A Rushed Trip To Bali. - The story of our 2003 holiday.
CONTENTS. Because there are over 150 pages here you might like to select what you will and won't read. This list of each day's contents might help you decide. The blue (or are they grey?) letters indicates a hyperlink that will take you directly there.
Page 6. The Decision.
Day 1 – Tuesday. Page 8.
Going there and back before we start.
The real flight.
Paradise.
Customs.
The Bali Agung Village, Seminyak.
Money Changing – Money Changers – Money Cheats.
A little shopping.
First dinner.
To bed.
Day 2 – Wednesday. Page 19.
Seminyak Beach.
Finding old friends but missing some.
Rescuing a Damsel in Distress.
Fantastic Indian.
Day 3 – Thursday. Page 24.
‘Oleh oleh’, ‘Kado’ and ‘Pemberian’. (Gifts)
Finding old friends in Tuban.
First Massage and Bra Frenzy.
Hope Children's Home.
Denpasar – A shopping entrée.
Day 4 – Friday. Page 32.
Dewi and breakfast at the Cin Cin.
’Aussie, Aussie, Aussie – Oi, Oi, Oi!’
Lunch at KFC. Why do we abuse ourselves so?
More shopping.
Sammi and Sussi’s bar on Legian Beach.
The Indo National Restaurant.
Mimi and Andrew.
To Candi Dasa with Made Dera via -.
Gianyar and the market.
Klungkung and the Hall of Justice.
Kusamba and the salt works.
Padang Bai – Peace and beauty.
The Candi Dasa Beach Hotel.
The Dutch Girls next door.
Queens.
Day 6 – Sunday. Page 48.
Exploring Candi Dasa.
The colours of the pool, the beach, the ocean and the sky.
Day 7 – Monday. Page 55.
Tenganan Village.
Ikat, Double Ikat and Lontars.
Ngurah the House Keeper.
Electrical stuff.
The Grand Natia discovered.
Day 8 - Second Tuesday. Page 62.
The Blue Lagoon.
Through the surf in a Jukung.
Day 9 – Second Wednesday. Page 71.
To Amed with Komang, via –
Bug Bug and Komang’s home.
Amlapura market.
Tirtagangga.
Ababi and the rice terraces.
Amed and the disappointment.
Back to Candi Dasa and the Grand Natia.
Day 10 – Second Thursday. Page 82.
The Candi Dasa headland.
The long power cord.
Bob Land.
The Great Chuppa Chup Dry.
The Temple Ceremony.
Reflexology? No more!
The East Bali Poverty Project.
Day 11 – Second Friday. Page 93.
The Garbage Men.
The German Bakery.
The Wedding.
The Taps and other Water Matters.
To Pacung with Sudi –
The Balinese Hindu God(s).
Gianyar Weaving.
Ubud. The market and the Palace.
The Moon of Pejeng.
The Feast in the roadside Forest.
The Pacung Indah. Not a good start.
Up the hill to the Fuji Shop with Carol.
Day 12 – Second Saturday. Page 106
The Kris.
Exploring Pacung.
A Bemo to Bedugul.
The Markets and the Temples.
Day 13 – Second Sunday. Page 117.
Spices and Customs.
She returns to Bedugul with spices on Her mind.
I brush with the Law.
To Tuban via Sukawati !
The old Holiday Inn is now the Balihai Resort but Made made us welcome.
She is crook and I have the International Roast.
Good old Moonface.
Day 14 – Second Monday. Page 128.
She is better but I am not.
Day 15 – Third Tuesday. Page 130.
Old friends and some shopping.
Dinner at the Pantai.
Day 16 – Third Wednesday. Page 135.
Ni Made and Shayesta.
Mr and Mrs Pat. The Boss Man.
Shopping.
SA Café.
Day 17 – Third Thursday. Page 142.
The Montessori School.
Shopping again.
Let the massages begin.
Cool in the pool.
The Pantai again.
WHAT FLIGHT?
Day 18 – Third Friday. Page 148.
Yes. It’s really gone without us. What now?
Pak Leo and Balifotografi.
Mongolian Night.
Day 18 + 1 – Third Saturday. Page 156.
