was,
-
“There,
but
for
the
Grace
of
God,
go
I.”
No,
I’m
not
a
religious
person.
As
we
left
I
still
could
not
think
of
anything
more
appropriate
to
have
written.
It’s
hard
for
us
to
imagine
what
life
would
be
like
without
having
any
possessions
at
all,
but
this
seems
to
be
the
way
things
are
here.
The
children
sleep
in
segregated
dormitories
on
bunk
beds.
The
only
sign
of
individualism,
if
you
can
call
it
that,
was
seen
in
the
girl’s
dorm
where
many
of
the
beds
had
identical,
bright
yellow
and
blue
teddy
bears
propped
against
the
pillows.
The
bunk
beds
here
were
pushed
together
in
groups
of
about
five
or
six.
It’s
not
hard
to
imagine
the
kids
need
for
some
sort
of
companionship
in
their
world.
There
is
an
eating
room
next
to
a
large
kitchen.
A
wall
with
water
pipes
sticking
out
of
it
about
head
high
serves
as
the
showers.
The
rows
of
toilets
are
on
the
other
side
of
the
wall.
A
tailor
with
a
sewing
machine
makes
and
repairs
school
uniforms
and
a
few
clothes.
Next
to
the
dormitories
are
rooms
with
large
cupboards.
In
these
cupboards,
grouped
according
to
size,
are
all
of
the
clothes.
When
a
child
gets
up
in
the
morning
they
go
to
the
cupboard
which
contains
clothes
of
their
size
and
get
dressed.
As
they
grow
out
of
these
clothes
they
go
to
the
next
cupboard
which
holds
larger
clothes.
I
don’t
know
what
they
do
if
they
go
to
a
cupboard
and
there
are
no
clothes
left.
There
is
a
homework/study
room.
All
of
the
floors
are
cement.
There
is
a
chapel
in
a
wing
of
the
office
building.
It
is
clean
but
it
is
bare
of
all
softening
details
except
the
fresh
paint
in
the
reception
area.
It
is
stark!
And
it
is
home
to
about
100
children
aged
from
about
3
years.
Unlike
other
orphanages
in
Indonesia
the
children
can
stay
here
until
they
believe
that
they
have
prospects
of
an
income
and
decide
themselves
to
leave.
To
live
there
is
totally
beyond
my
comprehension.
What
would
you
have
written
in
the
‘Comments’
column
of
their
Visitors
Book?
As
we
left
I
gave
the
nun
the
money
that
I
had
in
my
wallet.
Little
that
it
was,
I
felt
better
about
leaving.
We
will
have
to
stop
in
Kuta
to
change
money
to
pay
Made.
We
will
also
have
to
go
back
again
next
year,
better
prepared
knowing
their
needs.
A lush road-side farm near the village of Tuka.
Late
lunch
is
a
pizza
by
the
pool.
I
don’t
think
we’d
survive
for
too
long
if
it
were
not
for
the
instant
relief
of
the
pool.
Civilisation
returns,
and
exists,
within
the
precincts
of
this
little
puddle
of
water.
A
coconut
weaving
demonstration
is
today’s
amusement,
with
big
and
little
containers
for
boiling
rice
made
before
our
very
eyes.
They
have
a
long
woven
rope
tail
so
that
they
can
be
easily
pulled
out
of
the
pot
I
suppose.
A
western
style
woven
handbag
fascinated
everyone,
especially
when
the
final
cut
along
the
centre
of
the
frond
rib
was
sliced
to
make
a
spring-shut
opening
in
the
top.
When
coconut
flesh
was
passed
around
I
couldn’t
resist
and
lined
up
for
seconds.
It
felt
buttery
as
you
chewed
it
and
yet
it
was
sweet
and
crisp.
I
decided
to
have
a
shower
and
an
afternoon
nap,
and
found
the
shower
was
barely
luke
warm.
The
same
problem
occurred
yesterday
when
the
showers
were
cold
at
night,
and
I
can
remember
the
same
thing
happening
in
past
years
on
one
or
two
days.
I
think
the
heating
system
is
solar
and
probably
designed
for
the
hotel
when
its
needs
were
less
than
they
are
today.
I
like
to
finish
with
the
shower
cold,
but
I
cool
it
down
slowly.
It’s
no
fun
starting
off
with
it
frigid.
I
went
back
to
the
pool
to
whisper
the
news
to
Claire,
not
wanting
everyone
else
to
start
a
stampede
back
to
their
rooms,
and
loose
the
little
warmth
that
was
left.
A
quarter
of
Mistri’s
pineapple
from
the
fridge
was
enough
to
convince
me
that,
if
passion
fruit
is
my
favourite,
then
Pineapple
must
be
a
close
second.
Perhaps
it’s
just
a
matter
of
the
bird
in
the
hand
.
.
.
Or
should
that
be
the
fruit
in
the
hand?
Nyoman
told
me
that
he
had
finished
Scot’s
Grob
115
carving,
reluctantly
I
think
because
that
meant
the
last
of
the
Chuppa
Chups.
He
handed
it
to
me
wrapped
in
clear
cellophane,
held
off
the
still
damp
paint
with
a
slice
of
bamboo
resting
on
little
blocks
of
Styrofoam
at
each
end.
It
looked
as
good
as
I’d
hoped
it
would
be
and
I
think
he’ll
be
pleased
when
I
give
it
to
him
tonight.
A
quick
trip
into
Matahari’s
for
something
or
other
and
while
I
was
there
I
got
a
cap
embroidered
with
‘Fast
Eddy’
for
my
next
door
neighbour.
Eddy
often
talks
to
Max
through
his
kitchen
windows,
and
when
Max
is
lonely
at
night
if
we’re
away
he
wanders
over
to
have
a
conversation
with
Eddy.
If
he
opens
the
side
gate
Max
is
into
his
flat
like
greased
lightning.
