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. Boulders on the edge, green with seaweed flash by followed by the terminal buildings.
The roar of engines in reverse thrust and the push from the back as the aircraft slows and our bodies want to keep going, pressed hard against the seat belts.
We have arrived.
We are in Bali.
We turn off the runway onto the taxi strip that will take us back to the buildings. There is another aircraft already on the runway where we have just landed, ready to take off. The rows of coconut palms that I remember on the Jimbaran side of the strip are gone and there is now an open view across green fields to the rising land leading to the Bukit plateau beyond.
There are 8 or 9 aircraft lined up at the terminal, including the bright yellow tail insignia of the new carrier, Paradise Air Indonesia. It all looked fairly busy and I wondered if tourism had suddenly picked up from all the recent reports. The emptiness of our plane did not suggest a sudden upsurge, however.
We turned into the first air bridge closest to the beach we had just flown over and parked, the engines running down and the mad scramble beginning, to open overhead lockers, drag out gear and try to be first off.
Through the aerobridge eventually That mad rush is all to no avail. Travellers in the Business class go first and by then everyone in Tourist class is standing up clogging the aisles and you’re stuck anyway. Never the less it’s a driving urge and I’ll do it all again next time I arrive I’m sure. Through the new and impressive building with its closely fitted red brick and carved grey stone ‘candi bentar’ or split gateway, so traditional in Bali, then to Immigration and eventually Customs.
Here the nerves begin to sing, and here I’m caught again.
The emptiness of the Immigration hall belies the faint hope I had that Bali might be getting busy. I had to take a photo of the emptiness which I had not seen before, not even the time our flight arrive at almost 2 am and when there were still throngs here, but the photos later prove to be useless as the flash is not powerful enough to light up the length of the hall. Less than 50 people got off our flight, some going to the transit lounge, obviously headed for more distant shores, not Bali bound. This did not bode well for Customs.
Eventually the bags came out on the belt, all covered with chalk marks from the eagle eyes of the x-ray operators. But we are ready for this, armed with ‘Wet Ones’ in our bum bags.
Scrub, scrub. Scrub, scrub. Scrub, scrub.
The porters were off with a rush, HA going straight through. I had the dry dog food atop my load as camouflage, but it’s not good enough!
‘Good afternoon, Sir”.
‘Salamat soree’ I replied, trying to be cool and familiar.
Not good enough!
‘Would you open this bag sir?”
Now what can you do but open the bag, and there is all of HA’s pre-duty-free Chivas Regal and Gin.
Not good at all !
‘Would you come to the office please sir?’
OK. Let’s get this over with.
‘You have 7 litres and 750 centilitres of alcohol sir. You are only allowed 1 litre sir. You may accompany us to the back and observe the excess being destroyed or pay the tax sir.’
Ah, well now, how much is the tax I enquire, putting my bum bag on the desk and taking out my wallet displaying all the travellers’ cheques and just A$35 in notes in case he wanted a hint.
‘In the book sir, it says’ – fumble, fumble, fumble, - turning pages over and back again,
‘500% of the value sir.’
And how much is that I graciously enquire?
Out from the desk drawer came the calculator, click, click, click, clickety click.
‘$50 dollars sir.’
Gad! This guy is as good as a crook money changer. I’ve watched those fingers fly and I would never have guessed $50 - if I hadn’t been caught once before.
‘I only have $35’, I plead hopefully.
This is not good enough either.
‘It is $50 sir.’
‘I’ll have to get some money from my companion’, I reply.
‘Yes sir’ he says.
And, I comply, and so does she, and, with no further formality – and no receipt – I am through with Herself and off to the great outdoors.
All of the above proceedings can only have takes 5 minutes but the usually crowded pickup area outside is virtually empty.
Empty of not only of passengers but of transfer drivers and taxi drivers also.
That warm smell of Bali is not there to greet us, that mixture of humid air, clove cigarettes, floral perfumes, traffic fumes, rotting garbage. But the sweat is almost squirting out of my skin and soaking into my shirt and shorts so I know that I’m in Bali.
Jonni, the Golden Bali guy on the spot, is there waiting and quickly guides us across the road to the van. He goes through trip check points and time lines (to little effect as it is to turn out later) and we’re off along that familiar road, well familiar as far as the great statue of the God with the writhing coiled serpent, and then on the divided road to Seminyak which is new to us.
Our, well perhaps I should say my, first impressions of the Bali Agung Village were not too good, frankly. I should not have expected more, knowing that it was on the lower end of cheap, but you always hope to be pleasantly surprised. In fairness at this point I should say that by the end of our four days much of the initial disappointment had been dispelled and we really felt quite comfortable about the place. It is a close collection of Balinese style buildings, red brick and carved grey stone, with those dinky little double wooden doors, carved and painted, secured by a padlock between two iron rings on the outside and by a drop-in wooden rail on the inside. This is cute, but the head of the doorway is always too close to the ground for my head and they’re no barrier to any blood-lusting mosquitoes.
Our room was on the ground floor in a two storey block of four. As the others were not occupied while we were there I can’t comment on what the sound transference between the rooms might be.
There is a largish bedroom with two single beds and barely adequate storage places and a shower/bath/toilet off one corner.
Looking for somewhere to hang damp clothes, towels, night gear, hats and so on was a fruitless task.
There is mini-bar (Damn! These things are small.) which worked well except that the ice making compartment was mainly frosted up and there was only one small tray for making ice blocks. Ice for drinks however was available from Room Service and the service was prompt.
There was reliable hot water and a good air conditioning unit, the beds were large, flat, and comfortable and had clean sheets every day, with little flower arrangements on the pillows when you returned from dinner each night. The grounds were well planted with shrubs and flowers, perhaps too well planted as, with the walled enclosures around the central bungalows, it restricted your outlook too much for me. The lack of a view, unless you stood on tip toe and peered over the side wall of the property into the neighbouring rice fields, was a lasting impression, along with a pool that needed a good scrub and some repairs to the sharp edges around the tiles. The grounds were well maintained however, with gardeners out first thing every morning.
If I were in a position to change anything it would be the level of lighting. There were lights at each side of the bed, one over the dressing table mirror and one over the bathroom mirror. They were however not only dim but very low, in the case of the bed lights, or shrouded inside pelmets so the light only went down over the mirrors. Showers at night were consequently in the dark almost and shaving or make-up in the mirrors except during the day with the door and solid wooden window shutter open was a risky business. The wiring outside really did not inspire any confidence that the lighting levels could be upgraded without some major work.
Because it was part of the package deal, inseparably mixed in with the air fares, I really don’t know how much each night there costs. I’d guess that it might be around A$35-45 per night, and if I’m right it was a bargain compared with similar accommodation we were to turn down later at around $75-90 a night.
The acid test of any place however, is would I stay there again?
If I’m right about the price the answer is yes, without a lot of hesitation, and so would Herself I think.
Checked in and with bags stowed, the first task was to establish our bearings, change some TC’s for local cash and get some water and other essentials such as soda water, dry ginger ale, Bintang, nibbles, fruit and so on. Amidst all of this, of course, some shopping might (did I really key in ’might’?) take place. To get our bearings we walk. Out the little winding street to a sort of main road, Jalan (road) Abimanyu which runs east-west between the beach and the main north-south road, Jl Raya Seminyak, which changes it’s name to Legian which in turn changes to Kuta which in turn changes to Tuban at the other, southern, end.
Along Jl Abimanyu we turned away from the beach which seemed fairly close to the hotel, towards the top of the road which we had come down shortly before.
Just up the road our hearts lifted when we saw a sizeable Kodak shop. Sizeable it may have been but a money changer it was not. A little further still was one of those small money changers we always avoid like poison. Perhaps it was Her empty wallet and the sight of shops ahead, or that we were together to keep an eye on one another, or it might have been the poor innocents who came out as we passed and said that they had got a good deal at the better than average exchange rate being offered. (Warning sign No 1.) Whatever it was we decided to try it.
Have you got Rp100,000 bills? I questioned.
Oh yes, he assured us.
Herself put her (unsigned) $100 TC on the counter and I took out our own calculator to show that we knew which way was up, I thought, studiously ignoring his calculator after barely a passing it a glance. We waited until he began to count out the money in Rp20,000 bills.
We want Rp100,000 bills I reminded him. You said you had them. (Warning sign No 2.)
Yes of course he said rummaging around in the drawer at the top of his counter (Warning sign No 3) before finding one.
Sorry only got one, he said, continuing to count out 20’s. (Warning sign No 4.)
He finished his count. No small notes, he said, you got 5,000 to make change? (Warning sign No 5.)
No money at all she said, taking up the notes to count them.
Where you from one of his companions at the side of his counter asked me? (Warning sign No 6.)
Herself finished counting out the first Rp100,000 of 20’s and put it in a pile to one side before reaching for the second pile. Smarty pants picked up the first pile immediately and began to tap the pile on each edge. (Warning sign No 7.)
She smacked his hand lightly and took the bundle from him to count it again. He really should have given up here (and we should have given up several warning signs ago) but the charade of counting, picking up to shuffle, hand smacking and re-counting continued for three more rounds before she picked up her $100 TC, pushed his money back at him and told him exactly what she thought of him.
I left after her, with only three words to say and they were not, ‘See you later’.
Strangely, as we walked out, a passing group said with some vehemence, “Don’t use him, he’s a bloody cheat!’
His shop was between the Kodak shop and the Puri Bunga Cottages on the right hand side of Jl Abimanyu as you walk away from the beach. I hope this might warn off someone else who could be tempted.
Proceeding further up the street we checked on a number of restaurants that might be potential dining venues for tonight. Eventually we took a passing cab up to the end and turned right into Jl Raya Seminyak where my notes said we should find the Bintang Supermarket. Sure enough, shortly after we turned the corner there it was, and within sight, just a bit further along, was a Wartel (government telephoning shop) which was also a money changing facility. That was our first stop and, despite the recommendation in the notes about the reliable honesty of Wartels, we entered with some suspicion. Her $100 TC was produced once more and the procedure of completing their little form and showing a photocopy of the passport over, in short order she had the absolute right money in her hand and a receipt. Thus encouraged I put 5 TC’s on the counter and the procedure was completed once more.
These people had our business for the rest of our stay in Seminyak and about $5,000 crossed the counter before we left for the mysteries of the eastern provinces where we believed the exchange rate would not be so good.
Considerable business was completed at the Bintang Supermarket, including the first supply of Chuppa Chups. Back to the Village to unload the loot, unpack, shower (what bliss that was) and get ready for dinner.
Up the street a bit we eventually settled on the Puri Duyung Restaurant and hotel at No 15X Jl Abimanyu. My notes here are brief and reflect my sagging energy rather than casting any reflection on the restaurant. We were welcomed with a complimentary Arak and orange and followed this with Spring Rolls, Rp14,000 for three, less than $1 each. The Nasi Goreng Special was Rp32,000, Bakmi Goreng Rp28,000 a large Bintang Rp17,000. (Two were Rp34,000 would you believe?) A meal for 2 with drinks for A$21. The restaurant provided transport back to the Village afterwards. She rated the toilets 8/10.