Made’s place – Dijon Deli – HOG’s and –
- Sanur after 20+ years.
The Bali Magic Night.
Day 18 + 2 – Third Sunday. Page 165.
The Bukit and the BIG statue.
The old boat builder at Jimbaran.
The Pantai once more.
Day 18 + 3 – Third Monday. Page 175.
The last day. Really?
The packing starts but there’s still more stuff - -
And there’s a bit more shopping too.
We have offended Made Sukarja, the 2IC of the Balihai.
My last minute shopping.
Last massages and the final distributions.
My second International Barbeque Night and Her first.
Farewells. The Airport and it really is over.
Day 18 + 4 – Fourth Tuesday. Page 185.
Home.
A Rushed Trip To Bali – the trip was intended to be from 8.04.03 to 26.04.03, but as it turned out it went to 29.04.03.
This is the personal diary of my (our) trip to Bali beginning on 8.4.03.
It is written firstly for my reminiscences as dotage further overtakes me and I am unable to continue to travel to my favourite destination.
Secondly it is written for our family in the hope that one day they might be lead to the same love of Bali and its people that we have developed over the past 25 years.
Thirdly it’s for friends if they want to know the whole story, not just the isolated fragments that will be relayed in the excitement of our return and in the innumerable times we will slip it into otherwise civil, normal and boring dinner chit chat. That’s of course if they can raise the patience to wade through it all.
Fourthly it is for the friends and acquaintances we have made in Bali over the years and also in this trip alone.
People, from the GM of our favourite hotel in Tuban, to the driver who took us to Amed and back to Candi Dasa without saying, ‘I could have told you so’ on the way back; . . .
People from a Forum friend in Lovina whom we did not get to see to Wayan, our favourite beach massage lady; . . .
From Carol who is a West Australian ex-pat working for 2 years at the Montessori school in Seminyak and who befriended us in Pacung, to the school children who engaged us in conversation on a Bemo to Bedugul; . . .
People, from Andrew who has an unbelievable home in Seminyak and who was introduced to us on the beach by a Dachshund named Mimi, to all the kids who smiled so broadly when I gave them a 20 cent Chuppa Chup.
It is the people who graciously complement the island who have won our hearts. I want to recognise their help and kindness at frequent times, their friendship and indeed their existence in some cases, particularly those who will never read this because they have no access to the internet and maybe don’t even know what it is.
Last but not least it is for the friends whom I have come to know on the Bali Travel Forum, a source of daily satisfaction to me as my constant contact with the isles of Paradise when home-bound. For me the Forum is also a supply of current and cogent information from travellers and ex-pats alike, frank open and honest as they see it, not subscribing to bribery or coercion to garnish the facts (and running the risk of a public ‘outing’ if they try). Those recently addicted to the Forum should not read this diary expecting the usual delightful and welcome ‘Just Back Report’ that is common on that resource.
This diary will tax your time and patience if you just want to find out the latest prices for boardies or the cost of Nasi Goreng at the Pantai Restaurant. If you want a little bit more, some descriptions of things that catch my wandering eye and my admittedly peculiar curiosity, then give it a try, but don’t feel discouraged if you have to give it up as a poor task. Those who are long time addicts of the Forum will know from ‘The Bali Story – 2000’ what to expect and can only blame themselves if they tackle it and fail the course.
And please don’t bother to berate me for writing it – I have tried to warn you, and as I’m berated daily by an expert (or two or three) you are not going to change me one little bit.
If you’ve got this far you just might be the type who’ll reach the end.
If you’re going to print this off, and that might be a good thing to do if the boss is wondering why you’re looking at the monitor for so long but don’t appear to be working, it’ll take nearly 12 pages just for ‘THE DECISION’ and ‘DAY 1’.
It had been nearly three years since our last trip to Bali.
Too long!
I had raised it fairly often with Higher Authority , at first sort of jokingly but, as time went by, more and more seriously. At first the problem was work. Not mine. I don’t any more, well I don’t if I can avoid it because no-one pays me now so it’s only family and friends for whom I idle away a little bit my time. No, the problem was Higher Authority’s work. There were things she wanted to finish, ‘because there might not be funding for this position next year and then it won’t get done and it needs to be done’.