Eddy
works
at
a
re-cycling
centre
and
I
hope
he’ll
wear
the
cap
to
work.
I’m
sure
he’ll
like
it
more
than
the
carved
wooden
Komodo
Dragon
that
I
brought
home
for
him
last
year.
That
turned
out
to
be
more
than
just
a
bit
of
a
bomb
I
think.
Fat
Yogi’s
for
dinner
–
just
to
be
different
and
because
its
had
a
mention
or
two
on
the
Forum.
Different
it
turned
out
to
be!
Fat
Yogis
has
a
step
down
from
Poppies
Lane
to
floor
level.
There
were
only
two
other
people
there
but
it
was
a
bit
early
perhaps
so
no
one
gave
much
thought
to
this
oft-repeated
warning.
While
the
others
began
putting
two
tables
together
for
the
seven
of
us
I
wandered
off
to
the
toilets
out
the
back.
In
my
notes
I
have
graded
them
3/10.
This
is
really
only
a
look-and-say
system
which
should
be
more
formalised
perhaps.
Think
about
this:
*
If
there
is
more
than
one
toilet,
or
a
toilet
and
a
separate
urinal
for
men,
then
1
point
is
awarded.
*
If
the
place
is
clean
then
up
to
four
points.
Perhaps
this
should
be
five
so
there
is
no
sitting
on
the
fence
(just
a
figure
if
speech
you
understand)
as
there
could
be
with
four
points.
Give
it
3,
4
or
5
points
and
its
clean
to
some
degree;
0,
1
or
2
and
its
crappy
at
some
level.
(Is
that
a
good
choice
of
word?)
*
If
there
is
toilet
paper
provided,
another
1
point,
If
it’s
good,
absorbent
quality
then
another
1
point.
*
If
the
flushing
system
actually
works,
1
point.
Another
1
point
if
your
deposit
has
really
disappeared
afterwards.
*
If
there
is
a
hand
basin
1
point;
soap
1
point;
hot
water
1
point;
paper
hand
towels
or
hot
air
dryer
1
point.
I
don’t
think
I’d
give
anything
for
cotton
cloth
towels,
even
if
they
do
occasionally
show
a
glimpse
of
greyish
white
in
one
inaccessible
corner.
Now
that’s
a
total
of
14
points.
It
should
give
a
fairly
broad
evaluation
and
so
allow
a
good
range
of
assessments
with
an
emphasis
on
cleanliness
of
the
facility
and
cleanliness
of
the
user,
‘sans
event’
as
the
French
might
say.
Perhaps
I
might
devise
a
chart
for
my
home
page
which
prospective
travellers
could
print
off
and
make
up
into
a
little
pad
for
their
wallet
or
handbag?
Perhaps
a
sensitive
commercial
printer
would
make
up
pads
with
a
headline
where
the
establishment’s
name
could
be
filled
in,
along
with
the
date;
made
in
self-carboning
duplicates
so
a
carbon
copy
could
be
left
with
the
establishment’s
management?
I
could
have
just
started
an
industry!
I’d
better
copyright
this!
On
a
serious
note,
in
case
you
don’t
think
I’m
serious
about
noxious
toilets,
when
you
do
come
across
an
establishment
with
GOOD
toilets,
then
I
think
you
say
so.
The
opposite
is
even
more
important
perhaps.
The
manager
or
owner
should
be
rewarded
that
much
at
least.
Back
to
Fat
Yogis.
By
the
time
I
got
back
the
waiter
was
just
wandering
over
to
take
away
the
spare
chair
but
there
was
no
sign
of
menus
or
drinks
so
I
asked
at
the
bar/counter
as
I
passed.
‘Certainly
Sir’,
I
was
assured,
but
nothing
else
happened
for
a
long
time.
They
arrived
just
as
we
were
deciding
to
go
somewhere
else.
Oh,
if
only
they
had
been
a
bit
later
some
of
us
would
think
later!
Bruschetta
Mediterraneo
Rp8,500.
Pan
Focaccia
Savoia
Rp12,000.
Soups
Rp8,000.
Salads
Rp15,000.
Pastas
Rp20-25,000.
Guacamole
Rp10,000.
Grills
Rp20-25,000.
Asian
Rp10-15,000.
Pizza
Rp25-30,000.
Sandwiches
Rp10-20,000.
Desserts
Rp4-11,000.
Beer
Rp8-10,000.
Soft
drinks
Rp3,500
–
5,000,
Lassis
Rp8,000.
Champagne
Rp300,000,
Cocktails
Rp10-25,000.
The
Focaccia
was
good
but
the
Bruschetta
lacked
filling;
a
thin
wipe
in
the
middle
with
a
small
knife
is
not
enough!
The
soup
was
good
too
but
the
chicken
was
described
in
a-typical,
un-restrained
and
un-repeatable
terminology.
“How
can
anyone
destroy
noodles?”
was
a
muttered
expletive
overheard.
“Even
I
can
cook
noodles!”
from
a
non-cook.
The
pizza
was
great
and
the
lasagne
was
tasty
but
overcooked.
The
steak
was
well
cooked,
as
ordered,
but
not
up
to
class
B
rating
according
to
our
red
meat
expert.
“Thankfully
small”
was
mentioned.
I
found
my
Gado
gado
a
plateful
with
an
interesting
presentation.
All
of
the
vegetables
were
individually
arranged
around
the
central
mountain
of
rice.
I
think
I
prefer
the
traditional
way.
In
summary
this
was
not
a
happy
evening
and
it
is
most
unlikely
that
we
will
ever
return
to
see
if
it’s
better
on
another
occasion.
While
we
were
there
only
four
other
patron
came
in.
Perhaps
we
should
have
read,
and
acted,
on
the
signs
when
we
first
entered.