We were a bit impressed with the surrounds and the adjoining hotel. The rooms there were Rp160,000 a night with Indonesian breakfast. This is about A$32for a twin or double Air Conditioned room with a huge bathroom, separate bath and shower and with toilet. The complex looked fairly new, the rooms and the pool clean.
Bargaining would bring this price down I’m sure.
I woke up earlier than She did, or maybe she just wanted time to herself and a few more minutes in that land between alertness and slumber. This is a precious time in Bali I think. Your mind knows that you are there at last and then wanders over past adventures, fabricates new ones and new meetings, runs lightly over possible or planned activities for the day ahead and slowly releases you into reality.
I walk in the morning. If I don’t Max seems to make sure that I will feel guilty for the rest of the day. Even though he is not around now I find it fairly easy to keep to the pattern of the days. Dressing quietly is an art I have not mastered but she resists the temptation to tell me off and continues to slumber.
Off down the lane and turn right, it’s only a few minutes to the beach. The Seminyak beach is broad and flat, the sand is black, not volcanic I don’t think but from centuries of mixing with the silt coming down from several creeks, or they might be only storm water drains.
Even at 6.30 am there is plenty of activity. Hotel workers are putting out sun lounges and umbrellas, health conscious locals and visitors are walking or jogging or stretching and exercising with martial arts type moves and stances, fishermen are standing up to waist deep in the surf and casting between the waves in the hope of catching a feed. Most surprisingly, besides the ‘wild’ dogs there are a number of owners (or handlers employed by owners) exercising a wide variety of dogs.
As I was going down a small black Dachshund carrying a bright yellow tennis ball was coming up the street with his/her family. I was to be formally introduced to her in the next day or so.
A beautiful young male Doberman with a gleaming coat was kept on a short leash by an obviously proud young owner. He (the dog that is) treated all the local dogs with contempt and it was not until a friendly long haired Golden Retriever bounded up to say’ ‘hello’ that he decided his owner’s territory was being invaded. A bristling back and a few throaty barks convinced the Retriever that there was plenty of other beach to run in. I approached the pair and the dog trembled with excitement. A few words of admiration to the owner and the dog eagerly nuzzled the back of my outstretched hand. A brief chest rub followed and he could no longer contain himself, catching the owner by surprise he was instantly rolling on my feet with all four legs waving in the air. I hope he does not change as he ages, he was already head-high to my hips and I would guess still growing in both height and muscle.
The Retriever joined his owner and a Rottweiler tearing through the shallows, moving away up the beach.
This proliferation of domesticated dogs is a new Bali sight to me, and one I like.
Later we were to remark on the number of male dogs that had obviously been castrated, and looked much healthier either because of the quick snip or because someone was also caring for them. Again, this is good to see.
Later again we found the first of four Pet Shops. It caused great amusement and wonder to our drivers when we insisted on stopping, photographing and going in to talk to the owners or employees. Herself had promised to write an article for Her Dog Obedience Club when we returned home. Now it would be illustrated too.
North up the beach my walk came to a halt at one of the creeks flowing across the beach, deep and discoloured enough to discourage me from wading across and too wide to jump. Where this creek exited from the gap between two properties the water was cutting through a bank of sand that had built up to a bit less than a meter high. (It was a leafy and mysterious upstream of that cutting in the morning light which filtered through the overhanging tree branches and dappled the banks. I would have loved to have found the courage to wade in and explore.) Layered through the exposed face of the sand bank were strata upon strata of plastic, mostly film but also a few bottles, some fishing net, rope ends and the odd small container. Well, I hear you say, what’s so remarkable about that? This is so common on Bali you hardly notice it any more. You’re right about that of course. What caught my attention was the wheeled hand cart on the far bank and three young men standing in the outflow forking through the sandbank, pulling out the plastic debris, washing it in the flowing water and tossing it up on the far side, ready to join the other stuff already in the cart. On top of this were the obvious marks in the sand indicating that the beach for about 100 meters on my side of the outflow had been raked and all of the rubbish, ready to join the mess in the sand bank on the next high tide, had already been piled up.
As far as I could make out, and I stand to be corrected by anyone who might know better, there was a levy placed on the local hotels by the Desa Adit (local council) which was paying these young men.
I couldn’t resist, and fished out the Rp5,000 notes from my shirt pocket. The next day I took CC’s for them and I’m not sure which was the more popular reward.
Just a bit back on the beach, for the fishermen who were repairing their nets and throwing the off cuts of mesh and rope onto the beach, there was no handout.
Our plane over might have been fairly empty but our impression of Bali from here is that it is really vacant. At the fairly well known and prominently located restaurant where we ate last night we were at one of only three tables occupied. Perhaps a dozen other tables were vacant. This morning we walked up to and along Jl Raya Seminyak, the main road that runs through Seminyak, Legian, Kuta and Tuban. This is arguably the heart of the southern tourist areas in Bali. We did not see even one other person we could identify as a tourist in about 2 hours of exploration.
We changed more money at a Wartel (government telephone office) a little closer to the Bintang Supermarket, at 16A Jl Seminyak, again without any drama at all.
Absolute efficiency, absolute accuracy.
Chuppa Chups and big cheesy grins all round. Even the boss lady came out from the back room to get in on the act. For their children there were little clip-on kangaroos and koalas. Funny how they all seemed to have children!
We caught a taxi into Legian to re-establish our ties with the Bali we were more familiar with and to check on friends.
At Dolphin Leather in Sahadewa Street (also known as Garlic Lane by some visitors), between Melasti and Padma, we found that two of the old staff had left. The long thin man had gone back to Lovina and the shorter guy who did all the pencilling of measurements had both been replaced with one new staff member. Dolphins had had no orders at all this week. They would have lots of work when we returned tomorrow and even more when friends came in next Tuesday, on the first available plane arriving after the start of the school holidays.
We moved down two doors to have a very late breakfast at the Tekor Bali Qui Restaurant in Sahadewa. This, and the intervening Dolphins Restaurant, had been favourites in past trips and the Bali Qui did not disappoint this morning, although the all-you-could-eat-for-2-bucks offer had lapsed since our earlier visits.
While we were eating and sitting over a leisurely meal we counted tourists – only white faces which we felt we would not mistake. In well over an hour there were 5 who went past the restaurant.
From here we walked down Melasti to Kuta Beach. Along the way we approached a couple who looked and sounded Aussie. I asked if I could take their photo to remind us that we were not alone in Bali. They laughed and said that we were the first native English speakers they had met in 2 days. At their hotel there were Dutch and Japanese apart from themselves. This was their first trip to Bali and they could not believe that they were really in a popular tourist destination.
Down to the corner and left turn along the beach.
As we went the children and old people we met were offered Chuppa Chups and to the mothers who seemed to be without any means of earning a living, or who were sitting on their own crocheting bikinis and hats, we gave a Rp5,000 note that we always saved from any change that we got.
Now Rp5,000 is only a dollar in Oz money but without exception it was accepted with thanks, sometimes embarrassing hand clasping and bowing. It was only later that we found out what such a small sum of money did for them – and then we were even more embarrassed and frequently handed over two at a time. Only once was our offer refused and that was by a mother with child begging on the street outside the market at Sukawati. To this day I don’t understand why.
Along the length of Kuta beach as far as Poppies Lane I, which must have been something over a kilometre, we saw not one person we were sure was a tourist. This was about midday. I really didn’t believe what we were seeing and had to take a photo. When this story gets posted into our home pages I’ll include the photo, and one of Jl Legian, which is almost devoid of cars and with only a few motorbikes to be seen. Readers who remember Kuta Beach as a place where you had to watch every footfall to avoid treading on a bare boob roasting in the sand will be amazed.
We were a bit dehydrated by this time and flagged down a Blue Bird cab to take us around the corner to Matahari’s Department store for a reviver. From memory I don’t think the Rp4,000 flag fall on the meter changed before it was time to get out again and the cabbie welcomed the Rp10,000 note with the change waved back at him.
We bought a Bintang and an Anchor and sat on the steps near the cool overhead air blast at the store’s entry to drink them. If you think our Bintang consumption should be criticised as a means of avoiding dehydration let me explain that the beer was only to take the edge off our thirst before we shared a small Aqua as a chaser after each one.
We had only just begun to shop inside Matahari’s when a lovely young lass approached Herself and enquired if she was Australian. Naturally I thought that she had really meant to chat to me and that Herself had just accidentally stepped in the way, so I moved closer to be part of the action – I mean conversation don’t I. Joking soon departed as we realised that she was close to panic. She was from West Australia on her way to Amsterdam and, as there was a 6-hour stopover, she decided to get a transit pass, catch a cab and see something of Bali. The cabbie mentioned Kuta and as the name rang a bell, she said yes and he dropped her at Matahari’s front door. She had immediately been set upon by the sellers clustered there and had agreed to a manicure. As soon as she sat down the vultures landed and she had sunglasses thrust into her hand, a foot massage under way, wallets, CD’s, rings and several other things thrust at her. Not only did she get a simple manicure but flowers painted on every nail. Nothing she had been able to say stopped the action. In the end they demanded money – all that she had and more. Her bag was held with a demand that she leave it with them until she went and changed more money. At this point, as her bag held all of her money, her passport, transit pass and tickets, she panicked and snatched her bag back before fleeing into Matahari.
I could feel Herself growing in volume and bristling as the story unfolded.
Frankly, I found it hard to believe and only followed the two of them back to the entrance to pick up the pieces after the stoush ended.
The original vendor, who had taken the money for all the others, was identified and fronted. Now when Principal Herself fronts one there is no avoiding the issue. To my amazement, her concluding demand for the money to be returned and only a reasonable charge taken, was complied with without demur. The wad, and I use the word conservatively, came out of the blouse pocket to be handed over. Herself extracted a 50,000 note and a couple of 10’s I think, and passed those back as fair payment for everything done. ‘Right?’ she demanded and received a nodded response. The remainder of the notes were put into Stacey’s visibly trembling hands. The guilty one was berated (and anyone else within earshot who might have been even a little bit guilty about something, related or not) and Stacey, who looked as if she might fold up in a heap at any moment, was taken by the arm and guided to the nearby McDonalds for a wee sit down, a couple or three cigarettes and a cold drink.
As her trembling stopped there was nothing for it but to undertake shopping therapy to complete the revival process. This was duly undertaken in Matahari’s and across the road at the Art Markets, back through Matahari again and on to the restaurant with the street side tables about 2 doors from Matahari. A few beers and, for Stacey about 6 cigarettes, and an hour or three later we bundled her into a cab, with appropriate money in hand, and gave orders for the airport.
I can only hope that the rest of her trip to Amsterdam was totally uneventful.
Our shopping continued as though there had been no interruption of 4 or so hours, perhaps the pace was marginally quickened.
Eventually a cab was hailed to take us back to the Agung Village for a shower and those other prerequisites for dinner, and what an experience that would turn out to be!