It’s the curse of workaholic Scots ancestry.
Then there was the unexpected announcement of our first grandchild, from No. 2 daughter whom I still thought of as being a teenage tomboy even though she was over 30.
Now Higher Authority (‘HA’ in future) wasn’t going to miss out on this. Grandmother for sure, and given half a chance, I thought, mother too.
Even my efforts to use this as an unarguable reason to go to Bali (Think of all the shopping you can do for the poor little beggar!) didn’t work.
Eventually, of course, this grandchild stuff got to be a bit tired as an excuse not to go. I began raising the issue of a trip more and more often and with greater determination. I think I almost made the grade when No.1 daughter announced that she had sat on the same toilet seat and was expecting also. Grand child No2 was just a continuation from then first.
Back to square 1.
Time passed.
HA’s work changed and became more frustrating than satisfying, stress set in with the frustration and a change of scene became more obviously required and became more urgent.
Being the ever considerate person that I am I struck again and excuses melted away. I came home from a short shopping excursion to be confronted with the latest package prices from four travel agents. None excited me or suited my secret plans. I said I would look into things and, as soon as her back was turned began my own enquiries.
Now I am not a shopper. Never have been, never will be. So when I get a price I don’t argue, I don’t go back, I move on. I’m hopeless at bargaining in Bali, as you might expect with an attitude like this. It soon became obvious that Golden Bali Travel in Adelaide had the best price for the open itinerary that I wanted, and they were prepared to talk to me and share their wide experiences about things beyond the square parameters of what they could sell me.
Now came the task of revealing my secret plans to HA. It could not be avoided. I was not a little stunned to find that a circumnavigation of the island was not out of the question, as long as there was at least 4 days for shopping in the south at the end! That very afternoon a trip in to the Golden Bali office was arranged and the fine details were soon worked out and a whole lot of other information traded with Putu Les whom we immediately warmed to. The cash from the sale of my ‘bike was withdrawn and passed over as payment for the trip.
This sealed HA’s fate.
With about a week to go organisation became panic (in my case at least) with Duty Free shopping to be done at my favourite camera store, well really with my favourite camera salesman who happens to work at Diamonds in Adelaide at the moment – and I hope he stays there for a deal longer. My odd requirements were ordered with a new camera for HA and things were looking good. As things came to mind they were done immediately so they would not be forgotten.
A quick search of the medical advice on the net soon showed that any injections we might have wanted would not be effective in this short time frame so we put those thoughts from our minds.
A list of gifts and friends sizes were recorded in HA’s new note book bought just for this purpose. Its sheer volume spoke of the need for those four shopping days.
Additional weight was arranged with Garuda as we were taking stuff for an orphanage, dry dog food for the Bali Street Animal Rescue organisation and spectacles directed our way by the Forum’s ‘Helen’ and collected by Rotary.
Too soon the time for departure came.
Too soon in terms of organisation that is, not in terms of our desire to go.
Inevitably things were overlooked in the rush. I suffered right up to the time we turned into the airport car park and I realised that I had left all of my money at home. Thankfully it was only 5 minutes back home to find Max sleeping on top of the secret wallet and the bum bag. He soon realised that we had not forgotten him nor had we come back to pick him up. The final disgrace for me, however, was to get through all the airport procedures and be well into the unpacking of the Duty Free stuff and then to discover that the camera tripod was also at home.
Just as well HA had decided to take the mobile to Bali to run a daily, sometimes hourly, check-up on the grandies. A quick phone call to No.1 daughter, who raced home, picked it up and delivered it to the door. Trouble was I wasn’t allowed to go back to the door and had to wait for a kind Customs guy to clear it and deliver it to me.
Another trouble was that No.1 got a $42 fine for getting out of the car at the door to the airport building and handing the tripod to the Customs guy.
Then there was the call to board – and if it wasn’t with us now it wasn’t going!
GOING THERE - AND BACK - BEFORE WE ARRIVED.