On
the
way
out
of
Poppies
Lane
to
catch
a
taxi
Chris
and
I
stuck
our
heads
into
Poppies
Restaurant
which
has
been
variously
blessed
and
berated
on
the
Forum.
We
were
instantly
and
warmly
welcomed
as
we
stepped
through
the
gate,
and
this
did
not
change
when
we
indicated
that
we
were
only
looking.
We
were
escorted
a
short
distance
into
the
garden
setting
and
shown
the
attractive
arrangement
of
outdoor
tables
with
flickering
candles
and
party
lights
in
the
trees.
The
menus
we
saw
were
clean
and
seemed
extensive.
The
prices
were
higher
than
we
had
just
paid
but
did
not
seem
too
exorbitant
at
the
time.
If,
indeed,
you
do
get
‘ripped
off’
at
Poppies
then
it
seems
as
if
it
would
be
done
to
you
in
a
nice
way,
and
in
a
setting
of
tranquil
ambience.
We
had
a
quick
trip
home
to
the
Inn
in
a
red
cab.
The
driver
put
the
meter
on
when
he
was
asked
to,
but
obviously
wouldn’t
have
otherwise.
I
had
an
early
night,
which
is
not
unusual,
but
some
of
the
others
found
the
attractions
of
the
Pool
Bar,
followed
by
the
Ratna
Satay
Bar
followed
by
O’Brien’s,
were
too
much
to
ignore.
24.10.00
On
to
Day
16.
Today
we
have
withdrawal
symptoms,
rescue
the
shower
head
and
get
the
last
sight
of
Bali.
We
have
mixed
feelings
about
the
flight
home,
but
ol'
blue
eyes
gets
done
over
first
.
.
.
.
Photos
of
Days
5
to
10
again
-
or
the
photos
of
the
trip
north
to
Bedugul,
Lovina
and
Singaraja.
Day
16.
-
Saturday
30
September
2000.
The
Last
Day
–
well,
almost.
We
fly
out
at
1.00
am.
Yes
that’s
one
hour
after
midnight,
tomorrow
I
suppose
really.
If
there's
anything
we
haven't
done
so
far
then
we’ve
got
to
get
it
done
today.
OK
!
Let’s
get
this
list
organised
and
start
at
the
top.
Have
a
massage.
Today
I’m
not
wearing
a
watch
until
later
tonight,
but
I
think
the
massage,
foot
scrub,
rubbing
and
hand-holding
must
have
gone
on
for
nearly
two
hours.
Whenever
I
looked
up,
even
if
it
was
only
to
see
who
was
doing
what,
my
head
was
just
gently
but
firmly
pushed
back
down
again.
In
the
end
it
was
me
who
was
exhausted
I
think.
I
recall
trying
hard
to
focus
on
what
was
happening
around
me,
so
that
I
could
recall
this
time,
by
sound
as
much
as
sight,
but
it
was
difficult.
I
have
brief
memories
of
the
first
touch
on
the
soles
of
my
feet
briefly
tickling,
the
kaleidoscope
of
leaf
shadows
moving
on
the
sand,
and
later,
through
eyes
narrowed
to
slits,
the
same
pattern
of
black
leaves
moving
against
a
dark
blue
sky.
The
thumping
sound
of
breaking
waves
and
the
soft
hissssss
as
the
water
ran
up
and
down
the
sand,
sometimes
with
a
rattle
as
the
pieces
of
dead
coral
were
tumbled
together
by
the
outward
surge.
That
peculiar
high-pitched
chatter
of
the
girls
further
down
the
beach
and
the
way
it
changes
pitch
when
a
potential
customer
is
seen
approaching.
There
is
a
period
of
relative
peace
if
they
troop
off
to
make
a
sale.
The
cool
breeze
of
course,
bringing
smells
of
oil
and
lotions
one
minute
and
the
smell
of
smoke
from
a
smouldering
leaf
and
litter
fire
another.
An
occasional
gust
moves
the
remaining
hairs
on
my
cool
pate
from
time
to
time.
The
gruffer
voice
of
the
Security
Guard
is
engaging
everyone
in
conversation
this
morning.
He’s
probably
telling
them
that
the
Inspector
is
coming
this
morning
and
they’d
better
be
wearing
their
compulsory
licence/ID
tags
that
usually
lay
discarded
by
their
sides.
My
imagination
prefers
the
thought
that
he
is
telling
everyone
that
he
has
posed
for
me
this
morning
and
his
excellent
photographs
will
be
going
home
to
Australia
with
me.
Out
of
the
corner
of
my
eye
I
caught
him
once,
repeating
the
‘standing
rigidly
and
watching
steadfastly
out
to
sea,
with
his
head
turned
sideways-just-so,
and
inclined
slightly
forward’
pose.
Strangely,
even
the
rhythmic,
mechanical
thuds
of
the
hotel’s
pool
pump
further
up
the
path
seem
to
fit
very
naturally
into
all
of
this.
Wayan
knows
where
all
the
troublesome
places
are
of
course
and
in
those
moments
of
fierce
attack
she
homes
in
on
these
like
a
pigeon
coming
to
it’s
loft
to
roost.
Just
when
I
feel
that
I
must
groan
in
protest,
or
pull
away
from
the
torture
of
the
probing
thumb
she
reverts
to
the
flat
palm
of
her
hand
working
in
the
opposite
direction
bringing
peace
and
ease.
Just
when
you
think
it’s
safe
to
back
into
the
deep
blue
pool
of
semi-aware
bliss,
however,
the
thumbs
go
unerringly
to
the
first
tight
spot.
At
times
I
find
that
I
am
looking
at
the
weft
and
warp
of
the
coarse
fabric
in
the
cloth
covering
the
mattress,
like
the
hairs
on
the
end
of
my
nose
the
other
day.
The
next
minute
my
eyes
close
and
an
effort
of
concentration
is
needed
to
open
them.