Along the way our friendly money changer seemed to call us, and a brief detour was subsequently made into the Bintang Supermarket for a new pen, some bottled water, more Chuppa Chups (I think I’ll just refer to them as ‘CC’s’ from now on), fruit including those exquisite passion fruit, some salaks with the scaly snake skin, spiky skinned rambutans and purple mangosteens, juices, tissues, wrapping paper for our Oleh Oleh’s (gifts for friends on the morrow), sticky tape, nibbles – Oh, you’ll know the sort if thing if you’ve been to Bali, and if you haven’t then just imagine that we stopped shopping when She thought the cab would be full.
A little further on the Kodak shop called and films were deposited, some handicrafts were inspected along with a few kiddies clothes, a couple of restaurant menus a bit further down and just briefly the beach.
Back at the Village I had a quick swim while the shower was otherwise occupied and, in time, dripped back to our room to have one myself.
Brief discussion followed between the makeup mirror and the shower during which I learned that we were to dine at the Gateway of India Restaurant, just up the road at No 10 Jl Abimanyu in Seminyak, not far from the intersection with Jl Legian. If you’re looking for it at any time you’ll find it on the right as you head towards the beach and you won’t be sorry you found it.
Now if you decide to go there at any time I’d suggest that as you walk in you order an Aqua or a Bintang or an Iced Lemon Tea, or all three to keep you going. Not that the service is slow but the menu, at 9 pages closely printed on both sides, takes some mouth watering time to study.
We started with Vegetable Samousas (Rp8,000) that came with bowls of fruit chutney, mint dressing and pickles (or was it fruit pickle and chutney?). Without realising that these accompaniments were due I also ordered some Mango chutney (Rp9,500) to put on the warm bread that also arrived from the tandoor oven. This feast in itself was followed by Prawn Tika Makanwalla (my notes are much stained here and that could be an error in my interpretation of the written remnants) (Rp55,000), Akbari Kebabs (chicken, Rp27,000), Cucumber Raita (Rp10,000) and Indian Plain Steamed rice (Rp4,000).
All this came with a large bowl of cubed potatoes mixed with various fruit pieces and dressed with lemon and spices which was almost a main course in itself!
The prawns were submerged in a pot of red sauce which was spicy but mollified just nicely on the tongue by the Raita, or with the left over mint dressing from the entrée. Now, when I say the prawns were submerged I don’t mean to imply that the little beggars had slipped beneath the surface of a modest pool of something. What I mean is that the numerous, large and juicy beggars could not quite reach the surface of a mini cauldron of thick tomato, butter and cream accompaniment. Diving for them was a delight and I smiled slyly to myself when, at the last stir, I detected the final offering. If we had but suspected the volume of either main course we would have debated which one, and one only, we would order.
The Chicken kebabs were chicken breasts stuffed with finely diced and spiced mutton, grilled to a dark golden brown on the outside but still white, moist and of course creamy underneath. They were topped with fluffy egg white. Actually they were quite bland when compared with the prawns but with some of the sauces remaining in their pots, a succulent way to finish.
The very adequate Naan bread was a nice way to try to mop up all the sauces and juices, but in the end we had to admit utter defeat and leave on the table at least sufficient for a meal for a third person. We had totally misjudged the size of the servings and could only sit for some time waiting for stretched stomachs to adjust to the possibility of walking.
In the end we took a ride back to the Village.
The total cost, with Aquas and Bintangs, was Rp166,109 or A$32 for the two of us with tax and charges included.
The experience was not at all like our local Indian restaurant in South Oz.
We also happened to notice that they offer an Indian Buffet every Sunday at Rp45,000 (A$8.70) per person. What a way to destroy a Sunday! I think you’d be a mug to miss it if you were there. You need cash though, they don’t accept credit cards.
We have just about finished our first kilo of passion fruit and nearly the same of salaks. The mangosteens are lagging behind somewhat. Despite saying, ‘only one of each before breakfast’ it has been hard to deny a second – and there are no rules for after breakfast.
My morning walk was down to the beach and along it as far as I could go in both directions which was only a few of kilometres even by the time I’d wandered up and down the expanse of firm sand to look at this and that.
The dogs and their owners were out again, testing the strength of their leads or bounding along the shore line, chasing the ripples as they broke and ran along the beach or sniffing here and there and in one case, much to the owners chagrin, rolling in a dead fish discarded from a past night’s catch and now a malodorous object of doggy delight.
The boys were again dredging plastic from the sand bank and relished the CC’s I offered them. I wondered about their cleanliness when they rinsed their hands in the outfall from that stream of turgid water before opening their treats.
This morning Mimi introduced me to her owner, Andrew. We had a pleasant conversation during which I learnt about the recent efforts by the Desa Adit to clear up the dog packs on the beach but how, over the past week, he had noticed that there were two new packs forming and the contest for leadership had come to a head in one group but was still hotly disputed by two rivals in the other.
Mimi, I learned was expecting her second litter, due in about 8 days.
On the way back to the village I looked in at the small restaurant, opening onto the roadside about halfway to the Village access lane. It looked OK and I resolved that, amongst the doggy stories, I must mention this to Higher Authority as a possible breakfast destination.
Our plan for the morning was to again catch up with more old friends. After finding yesterday that two friends from Dolphin Leather had returned to their villages, we should have been ready for some disappointments today also, but this reality of low tourist numbers and the resulting shift of locals back to the countryside, where survival and self sufficiency were more possible, has really not stuck in our minds.
Perhaps it’s just that we don’t want to recognise it as a new fact of life here.
We changed money at the Wartel again. I’m really wondering where it is all going and if the supply will last, but others of us have no obvious qualms.
From the Wartel we are drawn across the road to the Bintang for daily stocks. I also wanted to add a little Aussie flag to the windscreen of an old three wheel Tuktuk they have on display there, which has in large letters, ‘Bali Loves Peace’ across the glass. The person who arrived when I ask to see the manager and seek his/her permission, could not have been happier to have someone add to their message.
We are loaded up with koalas, kangaroos and little merino sheep (which we buy in Adelaide’s Central Market at $2 for a pack of 10);
- and with a big black plastic garbage bag full of donated, used, bras that HA has collected;
- with the Bintang’s remaining stock of CC’s;
- with three gift wrapped photos of our three favourite beach girls which we took three years ago, one for each of them;
- with a wrapped present for our favourite driver, the quiet, mild, gentle gentlemanly I. Made Dera, whom we always find in the drivers’ bale on the corner opposite the entrance to the Bali Hai Resort in Tuban;
- with a suitcase of clothes for kids at the orphanage;
- with cameras and the book of shopping lists;
- and more Aussie stick-on flags and Rp5,000 notes.
We hailed a Blue Bird cab and set out for Jl Wana Segara in Tuban, down towards the airport, intending to have breakfast at the Pantai Restaurant on the beachfront.
This is the day we did the count of whities along this stretch of the main road as far as Kuta markets and come to 23 in the whole length. This is unbelievable.
Just after we turn into Jl Wana Segara we leant out of the windows to wave to Yoyan in ENI Tailors shop (he’ll see more of us later I’m sure), yell out to Tony Marone in his watch counter next to the Fuji shop, wave to the old Holiday Inn (now Bali Hai Resort) at the far corner, stop to ask about Made at the drivers’ bale (he’s not in yet so we just say where we’re heading) and finally stagger into the Pantai, loaded with stuff. As we go towards the front Fransiskus, the manager, hears the unusual commotion and comes out to see what’s going on. After three years he recognises us instantly, as does the cashier, the bar waiter, and a couple of waitresses and cooks.
It’s home time again.
Hugs, with koalas and CC’s all round, a kangaroo for Ema, Franciskus’ daughter, and they all accompany us, with lots of chatter, to one of our favoured tables right at the front overlooking the creamy sand and the blue-green shallows.
Instantly the emptiness of the beach hits us right between the eyes.
It’s so obvious it can’t be ignored and we commiserate with them, saying, with hope, that next week will be different as it is school holidays in Oz. We do hope it will be different, but really we know that there are just not enough flights scheduled by the airlines any more to make a big difference.
We had no sooner ordered breakfast than the first of the sellers arrived. Our refusals were polite with the explanation that we were waiting for our friends, Wayan, Mistri and Adi. This brought the sad advice that they did not come to Tuban any more. Wayan was working at Kuta where she hoped to find more customers, taking the place of a friend who had died recently. After our walk along that deserted beach we doubted that she had found things any better. Adi’s daughter had recently had a child and Adi was at home helping to look after mother and child while Mistri was often at home. The seller’s offer to go and tell them of our arrival we declined as we were not sure how much of the story was fact and how much fiction, told in order to win a sale.
We settled down to wait for breakfast and absorb this news.
I had no sooner set up the camera onto the tripod to photograph the beach, taking maybe 5 minutes, than a breathless Adi arrived, without anything to sell which, looking back on it now, was astounding! After another round of hugs and squeezes, gentle touches on the arms, enquiries about when we had arrived, where we were staying, how long we would be in Bali, where we were going and dozens of other machine-gun questions she sat down next to us lightly resting the tips of her fingers on HA’s arm, obviously waiting for us to eat while telling us all the latest news and gossip.
Not more than another 5 minutes elapsed and I had just given Adi a Rp50,000 note to put into the new baby’s hand (for a prosperous life ahead) than a breathless Mistri arrived and the whole process was repeated. Mistri at least, had brought her massage mattress with her. Where she was and how she got the news of our arrival I still don’t know.
Equally of wonder was how word got to Wayan at Kuta, but within another 5 minutes, just as I had set up the camera for a shot on the empty beach (well it was empty just a short while ago but seemed to be filling up fast recently) she rolled in on a borrowed motor bike, complete with mattress, and the whole circus repeated itself once more.
Breakfast was a happening thing this morning.
The presents were quietly given out but only opened in one case after much urging from us. I could not understand this reticence but noticed it again later when Made, our driver, flatly refused to open his for the whole day we were with him. I tried to ask him why, hoping we had not offended him or something just as unintended, but he could not (or would not) explain his reason to us.
Breakfast over, or as much as we were going to be allowed, (and I’ve got no idea what it was), there was only one thing to do!
Off under the shade of the trees in the open block alongside the Pantai, next to a jukung pulled up way above high tide, the mattresses were spread out, sarongs spread over them, with potions, pumps of lotion and phials of oils extracted from little bags.
We stripped and prepared for that sublime and exotic luxury.
Wayan made it clear without ever saying anything that I was to be her meat for the morning. We never mention price these days, and have not for a number of visits now. Initially I think we bargained to a price of Rp35,000 for half an hour. This time was slowly lengthened and our little tip over the agreed price got larger. The massage got longer and the use of the potions on sore spots increased. Foot scrubs got included if you didn’t resist, along with hand holding and rubbing. Persistent efforts by others to sell their wares got less as the girls became more protective of us (well, of me actually) and learnt more about what we liked and what we didn’t. Their gifts of fruit from their own gardens, shells and other little favours became more common. The shells were a particular worry to us because we didn’t know how to refuse them without offence but knew we could not bring them home through Customs.
These days I usually part with Rp100,000. Yes I know that must be about the most expensive beach massage in all of Bali but it’s worth it to me. I think Herself parts with Rp50,000 but easily spends another 50 buying trinkets, sarongs, scarves, watches and just about anything else on offer, and it doesn’t matter if we need them or not.
You see that I just don’t understand shopping.
Ecstasy!