Garuda flies Air Industrie 330’s which, at this time, did an anti clockwise loop, Denpasar/Adelaide/Melbourne. I always find the Adelaide to Melbourne trip an absolute bore. Inevitably, once you turn over the gulf waters and climb across the Adelaide Hills, the cloud sets in below and you can’t see any of the country side you’re flying over. I’m an inveterate watcher and to have only the interior of the aircraft was limiting to say the least.
Adding insult to injury is the fact that we have to pay for this one hour flight to Melbourne, then spend two and a half hours in the Melbourne airport, then fly for another hour back past Adelaide to start the real trip to Denpasar. It all adds four and a half hours (and perhaps a hundred bucks I’d rather spend with the people of Bali) to the flight.
Worst of all it takes away those four and a half hours from our time in Bali. This is better than the twelve and a half hours of flying time we once had with an alternative carrier but not the great deal we had when Garuda flew direct from Adelaide to Denpasar in 5 hours.
Ah, well, next time we go, after June sometime, we are promised the good old scheme will be in place again. Direct flights, scheduled at times which give us the maximum Bali time for our bucks.
We were given seats 38 A and B, five or six rows from the aft galley on the port (left) side.
I had had mental debates with myself about which side of the aircraft we should ask for seats. There was a desire to see the roads and salt lakes I had seen on our previous flight from the port seats, but a competing desire to see what could be seen from the starboard side seats.
In the end I couldn’t make up my mind and left the decision to fate.
Fate put us in the port seats again, but fate also decided that it was going to be cloudy for most of the trip so I couldn’t see that intersection of red dirt roads in the middle of the Great Sandy Desert anyway.
The aircraft takes nearly 300 passengers. There were 22 in the aft section with us where there were over 100 seats. There were no more in the centre section I think. The front Business class section had about 10 occupants. Needless to say with these numbers the usual efficient service we have come to associate with the Garuda cabin staff was nothing short of superb on this trip.
We left the drizzle of Melbourne behind after a short delay to ‘re-stock supplies’. Now I wouldn’t want them to run out of Bintang on the way over but I can only think that supplies must have been terrible if they couldn’t provide for such a small number of passengers.
The cloud began to break up after a while and our first visible landmark was the bend of the River Murray at Morgan in South Australia just a little north of our original departure point in Adelaide.
Lunch arrived as Morgan departed astern. Chicken and rice with a spicy sauce, not a bristling sauce but one that just jabbed gently at the taste buds. The vegetables were fresh and crisp with Masterfoods French Vinaigrette dressing in one of those nifty little squeeze packs.
Yes ! !
Even the little crusty roll which was thoughtfully provided to mop up the juices and the sauce was beyond reproach even in this company.
Along with this, dare I tell, came a beautiful French white wine. If it means anything to you it was ‘Provingnance 2001 Vin de Pays de l’herault Blanc Illazach – France’. Now I only understand ‘blanc’ and ‘France’ but if I ever see any on the booze shop shelves I shall be very tempted to depart with cash. There was an identical vintage and provenance red which I found very easy to sweet talk the hostesses into giving me a taste of, but it was not in the same class as the white I didn’t think. Perhaps it should have been an Aussie white, even a South Aussie, but believe me I’m not complaining too much. I have to admit to two following glasses - just to make sure I wasn’t mistaken you understand.
For me sweets were a Crème Caramel. A little on the solid side and the sauce had been slopped over the Gladwrap covering. Tasty I will not deny, but not Her own Crème Caramel, I told her. (Brownie points accumulating here.)
Bega Cheddar cheese and Arnott’s cracker biscuits were nice to finish (with another glass of that white wine) but why do you need a Ph D or heritage linked to Hulk Hogan to get the bloody package open?
Creamer powder is not the same as milk, and again packaged as though it was not to be opened before Christmas, but the resulting tea was refreshing and fresh, not stewed. The wet tissue for cleaning up was also refreshing and a surprise as I never really believe the propaganda written on the labels of these things.
I can never resist the hope of a trip into the cockpit of anything I fly in. I think my best efforts have worked 3 or 4 times in a lifetime, and the global situation of terrorists and the bomb, both real and imagined, left little hope of any tactic working this trip. Never the less I took my map of Oz and a pen up to the front cabin crew and asked if they would take it to the Navigator and ask him to mark our current position with a big cross.