At
times
I
can
feel
every
drop
of
fresh
oil
as
it
hits
the
skin
of
my
arm
or
leg
or
back.
At
other
times
I
do
not
recognise
the
insistent
patting
on
my
shoulder
which
signals
it’s
time
to
turn
over.
Such
contrasts
of
sensations
which
I
don’t
think
I
can
associate
with
any
other
activity
I’ve
experienced.
But
did
I
say
‘turn
over’?
Now
there
is
an
exercise
in
mental
confusion
and
muscular
un-coordination
which
is
only
surpassed
by
trying
to
sit
up
at
the
end
to
have
the
final
thumping
of
the
back
and
shoulders.
It
takes
minutes
at
times,
and
she
waits
patiently,
helping
when
movement
ceases
totally.
Massage
on
the
last
morning
is
both
a
joyful
time
and
a
time
that
is
bordering
on
the
traumatic.
Everything
we
have
brought
over
and
not
totally
used
we
take
down
to
the
girls.
Old
towels,
nail
polish
and
lip
sticks,
skin
creams,
shampoos,
soaps,
champagne
and
big
brandy-and-dry
glasses,
sandals
and
socks,
old
shorts
and
T-shirts,
biscuits
and
dips,
anything
and
everything
almost,
except
for
some
wineglasses
we
save
for
Ruben
Fransiskus
at
the
Pantai.
The
girls
know
we
are
going
of
course
and,
after
sharing
out
the
goodies,
our
massages
are
a
full
mixture
of
fierce
passion
and
gentleness.
They
have
to
last
us
until
next
year
after
all.
The
final
parting
is
a
time
for
hiding
wet
eyes.
Half
way
down
the
beach
towards
the
Inn
I
have
to
turn
back
for
that
last
look
and
wave,
but
they
are
gone,
back
behind
the
trees
and
the
wall.
Occasionally
now,
as
I
walk
with
Max
in
the
morning,
I
think
of
them
there.
They
are
putting
out
their
little
offerings
on
the
beach
of
Paradise
Island
and
chirping
to
one
another.
And
I’m
here.
Cynics
will
no
doubt
see
in
their
regret,
that
their
well-paying
and
regular
customers
are
leaving.
And
it
may
be.
I
prefer
to
think
of
it
as
a
parting
of
friends,
a
separation
of
immeasurable,
even
inconceivable
distances.
Certainly
on
their
part
the
distances
are
unachievable.
I
want
to
believe
that
we
all
look
forward
to
the
time
that
we
will
meet
again,
to
cries
of,
‘Papa,
you
come!’,
‘Where
Chrees?’,
Where
Claire?’,
‘Where
Nell?’
Pappa,
you
go
home!
I
also
have
to
take
two
of
last
year’s
watches
to
Fast
Eddy,
(Gang
Samudra
No.15X,
off
Jl
Kartika
Plaza
near
the
Tuban
end,
Ph756
755).
Yes,
we
often
get
the
Bali
watches
repaired.
Sometimes
it
seems
to
be
a
very
simple
thing
and
they
do
it
quickly
while
you
watch,
but
you
never
quite
see
what
they
do.
At
other
times
the
old
case
and
band
takes
a
complete
new
‘works’
and
you
wonder
if
it’s
really
worth
it.
Eddy
is
the
true
master
of
repairs.
Tony
Marrone
has
had
our
bag
of
junk
for
a
week,
and
in
the
end
has
given
up
on
these
two.
One
only
needs
a
catch
on
the
band
and
the
other
only
worked
for
a
week.
‘By
this
afternoon
is
OK’,
says
Eddy.
True
to
his
word,
just
before
dinner
at
the
Pantai
tonight,
I
am
able
to
pick
them
up,
ticking
away
quite
happily.
The
cost
is
Rp
20,000.
By
the
way,
if
you
have
a
collection
of
watches,
sort
of
a
one-for-every-week-of-the-year
thing,
or
more
as
someone
I
know
has,
you
can
save
the
batteries
running
down
when
they’re
not
in
use
simply
by
pulling
the
winding
knob
out
to
the
first
stop.
This
acts
as
a
switch
and,
the
next
time
you
want
to
wear
it,
you
just
set
the
time
correctly
and
push
the
winder
in
to
its
normal
position.
Saves
a
lot
of
battery
changing.
There
is
no
doubt
that
the
grapevine
works
better
than
the
telephone
in
this
place.
We
had
some
initial
trouble
finding
Eddy
in
his
new
shop
and
had
purchased
a
number
of
watches
before
we
found
him.
Eddy
knew
who
we
had
purchased
watches
from
(within
the
Tuban
area),
what
sort
they
were
and
how
much
we’d
paid.
He
would
hold
out
a
blue
faced
CK
watch
and
say,
‘You
got
this
one
from
Tony
with
pink
face.
I
give
you
this
one
cheaper’,
and
he’d
be
exactly
right.
While
I’m
seeing
Eddy
the
others
(It’s
been
suggested
that
they
should
be
known
as
‘The
Cabinet’
but
I’m
not
sure
that
this
would
not
ruffle
hierarchical
feathers.)
had
their
last
pig-out
at
the
Inn’s
breakfast
smorgasbord.
And
a
real
smorgasbord
it
is.
I’ve
seen
youngsters
sit
down
to
eight
helpings
of
different
fare,
seen
young
adults
wrap
croissants
and
other
pastries
into
serviettes
and
pop
them
into
bags
for
lunch
later,
even
make
up
sandwiches,
and
seen
gentler
folk
stagger
when
trying
to
rise
from
the
table.
I
tried
to
make
a
habit
of
skipping
breakfast,
to
save
time
and
to
keep
the
old
body
moving
a
little
more
lightly
through
the
morning.
Most
of
the
time
I
succeeded
in
this.
When
I
didn’t,
I
tried
to
skip
lunch.
Most
of
the
time
I
did
succeed
in
this.