The flitting pattern of bright spots across the ground under the trees is a bit hypnotic, the warmth of the sand seems to radiate onto your flanks, the soft breeze off the beach ruffles the hairs across your shoulders until they are slicked down with a finger dab of potion and a squirt of aromatic lotion. (That’s my shoulders only I’m talking about people. I’m not into fashionable body waxes or all-over shaving. I should make it clear, while I’m still able to, that Herself does not have hairy shoulders.)
Rather than repeat myself here, if you want to know about the agony and the ecstasy of a massage, and what peculiar things it can do to your senses and perceptions, you can find out in the ‘Bali Story 2000’.
These things have not changed, even in 3 years.
Well over an hour later, over an hour and a half probably, the process of coming back to reality, of turning over, of sitting up, of getting your shorts on again, all are difficult. Their help is needed in some places and the smiles that go with the help I always think are smiles of self-satisfaction that they have, again, reduced you to rubber, and soft rubber at that. I find that the soles of my feet have been sanded by someone I never saw in action and have been totally unaware of. They are quite smooth as I wipe them across my calves to remove the sand before putting them into my thongs (“flip flops” in America?) again.
Normally I would resist the two-at-a-time job as I want to be totally absorbed in the massage and foot-tickling is a disturbance in the force and brings you back to reality all too soon and all too abruptly.
A good massage deserves dedication, total mental fixation and absorption.
Anything less should be punishable by flogging and keel-hauling all involved.
Herself, however, likes the multi-operator approach and at times will have a massage with a manicure, a pedicure and a hand pat, and still be able to have a chat about grandchildren and bargain for half a dozen scarves.
As I said before, I don’t just understand this shopping business.
Following the massage, the recovery and continuation of gossip, it was Bra-Frenzy time.
Gather round girls, She said, I have a present for you all. Dutifully everyone within earshot gathered round the now side-by-side mattresses and into the middle the big black bag was up-ended, dumping bra’s of every colour style and size imaginable to a mere male.
If there was any hesitation it was too brief for my old eyes. Into the pile went grasping talons from all sides. Bits of bra were separated from their other parts. Cups and straps seemed to move of their own accord to predestined corners of the fray.
The appearance of the ice cream bucket at a kid’s birthday party would be a staid event in comparison.
Quickly it was all over and the noise and action slowed. Everyone sat back and went through the pieces they had accumulated. Separated parts were reunited into wholes and grins were wide as trial fittings were undertaken.
Then the thing that never ceases to amaze me.
Those with more gave to those with less. Those who had come late, attracted only by the noise, who had formed a second circle outside that of the original sharks, had bras passed back to them without question or prompting.
In short order everyone there had something to take away as theirs.
Everyone was happy.
Everyone smiled.
It was something for a westerner, from a grab-all-you-can world, to witness.
I smiled inside too.
I was later to see the same sharing ethic when a group of children were offered CC’s. Frequently they would be too shy to come forward and take the candy offering. With some urging one child could eventually be persuaded to come forward to claim their prize. Inevitably however, too often for it to be unusual, this child would take the candy back to the group and give it to another who was not so bold. Then, back again if another CC was offered. Accept and return to the group to again give the prize to another child.
This would be repeated until all of the shyer ones had a sweet, and the brave one would then claim one for themselves.
Such are the Balinese, by nature I believe.
In years in schools in Oz I have never seen any thing like this happen, or even thought it could happen.
Eventually we were able to remove ourselves from the gathering and wander back to the Bali Hai Resort corner where we would find Made, distribute little kangaroos and CC’c then load the remains of our pile and ourselves into his Kijang and head off to the Hope Children’s’ Home with the suitcase of clothes and toys.
North through the tourist districts of Kuta, Legian and Seminyak, north to and through the emerging tourist town of Kerobokan with its newly fashionable eateries and accommodations and just a little further on, well before I thought my map showed, Made saw the sign to the Hope Children’s Home on a right hand corner; and there it was, not 50 meters ahead.
My map problem was that I had seen ‘Sempidi’ in large letters but overlooked the more southerly village of Sempidi in smaller letters. It was the smaller lettered Sempidi, or more exactly the village of Untal Untal near the small lettered Sempidi, that we were looking for.
Anyone who has tried to follow the Bali system (?) of street numbering will not be surprised that there would be two Sempidis within about 5 kilometres of each other on the same road. It’s only about 16 kilometres from Kuta, and really a very quick trip.
Two children welcome us and another runs down the road to disappear into a house a little further down. Those welcoming us are really only children but they are assured in their role and beckon us inside before the arrival of the carer, whose name I forgot to ask. Through the rather crowded entry, partly blocked by a decrepit vehicle and several ancient children’s bicycles, we are ushered into a fairly large hall furnished with tables and chairs and with a curtained stage at the far end. News of our arrival certainly spread quickly and the arriving children were soon organised into a chorus group on the stage, welcoming us in song.
There was a sort of mixed reaction from the children. The younger ones are really enthusiastic, as young children can be, but on the stage it was obvious that some of the older ones did not really have their heart in the proceedings. This was not a surprise or a disappointment to us. We both have had a lifetime of interaction with young teenagers and know that there are emerging rebels in every class.
One young lad caught my eye particularly. He was obviously not singing and slowly but surely sidled along the back row towards the cover of the curtains at the side. I quietly slipped down the side of the assembly and up onto the stage from the wing, just managing to meet him as he was ready to escape. I grinned as widely as I could and held out my hand to shake his. He sort of smiled but shook my hand. In it he immediately found the Rp50,000 note and so adroitly removed it that to this day I wondered under what circumstance he might have learnt that skill.
His sort of smile quickly became a broad and genuine grin. He took my elbow and led me onto the end of the back line, standing next to me for the remainder of the performance. He did not sing and I resisted encouraging him to join in by singing myself. I did not want the whole group to stand and stare at me in wonder and awe.
We were happy to learn that the Carry For Kids “Shoe Box for Bali” programme had visited the orphanage a few days earlier and the representatives of that organisation had put an Aussie child’s, or an Aussie elderly person’s shoe box gift into the hands of every child here. We had seen this story from our end earlier, in the weekend newspapers, and it was good to find that the aims expressed in the comfort of Oz had really been carried out to finality in Bali.
At the end of the choral renditions I felt that they had certainly earned their small reward from us. We were not really prepared for the numbers who were there and I became concerned that we would not have enough stuff to go around. One intended gift, such as a packet of small, colourful hair scrunchies, quickly became six pairs for six children instead of the one as we had initially intended. At the end we had a pile of baby sized clothes which we left with the carer.
When all seemed to be over we had the chance to talk to those who hung around.
The “young teenager” I had ambushed at the edge of the stage was 22 years old. I suddenly had lots of sympathy for his feelings in the group of much younger children.
After leaving, we talked for quite a while in the isolation and security of the car.
Neither Herself nor I really retained our composure very well in a situation that we found challenging, as teachers and as new grandparents.
What next we wondered.
The difference between the Balinese accumulation of material goods and ours is an embarrassment I think, not at all eased by the differences between the demands of their life and society and ours. We both feel an urge to try to solve the social difficulties of these people but realise that our resources cannot do that for even one person here, certainly not those we call friends, not for the children of this orphanage, not for the children at the Tuka Orphanage we visited on our last trip and certainly not for all the children in all the orphanages in Bali.
Rightly or wrongly, but not easily, we come to the conclusion that all we can do is to do all we can do.
Frankly I am uneasy about some of the information contained in the brochure given to us at Hope.
To require a letter of guarantee from the parent or guardian of a child that the child seeking admittance to the institution will not be removed from the orphanage for 3 years does not give any recognition to the obvious fact that family and children’s circumstances can dramatically change in 3 weeks let alone 3 years. I am worried that this period has really been selected as an adequate time for Christian indoctrination of the young and, if so, I think it is a very un-Christian requirement.
To state as an aim that it is intended to build the children’s faith in the infallibility of the Bible, and to be baptised and receive the Holy Spirit, seems to repeat the worst of the blind missionary zeal that has been condemned as the curse of past missionary activity in those cultures where there has clearly been other beliefs.
Our resolve for the future is to focus on one place to receive whatever assistance we are able to give. We don’t feel that Hope will be that place for us however.
It was expressed to us at Hope, as it had been at Tuka before, that the real need is for funds for education costs of the children. The other needs can generally be met locally in a number of ways including self sufficiency and donations of food and clothing. We will still bring things for the kids of Bali because they won’t be wasted, but we will look at ways that we can raise or save money for them. The monthly educational cost figure of US$20 (A$40) is mentioned in the Hope literature. Previously we have seen per month figures of A$8 or US$4 (maybe 5 at May 2003 exchange rates) which includes an amount for excursions, uniforms and shoes. There is an obvious discrepancy here that we must look into more closely.
We drove with confused emotions and long silences to “pcMac” in Denpasar.
I had faxed them a week or so earlier advising of a list of programs for Apple computers that were on our shopping list for friends. (I have a real PC, not one of those wind-up varieties. Some of my friends however, despite their senior years, have a juvenile appreciation of technology.) My fax does not seem to have arrived, nor is it recalled at pcMac. I resist the temptation to suggest that they should upgrade their record keeping technology as I still want the programs. They have many on those on my list available and promise to have copies for me in a day or two. Since I am happy to pay a deposit they are happy to get them in and hold them until the unknown date of our return from the grand tour.
As far as I know there are no real options for Apple programs in Bali. Platinum carry a few but they are not very significant titles, and I have never seen any elsewhere.
At Platinum, which is our next stop, I picked up a few games for myself and friends, not really needing anything for my almost new machine.
Back to the Bali Agung Village, via a money launderer, oops, I mean money changer of course,
The Bintang Supermarket for Bintang, juice, fruit (well just passion fruit actually) Aqua, cheese, peanuts, soda water and a re-supply of CC’s.
It’s now shower, drinks, nibbles and discussion time about dinner. The notes are consulted and my suggestion of Wayan and Friends Restaurant in Jl Padma, Legian, receives Her approval.
My word, she has slipped into holiday mode and is obviously feeling benign.
It’s a fairly short ride to W & F, even though the driver seems very unsure of where Padma Street is. We get him to drop us off at the Jl Legian end of Padma and walk along this new stretch of shoppers delight. Thankfully (for me) it’s a short walk and a quick perusal of the menu on display convinces Her that She has made a wise decision in accepting my suggestion. Wayan & Friends serves breakfast, lunch and dinner from a western and Indonesian menu of three and a half pages printed on both sides. We decide on Spring rolls, Rp12,500, Calamari Rings and Tartare Sauce, Rp12,500, two Nasi Goreng with egg, Rp16,000 each, a large Bali Hai beer for starters at Rp12,500 (it comes very cold) and small Aquas over ice at Rp5,000 each. Later, for desert we decided to share a pancake and ice cream at Rp12,000 for a luscious dinner plate size serve.
The two Spring Rolls are a bit short of filling but there is a good quantity of mild but tasty sauce to dip them in. The calamari is not a big serve (I guess it’s an entrée after all) but it’s perfectly cooked (Can you say “al dente” about squid?) and comes with a thick Tartare sauce not the tainted mayonnaise that is too often substituted, and a plentiful supply of lime slices to be squeezed all over the lightly browned bread crumbs. The Nasi Goreng turned out to be a good pile of rice and vegetables, almost out to the edge of the plate and almost covered by the spread of the fried egg.