This was a bit unusual and I had to repeat the request before the attendant was convinced that I really wanted the Nav to scribble all over my new map.
Off it went and shortly back it came. Although I scrutinised it with mock intensity there was no mark to be seen.
I looked up and the guy was a few paces in front of me beckoning me forward.
Can this be real?
It certainly was. I was ushered through that security door and found the Captain and co-pilot navigator looking at me with big smiles. Introductions over I expressed the opinion that given circumstances I never really expected to be here. Were they concerned at all about my presence? No, was the reply, the crew said I was very old and weak and looked harmless!
Keep your mouth closed now, I thought to myself.
My gaze was directed to the central radar screen where a line recorded our track across the map and the names and co-ordinates of the flight waypoints were spelled out.
In the gloom I had to squint and then realised that the gloom was caused by newspapers and magazines propped up against all forward and front side windows to keep out the glare of the sun. Now when you’re sitting comfortably back there in your seat sipping on a Bintang or something, you think that there is someone steering the plane and watching where the damn thing is going.
Not so I’m afraid I must inform you.
These guys could jump out and you’d never know until the probable hard landing at Ngurah Rai Airport. ‘George’, or whoever he is these days, is no doubt capable of all the work necessary to keep us going, and there is probably a proximity radar or two to go beep, beep, beep when something else gets too close.
Perhaps if they were looking and saw something ahead they could not shift this behemoth quickly enough to avoid hitting anything close enough to see anyway.
With a couple of papers removed I could see enough to recognise our position and was quite pleased to find that my guess was not too far off the mark for distance along the track but we were further north than I’d really anticipated. The guys explained that they were trying to get as far out of a headwind that was strongest to the south.
My gaze was drawn to the space between their legs eventually, not for the reason some of my ne’er-do-well friends might claim, but to look at the array of stuff that I expected to see on the control yokes. Bless my soul, no control column! How do they point this thing if they need to? I pointed at the empty space and looked quizzical. The co-pilot pointed to a little knob between his right knee and the side of their ‘office’. It was a tiny little control stick, obviously with electric/electronic connections to the control surfaces. It was about a quarter of the size of the smallest stick I ever saw in the single seat gliders that I once flew. After about 10 minutes I thanked them and took my leave. I sincerely hope that by writing this I don’t cause them strife but I wouldn’t have missed the opportunity for the world, and their assessment was right, I was ‘safe’ at least.
The track we had followed had taken us over Alice Springs in the red centre of Australia and at this time we were heading a little north of Derby on the West Australian north-central coast, but towards which we would track more as we progressed. I reckoned that this course was perhaps 800 km north of the track we followed on our 2000 flight when we had followed a quite direct course straight over Broome on the coast.
Have you ever wondered why the toilet pans in aircraft are matte black on the inside?
It can only be to disguise the lack of cleanliness, if indeed such a state does ever exist.
You couldn’t see Mt Agung stuck on the side of the pan unless it started to erupt. One just hopes that the flushing system is efficient at the least – a fact that I’ve never been quite game enough to check with the seat up so I could see what actually happened.
Has anyone ever tried this?
Did you get sucked halfway into the orifice? – or sprayed with high pressure water fed by a vent into the tank which faced forward into the 550 Kph airflow outside?
These are cold and draughty places too, although the draught is never quite enough to give you any real confidence that you’re not going to take that distinctive odour with you. Even if you use the deodorant supplied in the little bottle, this itself has an odour of its own that will be easily identified if it stays with you.
We had been flying over quite solid cloud all the way so far, a fairly even, dappled, grey and white. Only once when I looked was there any change. This was when a great circular depression appeared with streamers of the cloud visibly pouring over the top edge into the abyss under the hole, just like a great gaseous waterfall. Then, as I watched a canyon collapsed from one edge of this hole and began to run parallel to our path for some minutes eventually linking into the wall of a similar but much larger crater in the cloud carpet.