When
I
didn’t,
I
tried
to
skip
dinner
and
never
succeeded
in
that.
Today
I
refuse
to
wear
a
watch.
I
don’t
want
to
know
what
time
it
is
until
later
tonight
when
I
know
it’s
getting
closer
to
flight
time.
I
had
a
swim
to
cool
off
as
it
was
by
now
late
morning.
A
shower
followed
while
the
water
was
still
hot.
I
write
up
some
notes
and
suddenly
feel
hungry
–
it
must
be
lunchtime.
Sandwiches
I
think.
Back
to
the
pool
to
join
Claire
and
I
changed
my
mind,
ordering
fish
and
chips
instead.
When
they
came
I
wished
I
hadn’t.
I’m
not
a
fish
eater
like
Claire,
not
that
there
is
much
fish
here
–
mainly
batter
and
lots
of
oil.
The
chips
are
nice
and
I
like
the
ketchup,
but
I
wish
I’d
ordered
sandwiches.
I’m
feeling
very
flat.
It’s
last
day
blues.
I
retire
back
to
the
room
for
a
lay
down
and
a
back
stretch.
I
read
the
Jakarta
post
from
front
to
back,
which
is
not
hard
as
it’s
only
eight
broadsheet
pages.
I
removed
the
shower
rose
and
extension
and
called
for
a
plumber,
with
difficulty,
to
put
the
shower
back
to
normal
so
I
can
take
my
long-neck
one
home
with
me
again.
When
the
little
man
in
blue
coveralls
arrives
he
looked
in
disbelief
at
the
hole
in
the
wall
where
there
should
be
a
shower.
After
looking
at
me
with
equal
disbelief
he
hurried
off
without
saying
a
word.
I
made
a
mental
note
to
check
the
final
bill
for
‘Shower,
1,
New,
Missing
–
Rpxx,xxx.’
Shortly
he
returned
with
the
original
equipment
and
fitted
it
with
a
big
grin
from
ear
to
ear
and
nearly
beyond.
I
gave
him
our
last
Chuppa
Chup.
I
glanced
at
the
watches
on
the
dresser.
3.30
pm
here
–
5.00
pm
at
home.
Max
will
soon
be
looking
for
his
dinner.
I
spent
a
moment
or
two
anticipating
his
welcome.
It
felt
good.
Perhaps
it
is
time
to
go.
The
rest
of
the
day
is
a
bit
of
a
fog
really.
I
know
that
we
must
have
got
the
bags
packed.
Well,
Claire
must
have.
I
know
when
the
only
thing
I
can
do
is
get
in
the
way
so
I
keep
out
of
the
way.
It
seems
to
go
best
that
way.
We
probably
went
to
Happy
Hour,
even
though
it
may
not
have
been.
We
checked
out
and
paid
the
bill
for
the
extras.
Lunches,
dinners,
laundry
and
so
on.
We
certainly
went
to
the
Pantai
for
our
now
traditional
last
night
dinner
and
to
say
goodbye
again
to
Fransiskus,
the
waiters
and
the
cooks
and
I
picked
up
the
repaired
watches
from
Eddy.
The
Inn
transported
us
to
the
airport
and
I
can
remember
waiting
at
the
check-in
counter
as
the
man
looked
again
at
the
little
digital
numbers
that
showing
baggage
weight,
and
we
had
almost
as
much
in
cabin
luggage
I
thought.
But
no
problems,
it
all
goes
through.
Upstairs
to
Immigration
and
downstairs
to
the
bus.
Upstairs
again
to
the
rear
seats
in
the
Garuda
A-300.
Buckle
up,
out
with
the
barley
sugars
and
the
map.
We
were
pushed
out
backwards
onto
the
taxiway
and
the
engine’s
note
increased
as
we
moved
forward.
It
is
1.10
am.
24.10.00
Bali
Story
2000
-
The
Last
Post.
Sunday
31
September
2000.
This
is
the
final
chapter
of
the
personal
diary
of
this
trip.
It
covers
the
last
minutes
“in”
Bali
and
the
flight
back
home.
Erratum
Day
16.
I
choked
up
yesterday,
and
forgot
that
I’d
promised
to
tell
the
tale
of
the
second
time
‘ol
blue
eyes
got
taken
for
a
ride
this
trip.
It’s
a
salutary
warning
to
all
who
might
be
tested
at
the
time
of
their
greatest
vulnerability.
Coming
to
or
going
from
Bali,
it
seems
that
many
Aussies
tip
the
airport
porters
with
gold
coloured
one-dollar
coins.
Some
might
think
that
this
is
a
bit
cheap
of
us
so
I’d
better
hasten
to
say
that
the
tip
is
usually
a
handful
of
coins,
to
get
rid
of
the
weight
in
the
pocket
as
much
as
anything
I
suppose.
The
porters
are
polite
of
course,
and
will
not
tell
of
the
difficulty
this
places
upon
them
as
they
cannot
change
the
coins
into
local
rupia
–
even
at
the
banks.
The
coins
simply
become
a
weight
in
their
pockets,
and
a
great
one
at
that
after
a
week
or
so
-
of
no
value
at
all
unless
they
can
find
another
Aussie
who
will
swap
them
for
changeable
notes
of
the
realm.
So
they
ask
outbound
travellers
to
change
them,
often
at
a
good
rate
of
say
six
coins
for
a
five
dollar
note,
or
twelve
coins
for
a
tenner.
And
‘ol
blue
eyes
was
so
approached.
Now
my
young
mate
Chris
always
tells
the
Balinese
whom
he
often
engages
in
conversation,
that
blue
eyes
are
no
good
because
they
wont
work
in
the
dark
and
therefore
brown
eyes
are
best.
But
I
can’t
really
use
that
as
an
excuse
because
I
knew
about
the
scam
and
still
fell
for
it.