One of the things that she has drawn to my attention is the large size of eggs in Bali. How the diminutive chickens manage this minor miracle is beyond me. I remember however that an egg is almost a perfect shape for withstanding stress.
There is that typical suggestion of salad on one side of the plate.
I wonder why Bali salads are so often so small. Is it because so many patrons leave the salad, afraid that it may be contaminated by the use of non-bottled water in the preparation?
My own thoughts are that any restaurant in the tourist areas that used contaminated water would so quickly get such a bad reputation that it would not remain open for long in the competitive climate.
The taste of the dish is great despite the minimal salad.
Bagus, She says.
Her inspection of the toilet (singular) reveals a large vase of tuberoses growing in the corner and this immediately raises the score by one point.
I thought that the tiles were a terrible pink and I would not like to be there if I was feeling at all off colour.
There are 2 rolls of toilet paper, no hot water at the outside hand basin although there was liquid soap in the dispenser.
We differ about the total. She is carried away by the tuberoses and awards 9 but I will only go for 8. You’ll have to go yourself to decide that I’m right.
The total bill is Rp94,000 or A$18 for two.
Back at our room later we decide to try a bottle of the local Hatten Alexandria wine for a nightcap. Alexandria is a white, slightly fruity but with a dry finish. To our surprise we find it very palatable and one becomes two quite easily. It’s not in the class of, say, a Brown Brothers Orange Muscat and Flora which is a frequent visitor to our dinner table at dessert time, but very drinkable and we are to find ourselves having more and more as the holiday progresses.
What I found out today: – In South Oz we have a fairly thick book called “Entertainment”.
It is offered annually for $50.
In it there are cut-price offers for restaurants, theatres, hotels, sports and so on.
I’ve no doubt that other states and perhaps even other countries have similar things which raise funds for charities and non-profit organisations. Towards the back in ours, on page G45 to be exact, there is a list of overseas hotels which offer 50% off their rack rate when you present the little tear-out coupon. Amongst the list are the Bali Hai, Tuban; The Nikko Bali in Nusa; both Sheratons in Nusa and the Raddison in Sanur.
What more reason would you want to go to Bali?
My walk on the beach this morning brought me to another Wayan. This is not really a surprise as naming children in Bali follows a sequence that is not often varied. The first child is usually named Wayan, and so it is without doubt the most common name in Bali. Stand on any street corner or on any beach and yell, “Ayo, WAYAN!” and you will find more than half of the people around will turn to look at you with questioning stares.
What makes this encounter so different is that Wayan is walking his Balinese dog on a lead. And when I say “Balinese” dog I mean that the animal has the characteristics of the average street dog in both build and shape. The basic breed is Anju I believe.
The really surprising thing, however, is that the dog has a shock of reddish-orange hair, apart from colour not unlike a well combed Pomeranian ready for the show ring. Apart from a slight weep from the corner of one eye the dog looks in excellent health and has obviously been recently washed and must have been combed that very morning. The dog is suspicious of me but is soon approachable with a few soothing words from Wayan, who seems familiar with the incredulous reactions of others, and very proud to go with it.
We fall into easy if stilted conversation. The dog has been through the vet process and has had all of the required medications during his early years. He (it?) is just over a year old and soon gambols around our legs in total ease, like the elegant Doberman I met yesterday and like the normal pup we westerners would expect at home. It is a wonderful example of the changes that seems to be happening to the Balinese and to the dogs of Bali. A little bit of care is all that it takes to let the real dog out from the confines of the usual mangy, cowering beast.
This idea seems to be supported by the existence of at least four pet shops and one full time vet that we became aware of in the area from Denpasar to Legian.
Our breakfast this morning is at the Cin Cin Restaurant just along the road between the beach and the lane leading to the Village. It is the one I looked at yesterday, part of the adjacent Puri Cendana Hotel. We are welcomed and served by the delightful Dewi (meaning “Goddess”, and she was), giving us her undivided attention. (Did I mention that we were the only customers there?) Dewi, I think, wanted to practise her considerable English language skills on a captive audience. We indulged both her and ourselves. When she asked where we were from we fell into an easy performance we had already done many times already this holiday. Before we left I had drawn a map of Oz with state borders and little squares for the capitals. Java, Bali Lombok, Timor and Irian Jaya/Papua New Guinea were also shown. I printed off copies of the map, which measured about 8 cm by7, and glued them into a small pad.
Do you know Australia? was the Jewish reply to her question.
The answers usually varied from a, No, to Sydney?
That was all we needed. Out from the bum bag came the map and a pen. Circling the outline of Oz with the pen I intoned, “Australia?”
“Ah, yes”, was the normal reply.
Point to Bali and intone, “Bali?”
“Yes.”
Repeat for Java, Lombok etc and Dewi, like the others who would come later, soon began to recite the names as I pointed.
Then South Oz was shaded in with the pen and I wrote South Australia across it. A small arrow pointing to Adelaide was drawn and the name written in. That is where we live! It is the capital of South Oz!
Do you know capital?
“Ah.”
So we would go through; Denpasar is the capital of Bali -
Jakarta is the capital of Java –
Mataram, the capital of Lombok – and so on.
“Ah.” “Syndeney?” (No, that’s not a typo error!)
Here is Sydney, and we would point, writing in only the S, and then through all the other capitals putting in the first letter only. I only missed out Canberra in case I was talking to a neophyte terrorist. Melbourne I gloss over lightly, describing it as a small village with a poor football team. Everyone understands “village” and “poor football”. (This is a pointed jibe that only followers of Aussie Rules football might understand – if they don’t come from Victoria.)
At the end the sheet would be torn off the pad and given to them.
Now, we would say, we will come and see you tomorrow and we will have a test!
If you don’t pass the test I will keep you in!
- short, silent pause –- then howls of laughter.
It never failed, even later with the retired teacher who tried to sell us a very poor lontar roll at the Palace in Denpasar while we were talking to the security guards. He saw the humour in our banter first and laughed. The security guys took a little longer to realise what was going on, then they laughed, at his laughter as much as the joke I think.
With the ice broken Dewi rested against the next table and we had a conversation all through breakfast. Before we can finish Dewi insists that we write our names on the back of the map and her surprise and pleasure are genuine I’m sure when we write down “Wayan” (first child) before Herself and “Made” (second child) before my name.
We both had the American Breakfast, with bacon because there are no sausages today. HA has mixed fresh fruit juice and mine is pineapple. Our two eggs are poached and there is that minimal salad on the side. A basket of fresh bread, rolls and chocolate croissants with packs of butter and jam follows, with a pot of tea for two. HA’s mixed fruit juice sounds a bit of a mess, a bland blend of nothing much I think, but it is fabulous; tart and refreshing, it cuts its way down the crevices of the throat, beautifully rinsing away the remnants of toothpaste. My pineapple is great but pales in comparison. The poached eggs are done eggactly right, oozing away into the toast in gleaming slow motion. I’ll leave you to just imagine the still oven-warm bread and croissants. I’ll only say that there are no left-overs to wrap up and take for morning tea or a rushed lunch.
HA gives the toilets only 6/10 but I’m sure that would not stop us from going back at some time.
The Café is open on the street side and at the garden end. A gentle cooling breeze wafts through and, as I found yesterday, it carries the scent of hot bread from the kitchen with it as well as cooling stuffed bodies.
The bill for two is Rp70,000. A$7.50 each.
Not the cheapest available but one that would be hard to beat.
You will understand that we recommend it.
We take a Kijang from the street just up from the Cin Cin Restaurant to go to the Wartel up on Jl Raya Seminyak to change more TC’s. They remember us and we are welcomed like old friends with smiles and grins. They show off their kangaroos and the Aussie flag is taped to a bracket of some sort on the wall.
As we walked across the street towards the Wartel the rate board at the front of the shop was being changed downwards. Through the door and the same was happening at the official board inside. The American rate had just been finished and Australia was next. The girl who was changing the figures looked at us and I grimaced to her. She smiled and continued changing the rates, but from the bottom of the board, and slowly.
The driver waited and took us to Matahari in Denpasar when we’d loaded our wallets once again. The fare was Rp15,000 or A$3.
We were in the habit of offering the little glittering stick-on Aussie flags to all of the drivers we used, to stick in the corner of their windscreen. The acceptance of this morning’s driver was very enthusiastic and he watched with undivided attention as I cleaned the corner of the screen with my handkerchief and made a great to-do of lining it up square and equidistant from the top edge and the side. We had bought a sheet of these at our Adelaide Market with the little stuffed toys. At the time I had not been too sure of their acceptance in Bali but the $2 cost was not much of a gamble.
So far we had not had one refusal, nor were we to have, right up until we left Pacung much later when we gave away the last one.
If I’d known how popular they would be I’d have got half a dozen sheets.
Because of his enthusiasm for the flag we decided to teach him the Aussie war cry – “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie! Oi! Oi! Oi!”
He soon caught on and we practised nearly all the way to Denpasar.
Aussie, Aussie, Aussie! we’d call and Oi! Oi! Oi! would be his response.
Aussie, Aussie, Aussie! - Oi! Oi! Oi! ,
- and a little later when we thought he wasn’t expecting it –
Aussie, Aussie, Aussie! - - Oi! Oi! Oi!
We all had a fit of laughter when we weren’t expecting it and he turned the tables on us calling – Aussie, Aussie, Aussie! himself and looking until we responded, Oi! Oi! Oi!
They have an innocent and beguiling sense of humour, and a sharp one at times too.
If you are in Bali and a driver yells out of his window, Aussie, Aussie, Aussie! and points at his windscreen, please respond, Oi! Oi! Oi! You’ll know that Filo was there.
This morning’s shopping was exploratory in nature (I thought), but many thousands of rupiah were being exchanged for cosmetics, a couple of belts for gifts, some tops (described as just incidentals), scarves, costume jewellery and so on.
In amongst all of this I got 6 pairs of jocks for Rp23,200, less than a A$1 a pair and they were amongst the dearer ones.
Much time was spent looking at rack after rack of kiddies clothes. It seemed endless, more so when She mistook for enthusiasm my presentation of several items I’d found.
I was only trying to accelerate the process actually, but it had no effect.
About 2 pm it seemed we had explored here sufficiently and I was lead down to KFC in the basement for “lunch”. Next to KFC there is a kids Time Zone and unless you’re deaf and can turn off your hearing aid, or you want to be deaf, or you’re under 10 years – don’t go here!
My spaghetti was even worse than expected, even with a modicum of the hot chilli sauce mixed in. A thing to behold here is the eating habit of the local youth. Any thing they buy is immediately covered with many pumps of both the tomato sauce and the chilli sauce. When I say many I mean more than a dozen combined. I’m not sure if this is a case of getting more value for your buck (the sauce is free) or if they also think the taste of this stuff is God-awful and must be covered up somehow.