North of Mount Olga we were at an altitude of 12,200 meters or 40,000 feet. Our airspeed was 774 kph or 476 miles per hour. We were 2 hours and 56 minutes out of Denpasar with the outside temperature of -56 degrees C. or -67 degrees F. (A good reason for those pilots not to jump out I thought with relief. The family jewels would be very brittle by the time they landed.) Our ETA (estimated time of arrival) was 3.28 pm Denpasar time.
The cabin video screen showed our little aircraft approaching Derby when a sudden break up of the cloud barrier allowed a glimpse of tiny red roads in a pattern that resembled the lines on my map around Camballin, just off the Northern Highway a little east of Derby near Mount Anderson. Now one of my mates will race for his atlas to see if this hill was named after him I bet.
What is there at Camballin I wonder?
Chances are there’s a pub!
It’s marked on the map as a little yellow square rather than the less significant and slightly smaller yellow circle. Although it seems to be only about 10 km from the Highway there is no sign of a direct track between the two points. The line of red dashes goes south east for perhaps more than 50 km before turning north to the highway over 30 km away. Why not a direct link by the short route? What hill or gully or wash-away bars the direct path? (Maybe the pattern of roads I am looking at below is not even near Camballin.)
Does anyone know about Camballin?
Perhaps my holidaying friend Di, travelling with Trevor to this region, will have an answer when she reads this. That’s if she reads this.
Too soon the clouds close over again and then quite quickly rise up beyond the horizon we can see from the plane, even beyond the tops of the little winglets on the wing tip.
Our sense of place in the world, land, sea and almost the sky is engulfed; lost in the mists of these clouds, just as it was as we approached and departed from rainy Melbourne hours ago. I’m frustrated with curiosity. All that landscape I saw on the last trip and hoped to re-visit this time is hidden.
Where are we – exactly?
I resolve that next time we travel I will put my hand-held GPS into the camera bag and to hell with the laughter of the common man!
A gentle turn to the right suggests that we might now be over the direct line of our route and are heading more NW than W, straight to Denpasar.
This recently enveloping cloud soon begins to break up into clumps with things just identifiable on the ground though the gaps. Or is my identification just hope rather than reality? I’m sure that there is still land to be seen between those cotton balls far below. Red tracks, some doubling for a distance, perhaps to skirt a churned up bog?
Then, quite clearly I can see the broken outline of a coast, with white sand hills or beaches, grey cliffs, white surf and turquoise waters deepening to blue and indigo. A deeply indented bay, edged with black mangroves, reddish sand islands just offshore, and white breakers over azure reefs in the bay. Pale blue shallows lead to a distant cream coloured spit away on the horizon, such as we can see it or imagine it through the clouds. This can only be King Sound with Cape Leveque on the horizon and Derby hidden somewhere below us.
Over the Timor Sea the little bumps and joggles that have sometimes sent the surface of our drinks close to the edge of the glasses almost cease. The surge from side to side in the glass is replaced by the occasional circular ripple around the ice in my lemonade caused by a small stone in the road under our passing. Larger, open spaces begin to appear in the cloud sheet which has broken up into cotton balls again. I begin to wonder if a merchant ship or a small fishing boat could be seen from this height. There are white caps on the surface below but I have no idea if these are at the front of large storm driven seas or really only the wind blowing the tops off little crests. Right on cue a steamer appears crossing our path and heading sort of south east, towards nothing except the middle of the Indian Ocean as far as my map will tell me. The decks are red and the white wake fades to pale blue and then disappears back into the indigo ocean about twice the length of the ship astern, both make the ship stand out clearly.
The surface of the sea returns to a featureless plain. None of the white water or paler colours that could be seen before when we were over King Sound are to be seen out here. The little icon of the plane on the TV screen shows that we are aligned with the long axis of Timor to the north east of us. This means that we must be about the middle of the Timor Sea. I go to the other side of the cabin and peer out of one of the (many) vacant windows. Away on the horizon, right where I imagine Timor might be there appears a mountainous build up of new cloud. I can’t see any dark bottom near sea level that might suggest land and I wonder if the cloud means that I am about to loose the view that I have hoped for all trip?