For
those
of
you
whom
don’t
know
it
this
is
how
it
goes.
When
you’re
under
a
bit
of
pressure,
at
the
check
in
with
overweight
bags,
or
trying
to
round
up
the
kids,
or
filling
in
an
immigration
form,
or
simply
tired
or
bored
from
waiting,
anywhere
that
you
might
not
be
at
your
sharpest,
he
will
appear
at
your
side
asking
you
to
exchange
coins
for
notes.
If
you
hesitate
the
exchange
rate
will
be
increased
with
another
coin
added
to
the
pile
in
his
hand.
Hell,
eventually
you
weaken
and
do
the
swap.
Good
on
ya!
You’ve
just
helped
a
struggling
chap
who
really
needed
it.
And
he
probably
did
but
he’s
helped
himself
a
bit
more
than
you
think.
Even
if
you
check
the
coins
ten
seconds
later
and
find
the
almost
identical
Rp500
(10
cent
value)
coins
at
the
bottom
of
the
pile
instead
of
the
1
dollar
coins
you
expect,
he’s
already
disappeared
into
the
crowd.
I
didn’t
press
for
a
better
rate
and
only
got
two
dud
coins
in
the
exchange
but
I
bet
if
I’d
haggled,
every
extra
“dollar”
coin
added
to
the
bottom
of
the
pile
would
have
been
another
dud.
So
what
do
you
do?
I
could
only
laugh
and
yell
at
his
back,
wherever
it
was
out
there,
‘You
rotten
bugger!’
:-)
Day
17
–
Getting
back.
1.10
am.
The
Garuda
Airbus
Industrie
A-330
rolled
steadily
along
the
taxiway
of
Ngurah
Rai
Airport,
heading
west
towards
the
end
of
the
runway
extension
that
pokes
out
into
the
Bali
Sea,
and
ending
at
the
reef
off
the
southern
end
of
Tuban
beach.
Or
is
it
the
northern
end
of
Jimbaran
Bay?
It
doesn’t
really
matter
because
I’m
catching
my
last
glimpse
of
Bali
through
a
starboard
window
towards
the
rear
of
the
aircraft.
The
little
lights
of
the
fishing
boats
outside
the
reef
appear
first,
bright
against
the
absolute
blackness
of
the
night
sky.
The
lights
don’t
appear
to
be
moving
but
without
a
background
against
which
their
position
can
be
measured
that’s
just
an
assumption.
When
we’ve
seen
them
from
the
Pantai
restaurant
at
night
they
seem
stationary
although
they
could
be
drifting
slowly
with
the
wind
or
tide.
I’ve
never
really
discovered
what
these
boats
off
Tuban
are
catching.
Someone
suggested
to
me
once
that
some,
at
least,
net
reef
fish
for
tropical
salt-water
aquariums.
As
my
window
passed
the
end
of
the
International
Terminal
this
little
vista
of
fishing
boat
lights
expanded
in
a
flash
to
encompass
all
the
lights
along
the
beaches
and
the
narrow
strip
of
development
immediately
behind
them.
Looking
down
from
this
elevation
I’m
sure
that
I
could
see
the
lights
of
the
Pantai,
flooding
down
onto
the
beach.
The
breakwaters
along
Tuban
stood
out
in
clear
black
silhouette
against
the
flickering
sparkles
of
the
lights
reflecting
off
the
water
behind
them.
Above
Kuta
the
glow
of
light
was
like
a
street-lamp
halo
on
a
foggy
evening,
with
the
same
tinges
of
colour
at
the
edges,
probably
made
by
a
few
neon
signs
and
the
red
tail
lights
of
cars.
Kuta
is
still
raging.
Beyond
Legian
the
coastline
faded
into
the
black
of
the
background
night
as
the
scattered
lights
of
Seminyak
marked
the
end
of
the
developed
tourist
strip.
I
had
a
brief
period
of
wondering
what
our
various
friends
were
doing.
I
doubted
that
the
Pantai
was
still
open,
and
the
watch
sellers
Fast
Eddy
and
Tony
Marrone
would
be
closed
too.
Shayaster
and
Setiasta
(whose
spherical
features
are
a
constant
reminder
of
the
Bali
Moon
liqueurs
he
mixes
so
adroitly)
may
still
be
mixing
them
at
the
Inn,
either
in
the
Ratna
Satay
Bar
or
O’Brien’s.
Yoyan
at
ENI
tailors
could
be
working
if
he
still
has
orders
to
fulfil
–
I’m
sure
work
comes
before
sleep.
The
beach
girls
will
surely
be
asleep,
as
they
will
be
up
in
4
or
5
hours.
We
turned
the
corner
at
the
taxiway,
onto
the
runway
proper
and
the
soft
growl
of
those
Rolls
Royce
engines
rose
quickly,
the
thrust
pushing
me
back
into
the
seat
and
the
massive
weight
of
the
aircraft
down
the
track
at
an
unbelievably
increasing
rate.
If
you
don’t
enjoy
any
other
part
of
a
flight
you
must
be
impressed
at
least
with
this
physical
display
of
absolute
power.
The
view
through
the
window
quickly
changed
to
a
similar
one,
though
on
a
smaller
scale,
of
the
sweep
of
Jimbaran
Bay.
You
don’t
get
much
time
to
absorb
the
new
view
however.
The
aircraft
rotates
on
its
main
wheels
and
almost
instantly
the
judder
felt
in
the
floor
and
seats
stops.
That
mechanical
whine
of
hydraulic
pumps
seems
to
be
felt
as
much
as
heard,
and
the
wheels
are
coming
up.
It
is
1.15
am.
Physical
contact
with
Bali
ends.
There
are
only
visual,
mental,
and
emotional
ties
remaining.
The
aircraft
banks
gently
to
the
right,
taking
up
the
course
for
home.