What I did find down here however, through KFC and in the back corner of Time Zone, is a row of small serveries dishing out local type food. I’ve got to say some of it looked very attractive. I’m left to wonder if it is strictly for the locals who work there or if it’s somewhat sanitised for foreign taste and consumption.
I must seek an experienced and informed opinion.
For now it’s off to the Kuta Matahari with a short stop at Hero’s Department store on the way.
Alas, as we depart Matahari’s to hail a cab her eyes spot Robinsons Department store across the road. Well, it wouldn’t be fair not to go in and spread the shopping around a bit, would it?
Eventually we’re off again, with wallets almost intact I must say. We think Robinson’s is designed more for the local trade and not for tourists. It’s hard to find a sign in the whole place in English and that does make it a bit more difficult to shop with ease.
No sooner have we started again than the trip is interrupted by the sight of another pet shop. The article She is to write for the Dog Club magazine is getting bigger all the time. This time the photos are of the proud owner, with his Show Trophies in the background. Then there is the interruption of the Apricot Poodle which begins yapping from its cage in the corner. This is too much for Her and she has visions of Mad Max sitting at home. The rapport is immediate but the separation of Her and the dog takes some time.
I think it’s a good thing that we can’t get dogs back into Oz or Max would have a mate.
Eventually we start once more for Hero’s. I have high hopes of getting another pair of walking shoes at Hero’s. On my last visit I found, when all else had failed, a pair of white triple velcro’s were sitting on their shelf staring me in the face as soon as I walked in. I only brought one pair of walking shoes with me, intending to leave them behind when we left as they were pretty battered, and by now they’re almost ready to walk on their own.
Alas my hopes are to be dashed.
Hero’s has changed almost completely and there is not a single shoe of any description to be found.
Well, that ice cream looks good.
One for me, one for her and one for our driver. He reckons it’s alright too, judging by the way he devours it – and to hell with the traffic at times.
Kuta at last, but the to markets, not Matahari’s for a start.
She has broken a pair of shoes and needs a replacement pair.
Pair?
Why buy one when we all know that things are cheaper by the dozen.
They’re not all for me, she protests, there’s . . . and . . . and . . . and of course . . .!
Of course there are and they will all appreciate their pair too I’m sure.
There is also the search for a grey “Osama Don’t Surf” tee shirt for a particular present. Stall holders run all over Kuta it seems, but there is not a grey one to be seen. Many are the calls of, “I have one Papa. Over here.”
But of course when you get there, there is not one at all but - “You look my stall!”
Much banter follows.
Off again.
To where?
To Matahari’s of course. After all that’s where we’ve been heading all along.
We don’t quite make it in one go because there are all those stalls at the side (back?) entrance.
A watch or two to add to the collection of course, and an Aussie flag stuck on the top of one stall.
Two more Bintangs are required to mitigate against the omnipresent threat of dehydration. The steps of Matahari’s, under the draft machine that blows cool air across the entrance is an ideal place to drink it, except for the ever-present watch and CD sellers. Eventually some join us, another takes our photo and the rest find fresh targets. Into the store eventually, I forget what we collected this time but I hope it was worth all this.
Eventually we are off to the Bintang Supermarket for more Soda water for HA’s Chivas Regal etc etc.
Back at the Village we’re almost relaxed when we suddenly realise that this is our last night in Seminyak before the big trip – the start of the real circumnavigation.
We have to go to Sammi and Sussi’s Legian Beach Forum Bar before we go! (The Forum Bar is a myth as far as a bar goes. A couple of Legian locals, Sammi and Sussi go to the same place on the beach every afternoon. They have a red esky under an umbrella and sell soft drinks and small beers. It has been a gathering place for Forumites for ages, a place where the addicted meet face to face rather than eyeball to screen.)
How many and who will be there?
It’s an agonisingly long trip full of anticipation at putting faces to names and names to faces even perhaps.
We arrive to an empty Bar.
The Lifeguard’s tower is there, the red esky is there, under the umbrella with the plastic stools and eventually Sussi comes over from a group of her friends. The anticipation of one of the fabled nights of carousing and revelry that we know so often follow from a few drinks at “the bar” fly out of the window.
We should have been expecting this; it’s been all around us for four days on the streets, why shouldn’t it be here at this most famed spot on the beach too?
But all is not lost. “David_UK” comes from off the beach somewhere and introduces himself. A kindred spirit. After a couple of dehydration drops and the swapping of travel stories we arrange to meet at the Indo National Restaurant for dinner later that night. The Indo National is a place that was high on our list of things-to-do-places-to-see, a fairly new place in Bali, started and run by a pair of Forumites, the “Gunnas”.
“GunnaLiveThere” was a common name on the Forum as Milton and Kerry publicly planned their escape from Oz to Bali, not just for a holiday but to live. I confess that at the time I thought. “Here’s another dreamer”, and got to the point where I didn’t read their posts any more. But they followed their dream and did it, and they’ve survived, carving out a niche not only for the restaurant but as we were to find out, a niche in the life of Bali and the Balinese as well.
David_UK, I found out later, was barred from his office for two weeks after arriving back in the UK. The problem was a stopover his plane made in Singapore on the way home. Although he did not leave the plane, the fear of SARS infection at the time was enough to put his boss on high alert and give him an extended holiday he hadn’t expected.
But I get ahead of the story.
Back to the Bali Agung Village to shower the days sweat away, have a serious drink and some nibbles before retracing our steps a bit and finding the Indo National Restaurant.
It’s just along Sahadewa Street (known by some as Garlic Lane) from Dolphins Leather, the Tekor Bali Qui restaurant, Dede’s Bali Gong CD/DVD shop, and towards the opposite end to Agung Ulan Utari at 6B in the Art Markets. Quite a collection of who and what’s important in Bali.
It was a bit of a shock to walk in and be approached by a stranger who greeted me by name, well as “Filo” anyway. The stranger introduced himself as Milton and a most pleasant night was underway.
David_UK is already there with a friend from the hotel where he was staying, Bernd from Germany. David is the secret of Milton’s apparent crystal-ball gazing. He’s already told them we’d be coming and there is a table under a helicopter (ceiling fan) that seems saved for us. A nice thought but it’s too near the orchestra (a nice 3 piece combo really) for my ears so we move to one near the back and near to the glass-walled kitchen.
The advertising for the restaurant claims “Aussie hygiene” and Herself wants to see this. As a long-time Home Economics teacher (that’s cookin’ ‘n sewin’ to furriners) she can spot any thing out of place in a kitchen with her eyes closed. I’m a bit surprised that she gives it the OK after a more than casual but secret (we don’t want to get thrown out just yet) once over.
The restaurant is open fronted as is common and sensible here in Bali, unless you’re going all out with the air con. The décor of the place is different and refreshing to my visual senses, although it may not be to all tastes. The colours are shades of blue and white right up to the airbrushed sky and clouds in the lofty ceiling. Around the walls between the columns, similarly rendered, are scenes with international themes. Now you really should expect something like that in a restaurant named the Indo National shouldn’t you. I recognised the Sydney Harbour Bridge (I hope Aussies from other states will forgive me for mentioning this) and another was Rottenest Island so Herself scornfully informed me.
I’ll leave you to discover the others when you visit, as I think you should.
The menu is very well presented in a black cover with white lettering. They may be too new yet to be soiled by sticky fingers and spilled beer or dripped sauce, or maybe in keeping with the rest of what we can see, they’ve just been kept clean or replaced when that’s become necessary. It should be no secret that a tidy menu gives an immediate impression of the quality of a place so it’s surprising how often this is overlooked, even in the classier places in Bali. Other sure signs of things being a bit different were the cold hand towels we were offered as we sat down and the clean cotton checked table cloths.
I wondered if we were being given different treatment because the Gunnas knew who we were (we try to make sure that no-one does, at least until we’ve paid the bill), and that we would be writing this. I closely watched as others came and went and I can assure you that everyone was treated the same. The content of the menu is not extensive but the breadth of offerings should give suitable options for some fairly divergent tastes. We found that our varied tastes could be satisfied without serious searching. Although I’ve often commented here on the size of the menus we’ve come across, a goodly number if options is of little value if the cooks can not do an equally good job of presenting them to the satisfaction of the customers.
For myself I’d rather have a good feed of Bangers and Mash than a crook Chateau Briand.
Our cold Aquas on ice, with slices of lime or lemon to squeeze in them, arrived promptly and we settled down to study the offerings.
When we were ready our orders were taken quickly and accurately.
Am I wrapping this place up too much?
Believe me I don’t intend to do it any more credit than it deserves. If there are any warts here they will be included quite bluntly because they are as important as the roses, or the tuberoses in the toots.
Ok, I’ll prove it too you.
So far I had been concerned to find that my nice clean cork coaster became soggy under my icy Aqua and stuck to the bottom of the glass.
There, you’ve got it.
Right between the eyes.
This was in stark contrast to the treatment given to Herself, who didn’t get a coaster of any sort so she could pick up her glass without having the coaster slide off and drop down inside the front of her shirt.
Now that’s what I call discrimination.
Enough! Let’s cut to the chase.
Does this place serve food?
Indeed it does.
HA ordered Prawn Cocktail for an entrée. The prawns were plentiful and crisp without being cold on the teeth. The sauce was also plentiful, thickish and clingy, mildly spicy without being, “Agggh, where’s the ice water?” hot.
She smiled.
Enough said.
My Me Kiah soup (vegetable and noodles) was brimming in the bowl. If you ever go there and it’s not then tell them you want a Filo-size serve. Brimming but not sloshing because the solid content of vegetables sort of held it in place. I had to put some salt in it but then I’m like that. It was both tasty and filling.
Let me diverge a bit now that I’ve mentioned salt. In Bali it’s hard to get salt on your meal, and pepper too, despite the fact that bags full of the best sea salt are made all over the island.
Why is it so I hear you ask?
Well, the reason is simple. The humidity tries very hard to re-liquefy it in the salt cellars and consequently it won’t come out no matter how hard you shake it or bang it or how many times you slap it on the bed post or how much rice is put into the cellar to keep it dry.
So, how come I got salt on my soup in the Indo National?
Tupperware dispensers, that’s how. These nifty little jobs, that we have not seen anywhere before, have press tops that pop up to expose the holes, and snap down to seal the contents and keep them dry when you’ve finished.
Kerry’s little secret revealed.
HA’s main course was the snapper with salad and chips (fries for the Americans). It was a fish that I would like to catch some day. She made no comment about it really but I was not offered any. You might think that such a comment is damning with faint praise but I can assure you that she knows which side is up when it comes to fish and if it had not been just right there would have been things said, and not quietly.
I know the chips were crisp because I could hear that they were.
My Cap Cay with pork was fantastic. Spicy as you come to expect in Bali but not hot as some restaurants will try on to mask a nothing taste. Plentiful on the vegetable side of the mix and they weren’t overcooked and soft. Plentiful in general terms too. In fact, after a Bintang and a glass or two of the Wine of the Gods there was no thought of dessert.
The bill was Rp 146,000 for two – A$28 or A$14 each.
Beat that.
I had managed to liberate a bottle of champagne from HA which I wanted to share with Milton and Kerry as some sort of penance for my earlier ill thoughts about their sanity. They have proven me wrong and I’m glad to be able to say that. They are good hosts, watchful but not overbearing or solicitous towards their customers.