I imagine the old Polynesian navigators who sailed these seas for centuries, relying on clouds to mark islands that were over the horizon and invisible to them from sea level, reading the size of the island from the passing of waves reflected back into the swells from the island’s cliffs. All of this information was recorded on open mesh twig and twine “dream catcher” type maps, where each intersection of twigs marked an island that they knew.
Back in my own seat (actually the one in front as HA is reading and I decline to disturb her or my thoughts with idle conversation) I look to the west where there is another of those towering white clouds just visible if I squint as far forward as possible with my eye close to the window. As far as my map tells me there is no island out there! Just when you think you’ve got it all worked out someone throws a spanner in your logic. As it comes more clearly into view it looks more like a snow covered mountain rising out of the sea than a cloud.
(Is there a new little volcano rising out of the deep down there, smoking and ready to cover us with steaming lava as we pass over? Why be constrained with facts when your imagination can keep you occupied for hours?)
This monster cloud has an anvil shaped top which is above the horizon and looks as though it’s going to rise above the wings of our plane again. That would be from sea level to nearly 12,500 meters or over 40,000 feet! Awe is still tingling at my nerve ends when the other side of this monster appears at the edge of the window. Like the front, this edge is almost sheer too, dropping down to the sea surface again.
What creates these titans of the ether you might ask? Well, it’s no good asking me, I only wonder about these things. Wonder is sometimes even better than knowing. Ralph will tell me. He’s the sort of bloke who told me how far it was to the visible horizon from 12,000 meters when I asked last time.
Then the cloud returns to cotton balls for as far as I can see.
Suddenly the roar of the engines that you’ve almost become used to drops quickly to a muted drone.
This can only mean one thing.
We’re at the apex of our flight and beginning to descend towards the corner of the Indian Ocean.
There can be only one target in front of our smoothly rounded nose – Bali!
The Island of the Gods.
The isle of smiles by the mile.
Paradise!
It’s 230 km away according to the TV screen. A long glide indeed. The screen immediately shows a change in altitude, down to 10,700 meters and the speed has slowed to 207 km per hour. Our ETA is now 3.31 pm, a change of only 5 or 6 minutes from the earliest estimate. Not bad Navigator – or should that be, not bad Computer?
Needlessly, the Captain announces that the weather in Bali is beautiful.
The pattern of the sea slowly becomes more visible. Slightly highlighted crests and shadowed troughs, row upon row to the edge of the world, like ripples on a sandy beach when the tide is out. Our course is north west and appears to parallel the wave crests so their movement must be either towards the north east or south west. As there is an easterly wind over Bali (from the TV screen again) I decide that they must be on a migration to the south west, moving away from under our plane from my side on the left.
Suddenly the first little fishing boat appears. Well, it’s not too little, its wake stretching astern towards us. There will be others soon I’m sure, perhaps the fishing fleet outside Kuta reef? They’ll be trolling for Tuna, Mackerel, Mahi Mahi and shark, not bottom bouncing for snapper or jigging for squid, and hoping for a good market tomorrow.
Then there are two more boats, these with no wake so they’ll either be drifting or at anchor and fishing on the bottom.
Another and two more.
One motoring.
Then they are in every window, but we are still 46 km from Bali. This is surely not the Jimbaran or Kuta fleets so far out. Then there is the unmistakable lightening of the sea colour to pale green as it shallows and eventually breaks the surface in a creamy slash of sand and coral. A tiny island in the middle of nowhere, fringed with boats in a variety of shapes and colours.
As fast as it appeared it disappears.
Then a Jukung. That most Balinese of boats with its hollowed log bottom topped with side planks, bamboo outriggers on each side, a carved swordfish-like bow with bulging eyes and painted ears. A solitary tooth on a long bottom jaw with the flared top bill standing up proudly at a steep angle. Three to five meters long with a triangular sail rising from the bow like an open crab claw, or, if progress has caught up with the owner – and in most cases it has – with a 15hp Yamaha outboard clamped to a blunt back end where the elegantly rounded stern has been cruelly sawn off to accommodate the motor.
20 km to Bali.
The Kuta reef appears, and, yes, the fishing boats are there.
A bump.
The rumble of wheels on the ground.
The runway built out into Kuta Bay is under us.