Through
the
back
edge
of
the
window
I
can
see
the
outline
of
the
long
straight
finger
of
Tanjung
Benoa,
the
roads
and
the
lights
of
the
hotels
in
blocks.
Further
around
there
are
fewer
lights
and
the
coast
of
south-eastern
Bali
is
etched
in
light
beaches
and
the
glistening
of
surf
against
cliffs,
edging
the
dark
softness
of
the
barren
and
desolate
interior
of
the
Bukit
Peninsula.
The
scene
slowly
disappears
behind,
too
far
to
be
seen
even
with
my
neck
twisted
as
far
around
as
it
will
go
and
my
face
pressed
against
the
Perspex
window.
Now
visual
contact
is
lost.
Only
the
connections
of
the
mind
remain.
It’s
3763
Km
from
Denpasar
to
Adelaide.
We
are
flying
at
978
kph
at
a
height
of
3,700
metres,
11,300
feet.
The
little
aeroplane
on
the
TV
screen,
flying
along
the
red
line
shows
that
we
will
cross
the
Australian
coast
north
of
Port
Headland,
tracking
south
of
the
Olgas.
Our
ETA
is
7.11
am.
How
accurate
is
all
this
I
wonder?
I
slowly
curled
up
under
the
blanket
and
went
to
sleep.
When
I
woke
up,
or
was
I
woken
up?,
there
was
a
continent
of
rippled
clouds
underneath
us,
sectored
by
spaces
which
look
like
rivers
and
lakes.
Through
the
other
window
the
rising
sun
is
in
harmony
with
the
idea
of
‘the
Red
Centre’.
A
bright
yellow
sky,
deepening
through
orange,
rests
on
a
fiery
crimson
horizon
underlined
by
the
black
earth.
It
is
simply
spectacular!
Chilled
orange
juice
comes
around
and
we
have
brushes
and
toothpaste
to
brighten
up
the
fuzz
around
the
taste
buds.
Somewhere
towards
the
horizon,
below
the
clouds
that
I
can
see
through
the
right
hand
window,
is
the
Transcontinental
Railway
and
further
still
the
Eyre
Highway.
Nothing
is
visible
but
the
swirling
clouds
forming
circular
patterns
that
instantly
remind
me
of
pictures
from
space
that
I
have
seen
in
the
National
Geographic.
As
the
sun
rises
higher
the
clouds
begin
to
dissolve
revealing
increasing
vistas
of
the
earth
underneath.
There
is
a
myriad
of
isolated
and
interlocking
lakes,
soldiering
in
long
trails
parallel
to
our
path.
They
look
wet
but
I’m
sure
that’s
an
illusion
in
this
country.
The
right
wing
gently
rises
as
I
watch.
A
gentle
turn
around
some
unknown
location
on
the
track,
so
slow
that
with
my
attention
focussed
inside
the
cabin
for
a
moment
I
am
not
aware
of
it.
I
look
out
again
to
confirm
that
our
heading
is
still
changing.
There
are
lumpy
brown
hills,
their
eastern
slopes
alight
under
the
rising
sun.
Roads
that
I
imagine
are
pink
spear
through
the
dark,
blue
grey
scrub.
Rectangular
checker-boards
of
cleared
paddocks
with
parallel
ridges
of
bare,
red
sand
hills
running
along
them
–
then
more
scrub,
olive
drab
to
offset
the
gleaming
touch
of
sunlight.
Later
cultivated
paddocks,
still
with
the
red
sand
ridges
running
across
them,
making
bright
lines
against
the
dull
paddocks.
Looking
away
from
our
track
the
gaps
between
the
clouds
are
hidden
and
the
panorama
of
cloudbanks
runs
unevenly
into
the
haze
on
the
horizon.
Suddenly
the
sunlight
picks
out
a
stand
of
gleaming
white
silos,
the
first
sign
of
human
existence
to
join
the
earth
tracks.
Perceptibly
the
nose
of
the
aircraft
lowers
and
the
roar
of
the
engines,
that
has
been
with
us
for
so
long
that
it
is
almost
unheard,
drops
to
a
muted
whisper,
a
relative
whisper
really.
Conversationers
are
momentarily
caught
out
by
the
silence
and
words
escape
across
the
cabin
rows
before
voices
drop
in
volume
to
a
new
level.
We
are
approaching
home.
As
the
aircraft
drops
lower
the
view
through
the
window
is
across
the
clouds
rather
than
down
through
them.
The
new
world
becomes
a
tossed
ocean
of
white
and
grey.
Not
as
flat
as
it
appeared
before
now
that
we
are
closer
to
it,
but
deeply
divided
with
soaring
crests
that
rise
above
us
in
the
distance.
The
nose
dips
again
and
the
downward
angle
now
becomes
apparent.
Green
fields
appear
when
a
break
allows
clear
vision,
a
quarry,
and
then
a
coast.
A
township
with
more
white
silos
in
the
distance,
forming
the
tail
feathers
to
the
arrow
of
a
T
shaped
jetty
running
from
light
green
waters
to
a
dark
blue
turning
circle
at
the
end
of
a
distinct
channel.
The
surface
of
the
sea
is
flecked
with
white
splashes
on
dark
ridges
as
the
cloud
thins
to
an
occasional
fluff
throwing
purple
shadows
onto
the
dark
green
sea.
The
cloud
rises
up
to
meet
us
with
grey
mists
that
whip
past
the
window.
The
view
is
instantly
matt
grey
with
narrow
gaps
through
which,
eventually,
another
coast
appears,
lined
with
creeks
and
swathes
of
mangrove
swamps,
their
edges
sweeping
in
towards
the
coast
here
and
darting
back
towards
the
fields
in
little
prongs
that
follow
creeks.
The
sunlight
reflecting
up
through
the
trees
is
like
the
flash
of
a
mirror
racing
along
with
us.
Little
houses
with
grey
rainwater
tanks.