Their staff are efficient and unobtrusive but there when they are needed, such as when your coaster slips down your shirt.
David_UK joined us over the champagne and we got to talking about the sins and beauties of Bali. K & M’s insights, formed from local knowledge, gelled some of my own impressions. I was surprised to find that not only had they established a business and set up a home but had joined and started networks for the assistance of needy Balinese. They seemed to be realistic about the needs of the poorer Balinese and my eyes were opened by some of the tales they had to tell of their findings when distributing gifts to the local orphanages. No doubt Kerry’s background in Child Care in Oz has given her a down-to-earth and realistic approach and an ability to see things around corners almost, things we wouldn’t think of looking for probably.
If anyone visiting Bali wants to really help in a practical way, and to help where help is really needed, I can only suggest that you get in touch with them.
All good things must end and we eventually ended up back at the Agung Village for our last night there.
Tomorrow morning I would have to say goodbye to Mimi (AKA Haci von Lembang), Poppy the Retriever and Aduh the Rottweiler,
Those who know me will perhaps wonder why I have not been reeling off all of the wondrous photos that we, and me in particular, have been taking. Sad to relate that, although there have been some fine opportunities and I have tried to take advantage of them, the results have been less than spectacular. The colours are thin and the overall impression is that the shots are washed out. If it wasn’t for one or two notable exceptions, a sunset that She took with her new camera at Legian Beach being one, I would have said that the film we had especially bought at home was out of date. In the back of my mind I knew that this was not so, but any other reason eluded me. This disappointment stayed with me right up until the middle of our stay in Candi Dasa. For the time being I tweaked every knob on the little black box, but the results did not improve. Later I was to reject whole sets of prints, and a number of the re-done ones.
I have mentioned before that my morning walks have brought me into contact with several four-legged friends on the Seminyak beach. My acquaintance with Mimi, an almost terminally pregnant little black Dachshund has blossomed into a regular report for HA when I return to the Village. This morning She has said that She intends to accompany me to meet this young lady and the others I have described to Her, particularly the handsome young Doberman, all gleaming black with touches of tan in just the right places.
Ah, well, it’s going to be a late start I think.
I’m more than a bit surprised when She springs up (springs?) at my first sounds and it’s really not too long before we’re off down the lane to Jl Abimanyu and thence to the beach. We’re almost too late for Mimi however, and meet her almost as she is entering her home. She introduces HA to Andrew, whom she takes on her morning walks and, as part of the conversation, he invites us in to see Mimi’s home. “It’s that 2 story one just over there through the trees”, he says. As we still want to see the others on the beach we defer the invitation until our return and walk on.
The Doberman was not to be seen but Poppy and Aduh are at the top of the steps that lead down onto the beach and introduce themselves in a restrained sort of way. Poppy is a Golden Retriever and Aduh is a Rottweiler. Both are beautifully presented, Aduh by his minder who works for Aduh’s boss and Poppy by her Oh-So-Proud Balinese owner who looks as though he might be in his late teens or early 20’s so he’s probably about 30. Poppy’s coat is long and fluffy. When I stroke her not a hair comes out of that golden coat, a sure sign of regular grooming. Her owner almost falls over himself to tell of the morning ritual of cleaning and brushing before they show themselves to the world. Aduh’s black coat just glows in the soft morning light under the shade of the trees. He is a little disdainful of any attention and alert to any movement on the beach. They are completely at ease with one another and the world around them, particularly Poppy. Their morning walks have socialised them to each other and to their surroundings, including strangers such as us, and given them a confidence not found in the street dogs of Bali.
Our walk along the beach is a great way to start the day. It’s cool and peaceful here, enough activity to provide interest but certainly not crowded. The morning sun is just high enough to top the trees growing along the front of the hotels along the shore. It casts shadows across most of the sand but lights up the green tops of the waves as they break in a continuous line of sparkling white that races north up the coast until it hits a deeper gutter by the creek outfall where the plastic is being collected. Thunderous clouds climb into the deep blue sky making a dramatic backdrop to the calm of the beach.
Back to Mimi’s home to meet her again, and Andrew. We are a bit confused because the two story house we thought we were looking for now appears to be a three story place. But the entrance through the garage looks right so we ring the bell. The door opens and Mimi greets us, closely followed by Andrew. Once inside and through the garage it is apparent that not only is the house on 3 levels but it also consists of three distinct buildings linked by covered walkways passing along and through ponds and a meandering swimming pool complete with waterfall and a miniature island of Bali showing all the major temples. All this in grounds about the size of a soccer (football) pitch, complete with small orchard and a house temple. The buildings are flooded with natural light coming in through glass panels in the verandas and roofs as well as the open “walls”. The columns which support each level are covered with deeply carved teak panels. The open stairway that leads up to the floors above, the second (bedroom and guest suite) and third (open living area), is also old growth teak in huge slabs with the outer edges still as they came from the tree, “waney” it is called in boatbuilding lingo, not sawn straight. All of the timbers, including the floors of Bali Pine (?), are clear finished. One wall of the third level is virtually covered by a huge painting that Andrew has commissioned from the artist of a smaller version he saw in a gallery. Above all of this is a “widow’s walk” on the roof that overlooks the surrounding land. We can clearly see the Bali Agung Village from here and further, across the rice fields to the north.
It is a fantastic house which Andrew shows with justified pride. Mimi lives in grandeur which we had not be guessed at from outside the high walls.
Later in our stay, having spent a brief time observing at the Montessori School in Seminyak, I am tempted to suggest a re-visit but Herself was suffering and instead we pushed on. Mimi later sent us an E-mail at home to announce the news of the arrival of her new family, one black boy, two black girls and two brown girls.
Back to our room and HA started the packing. I had the task of E-mailing friends about our movements and doings, and advising them of progress towards completion of their material orders as well as checking for anything in-coming that might warrant more than a passing thought.
The Village Desk Manager phoned Made for us and arranged a pick-up time while we settled the bill and began to move gross amounts of stuff from our room towards the lobby before welcome help arrived. Made drove in and somehow all the stuff was packed into the back of the Kijang. It is at this stage that the unarguable fact emerges that, despite giving away stuff at a good rate, we are accumulating it faster.
I am quite happy to admit that my 6 pairs of jocks have added to the accumulation!
Off at last, via the moneychangers at the Wartel, where quantities of TC’s are changed as a hedge against the anticipated lower exchange rates in the country. This is a concern which didn’t seem to eventuate in Candi Dasa at least. The fresh bread shop near the doors of the Bintang Supermarket provide breakfast for us and a mid morning snack.
Barely 2 hours has passed since we arrived back from the beach. A minor miracle has occurred.
“ . to Candi Dasa . “ is quick to say, and if you’re simply going there and not stopping or trying to stop along the way it would probably take less than 2 hours to cover the 60 or so kilometres. There are, however, side tracks to be explored as well as the places that are really along our path. Our trip will take just about all of the rest of the day.
From Seminyak we go across the southern edge of Denpasar and through Sanur, which brings back memories of our first trip 25 years ago. Not that there’s anything we can see that we recognise from that time. It is just another big town to us now. Just going through however raises our curiosity, particularly when we see the sign to the Grand Bali Beach Hotel, which was simply the Bali Beach Hotel when we stayed there. We agree that we must go back for a day to look and walk around when we come back south in a week or so.
We travel north from Sanur, along the eastern edges of Denpasar, which we have skirted by going through Sanur, turn to the right and head north east along the coast road. Along this road there are tantalising glimpses of the ocean and coast but no avenue that I can see to access the shore. My map shows a proposal to build a road right along this coast but it only goes a short distance yet, perhaps 10 or 12 kilometres from our turn-off. When or if, finished it will perhaps isolate the larger inland towns a bit but might instead provide some interesting scenery and real estate developments. By the time I realise that we have travelled on this new section of completed road it is too late to turn off through Sukawati as I had hoped, or to see the Moon of Pejeng a little west of the town of Gianyar.
Sukawati is a shopper’s delight, a market where the re-sellers along the tourist beaches buy their wares. If you can’t find a bargain in Sukawati you just aren’t looking.
The Moon of Pejeng is an enormous cast bronze drum, dated to 300 to 400BC. Although there is no argument about the age there is great debate about how and where such a single piece casting could have been made, Where the technology for making the mould (probably from stone) and melting such a quantity of metal came from is a mystery. It is the largest of its kind to be found within Asia. Later, as we finally left Candi Dasa and went to Pacung, I would again have a second chance to see it.
When the section of new road ends we turn north, inland again to Gianyar, only a local centre now, and a very busy one, but once the capital of the Gianyar region and site of a palace. We are satisfied with a stop at the local market and nearby shopping area. Now Gianyar is not a common tourist centre and the local market would probably not be on the agenda of any tourist who did stop here. Our appearance seemed to cause a bit of a stir initially but life soon went on around us. Only some silly old bloke wandering around handing out CC’c to all and sundry stirred the force occasionally. The stirring occurred particularly around the two Muslim women at their brassiere stall and the kids who were bemused by the hand holding a CC which seemed to appear mysteriously from out of the racks of clothes. While I am in the flower section, looking closely at the baskets of marigolds that are popular for temple offerings as their colour very closely approaches that of the local gold alloy, HA is managing to acquire a couple of watches, a pair of little shoes with squeakers in the soles for the Declan and a tiny apricot and white dress from amongst the hundreds (in fact thousands even) on the racks and piles for Eloise for about $3. On our way back to Bedugul/Pacung a week or so later we were to visit one of several spinning and weaving factories on the outskirts of the town. It is a real eye-opener.
To Klungkung which is only about 15 k’s and less than half an hour from Gianyar.
The old palace and its present use as a museum were both uninspiring. The alleged guides are less than uninspiring, even after you’ve paid the admittedly small entry fee. The very poorly organised museum could be an attraction with a bit of organisation and some more information in a form of English that is more understandable than the weird style currently in use. The adjacent Court of Justice is thankfully self explanatory almost, decorated with paintings of all the punishments fitted to the crimes of the times, and a gruesome warning they must have been to any accused who happened to look up during their trial. Frankly the depictions of heads being opened with double handed saws, or being boiled alive or roasted would have been enough to keep me on the straight and narrow – I think. Being condemned to pull a cart, like a water buffalo would have been preferable but the conclusion of this form of torture was not clear and may have been just as bad as the others.
The so-called port of Kusamba was our next stop. Kusamba is really only an open beach, with a bit of surf running on this day. There was still a boat to be loaded however. The boats are wooden, about 20 meters long, high prowed and broadly flared at the decks, with two or three outboard motors on the stern. The motors did not look very large, perhaps 40-50 HP, but I suppose that these ferries are not intended to travel at high speed, especially when fully laden and pushing into these seas. The boats approach the surf line and drop an anchor some distance off shore. As the boat begins to swing to the anchor and the bow turns towards the incoming waves, the anchor rode is payed out until the boat’s stern is just off the beach, then belayed hard to ensure there is no slippage that would put the boat ashore. Swinging lines are then run from the bow of the boat to large posts driven or buried in the black sand beach. The boat is then secure, with its bow held in the surf but the stern free to swing to the angle of the waves as they approach.