Salts
pans
and
black
roads
with
visibly
moving
cars
and
trucks.
Almost
instantly,
across
a
broad
and
sandy
shoal
water,
appear
buildings,
side
by
side,
displacing
the
smooth
mat
of
bright
green.
We
bank
steeply
to
the
left,
seemingly
away
from
where
I
now
know
our
destination
lies.
As
we
level
out
the
familiar
forms
of
the
Adelaide
Hills
slide
across
the
window.
The
foothills,
another
quarry,
much
bigger
this
time,
a
power
distribution
station,
a
reservoir
and
strings
of
little
dams
joined
together
by
shimmering
lines
that
wriggle
crookedly
along
bright
green
valley
bottoms
and
cross
tree
lined
roads.
An
enormous,
water
filled
quarry
appears
and
disappears
in
an
instant,
so
close
after
the
previous
panoramas
that
I
have
become
used
to
that
it
seems
I
could
just
step
out
onto
the
edges.
A
long,
even
steeper
turn
to
the
right,
the
engines
just
a
murmur
in
the
silence
of
the
cabin.
This
must
be
the
approach
over
the
Modbury
Beacon.
With
ever
increasing
speed
the
taller
buildings
of
the
northern
Adelaide
suburbs
begin
to
flash
by
under
the
trembling
wing
as
we
sink
lower.
Intersecting
roads,
round-a-bouts,
tennis
courts,
a
swimming
pool.
Factory
roofs.
The
mechanical
whirring
again
and
the
flaps
depress
along
the
trailing
edge
of
the
wing.
The
wind
noise
rises
in
volume
with
the
tremble
through
the
floor
and
seat.
Flatter
ground
with
more
factories,
narrow
tree-lined
streets
with
regular
spacing
of
house
roofs,
red,
green
and
white
replacing
shining
green
as
the
dominant
colour,
dual
highways,
lines
of
cars
stopped
at
intersections.
More
mechanical
noises
and
vibrations
as
the
wheels
come
down,
with
the
feeling
of
that
comforting
‘clunk’
as
they
lock.
The
familiar
sights
of
Henley
Beach
Road,
my
old
school,
our
own
roof
and
the
clear
panels
on
my
workshop.
Marion
Road
is
a
sense
rather
than
a
sight,
the
boundary,
the
bitumen
in
sharp
lines
streaking
back
from
under
the
wing.
Bump,
rumble,
serious
engine
roaring
and
forward
pressure
against
the
seat
belt.
We’re
4
minutes
after
the
ETA
predicted
when
we
left
Ngurah
Rai.
It’s
7.15
am
here
and
a
¼
to
6
in
Bali
where
another
day
is
also
beginning,
but
without
us.
It
might
as
well
be
a
universe
away.
Immigration,
Duty
Free,
Customs.
We
have
all
of
our
wooden
purchases
packed
in
one
cotton
bag
with
a
draw
string
top.
Claire
puts
it
on
the
bench
and
the
Uniform
looks
down,
then
up
at
her.
She
smiles.
Each
piece
is
unwrapped
and
minutely
inspected,
a
small
torch
illuminating
the
hollows
of
bamboo
and
deeply
carved
pieces
before
they
are
wrapped
again.
Finished
at
last.
I
looked
up
to
follow
Uniform’s
gaze
along
the
line
that
is
forming
behind
us.
His
gaze
swung
back
to
Claire.
‘Any
more?’
he
asks.
‘Isn’t
that
enough?
she
replies.
‘OK’.
Uniform
looks
at
me
and
I
swing
the
Duty
Free
bag
up
to
the
bench.
Uniform
shakes
his
head
and
waves
me
by.
I
don’t
blame
him
I’m
relieved
to
be
through
and
really
ready
to
go
home.
Emma
is
waiting.
Hugs
of
welcome
and
then
hugs
of
goodbye
for
the
other
travellers.
‘Trolleys
Ho!’
into
the
car
park.
As
I
approach
the
car
I
can
see
Maxie’s
head
silhouetted
against
the
light
of
the
back
window.
As
I
get
closer
I
can
see
it
is
fuzzy
around
the
edges
and
I
know
his
tail
is
going
at
nineteen
to
the
dozen.
Talk
about
the
tail
wagging
the
dog!
I
open
the
door
and
he
springs
out,
so
excited
he
can’t
make
up
his
mind
who
to
go
to
first.
Around
in
circles,
around
the
car,
just
around
on
the
spot.
Briefly
I
wonder
if
there
is
a
dog
in
Bali
that
would
behave
like
this
at
the
approach
of
humans.
It’s
only
a
short
kilometre
drive
home,
five
or
six
minutes.
When
the
car
door
is
opened
Max
is
out,
racing
laps
around
the
back
yard,
only
stopping
when
Priscilla
rouses
herself
from
the
bilbergia
patch
to
roll
on
the
concrete
drive
for
a
tummy
rub.
It’s
nice
to
go
away,
as
an
old
friend
says,
but
it’s
nice
to
come
home
too.
The
end.
Really.
25.10.00
I'm
watching
while
Mum
fixes
my
crook
bunny.
Well,
there's
no-where
to
go
forward
to
as
far
as
the
Bali
Story
2000
is
concerned,
but
you
can
go
back
to
our
Home
Page
for
a
different
Bali
story
or
an
earlier
set
of
photos.
You
could
also
let
us
know
what
you
really
thought
of
the
story
-
warts
and
all
if
you
want
to
-
through
the
E-mail
link
under
our
photo.
Whatever
you
decide,
we'd
like
to
thank
you
for
being
interested
enough
to
have
persisted
this
far.
If
you've
never
been
to
Bali
we
can
only
say,
"GO!".
If
you're
an
old
Bali
fan
then
you
know
why
it
gets
to
us,
deep
down
under
our
skin.
Somewhere in Bali - today.