All of this might secure the boat, but none of it provides security for the loading hands who load all of the cargo from the mountainous pile on the beach onto their shoulders and wade out through the surf to the swinging stern where the load is humped up to others on the stern quarter deck. If the boat swings at the wrong time it is likely to at least knock the loaders off their feet, and if they’re dead unlucky it seems that they could even be caught under the boat, between the keel and the bottom. The deck hands only concerns, I would imagine, are to save the cargo from a drenching, and to hope the loader will get to his feet quickly so the loading is not delayed.
We watched this for over half an hour while things were carried out varying from three 25 kg sacks of rice at a time on their shoulders to a pile of those woven cane chook cages balanced on their heads, to 40 litre plastic bottles of fuel with a layer or two of plastic film tied over the necks to drums of lubricating oil, huge baskets of eggs, bundles of cloth bound in sacking, and anything else that has to be transported to the offshore islands around Nusa Penida, went aboard without incident.
The boat is loaded at the bow first, way up under the steeply raked cabin front, slowly moving aft as the spaces become full. This method of loading puts the bow down in the water first, with waves often sweeping over the foredeck. Hand pumping was being done continuously with a pipe pump into which goes a rod handle about the size of a broom stick. I suppose that this is to keep the level of water in the boat below the bottom layer of cargo. As the bow goes down the stern rises making things even more difficult for the loaders as they have to hump their load higher.
I cannot see a Union representative anywhere on the beach.
A little way down the beach is a salt works. I was nosing about in the coconut plantation at the edge of the beach, looking at the boats and the fishing gear being repaired and painted, when an old bloke with six teeth asked me if I wanted to buy the wreck of a hull that I was peering into. I really only wanted to look at the construction I told him. I guess he didn’t understand but he asked if I wanted to see the salt works, he could give me an ”eggs-plan-asheeon complit” if I wanted. Well I wanted, and he led me along the beach past what must have been over a hundred jukungs drawn up three deep on the crest of the beach. At the far end was “the house”, a tin roofed shed with two and a half walls, fronted by a flat area of sand about a tennis court in size and packed hard under a loose surface. This is where the process has begun for how many centuries I don’t know. The sand used the previous day is thrown onto the surface which is then re-levelled each morning starting at “pipe tirty” (5.30 am) if I remember it right. Once levelled, sea water is collected in buckets slung from a beam carried across the shoulders, in timeless fashion. The water is carried up the beach and splashed onto the levelled sand area. This continues until about “ayye tirty” am, when the sun is getting higher in the sky and strong enough to begin to evaporate water from the surface of the black sand, drawing more salty water up from deeper layers saturated with salt from years of use and concentrating salt in the layers near the surface. At about “poor tirty” pm these surface layers are scraped up and dumped into a huge hollow log, like a big fat canoe, under the edge of the house roof. At the lower end of this log is a small round hole and, as sand is tipped into the log and more water splashed over it, a very strong solution of salt trickles out of the hole into hollow log drums. It is allowed to stand in these drums until the next day, after the flat area has been topped up with the used sand, levelled and splashed anew with sea water. It is then transferred outside into shallow evaporation trays of either palm trunks hollowed lengthways and resting on trestles or broad strips of rubber or plastic draped between two bamboo poles supported horizontally on trestles. Here I could see the grains of salt settling out of the strong solution (which is about 25mm or 1 inch deep) and sitting on the bottom of the trays. Crystals or flakes could be picked up between the finger tips and the taste was total salt, enough to make the insides of my cheeks draw in. From here it was sacked and taken to market, more strong solution being added to the trays each day to replace evaporation losses and re-charge the salt content.
Well, the ”eggs-plan-asheeon” was “ complit” and immediately followed by the polite request that I could perhaps pay him for his service? Of course I could, and I did, laughing with him at my offer of Rp1,000 before eventually agreeing to 50,000 which must have pleased him immensely judging by his wide and toothy smile. Just about this time I saw the other two approaching. His 50 disappeared in a flash and the request instantly changed to some payment for his friends whom I shall remember always as two tooth and four tooth. Guessing that these were the real salt workers I gave him two twenties for them and left them all arguing about how much each would get. It seems he wanted a share of their 20’s on top of his hidden 50. I almost turned around and told them about his 50 but I thought, No! they’re friends, they’ll sort it out! - and left as fast as I could without breaking into a n undignified run.
Really I find the process fascinating in its apparent ageless and primitive nature, its strict time schedule especially with the processing of the previous day’s product fitted into the otherwise slack evaporation time and in its obvious success.
From Kusamba to Padang Bai.
Just let those two names roll off your tongue a few times.
Say them aloud.
“Kusamba” pronounced as you see it, Padang Bai the same, linger a little on the “g”, with an emphasis on the “Bye” – for bay.
Say them slowly.
Kusamba and Padang Bai.
Add Amlapura and Tulumben. Slowly, don’t rush.
Kusamba and Padang Bai and Amlapura and Tulumben.
Don’t they just roll off the tongue?
Are they the sound and the very taste of romance and exotic adventure?
Kusamba and Padang Bai. Amlapura and Tulumben.
The hair on the back of my neck almost stands up still.
Padang Bai is a real sea port, modern, dirty, smelly and really un-romantic.
Not at all like Kusamba where you would not be surprised if the Persian hordes galloped over the sand dunes at any time.
The southern end of Padang Bai is steel piles topped with steel decking, streaks of rust and spilled paint.
Flaking hulls on ships of unfamiliar shape.
Ferries and barges and top heavy catamarans rolling at anchor in the roads just off the end of the piers.
Vehicle ferries dock here, disgorging trucks, cars, passengers and busses before departing again for distant shores; Lombok, Surabaya, Sumbawa, Nusa Penida.
Romantic names again, as long as they stay within your mind and you don’t go searching out the realities. Then they might become places like Padang Bai.
At the northern end of the bay is a different Padang Bai however.
Padang Bai of the white sand beach, the green tinted waters deepening to indigo blue. Padang Bai of the colourful jukungs used for fishing at night and for snorkelling, diving and surfing tourists through the day.
Padang Bai of the little houses and warungs, of beach cafes, of dive shops, of back-packers homestays.
Padang Bai of peace and quiet.
In amongst the houses, past the cemetery that seems to be a part of every small and ancient coastal port, I found a jukung being made. Well, my nose found it first. The unmistakable smell of fibreglass resin! A “modern” jukung sitting under a lean-to roof next to a mould that will probably fashion dozens more. The three brothers have been working on the mould and hull for 4 months and are now putting the finishing touches to the hull. The traditional bent timber and bamboo floats will complete this hybrid. At my raised eyebrows when the bamboo floats are mentioned they shrug their shoulders. What else? It's so cheap; it costs nothing if they harvest it themselves and there is plenty.
Indeed, what else?
Off we go, around Teluk Amuk, Amuk Bay, to Candi Dasa on the opposite point of the bay, 10 or 12 km away, to begin the search for a hotel to book into. As we approach the town we begin to look at some of the hotels as they appear along or off the road. As we get closer to the town we discount the last one in favour of a new one closer to our points of interest.
We eventually settle on the Candi Dasa Beach Hotel Bungalows and Restaurant almost in the centre of town and fronting right onto the beach. The rooms in the 2 storey blocks are a bit decrepit and musty from being closed up too long, in fact the whole place needs some TLC, but it’s not likely to get it in the present climate. The owner is in Java and doesn’t care too much I am told, he has too much money! The bungalows however attract us, particularly the large entrance area which is really an extra room, the proximity to the pools and the beach and the much larger than usual fridge add to the interest. The place is clean but tired and has obviously been shut up for some time. The tiles and grout in the bathroom show their age first I think, then the furniture and the carpets. The plastic shower screen on the edge of the bath is hard and almost brittle with a band of mould along the bottom edge but the bath is not chipped or scummy. The window screens are sound and the curtains clean and working.
I think I’ve blown it when my final offer of Rp225,000 per night for the bungalow is at first refused but quickly accepted when we reach the office doorway to leave. This is about a quarter of the advertised rate of US$90 or about Rp900,000 per night, a rate which is really a bit of a joke considering the present state of the facility.
From memory we paid Made Rp200,000, and he disappeared back along the road we have come.
There are no telephones, not even an internal system, two light globes do not work, there are only Indonesian programmes on the TV, no ice cube trays in the fridge which is not turned on. Later we discover no ice is available from the kitchen or the bar, but they will go and get a bag from the supermarket if we wish to buy it!
Those problems that can be fixed are immediately attended to by a staff that we were to find still dedicated to the place and to their work.
We discover later that there are only three of the bungalows occupied and none of the rooms in either of the two 2 storey blocks. This number drops to two the next day.
Besides the entry room in our bungalow there is a quite large bedroom with a king size bed and a large bathroom. There is a load of storage space in both main rooms, a low table and lounge chairs with a large double wardrobe in the entry room and a similar wardrobe plus a dressing table and tall chest of drawers topped by the TV in the bedroom. Although there are two A/C units one does not work. The other proves to be very adequate however.
Later we meet our adjoining neighbours a pair of Dutch ladies who sip gin and tonics on their veranda each evening, at the edge of what is now an almost private pool on this side of the property.
We shortly join them in this pleasant pastime.
Caroline and Ankie, both from Rotterdam, turn out to be Candi Dasa regulars, finding it to be all that Bali offers in a conveniently small package. They invite us to join them for dinner that evening and we are happy to accept their offer and recommendation, not having anything else in mind.
A swim for me, in a pool that inspires a lot more confidence than the one at the Bali Agung Village, followed by a shower, a shave and a change of clothes from the skin out (or is it vice versa?) before tramping the streets for food, to be followed by a needed rest in that big bed.
Our destination is Queens Café on the beach side of the main street. It is not hard to find, even on this poorly lit street with the typical Bali up-and-down-gutters-sprinkled-with-holes.
Why is it that local councils, even in Oz, always plant street trees under street lights? It’s not as though the light will make any significant difference to the growth of the tree but the tree certainly makes a difference to the light.
From the Candi Dasa Beach Hotel we turn right and head along the main street. Past the village temple with its imposing candi bentar, (The traditional Balinese entry to important places it is a gateway of red brick and carved grey stone with no joining structure across the top of the twin portals, a “split gate” in other words.) past a number of quite empty restaurants many of which tried very hard to attract our custom, past the lagoon which is having a deserved clean out of all the dead lilies and lotus which are piled in a heap on one side of the road, on just a little bit further and there it is, clearly signed and simply welcoming.
It is what I think a Café should be, small, intimate and unpretentious. Not trying to be a restaurant, great or small, but serving the casual diner with good food in a friendly enen warm atmosphere. The front is open to the street as is part of one side wall, the remaining part making a back wall to the bar. There are tables of two sizes I think, able to be arranged to seat various sized parties probably to a maximum of about 30 diners. At the back is the kitchen, some living quarters for the staff I believe and the toilet – about which more later.
Along the wall opposite the bar is a small stage area where we were later to be entertained by a couple of the local children in their ornately decorated traditional costumes, performing segments from the popular classical dances. These performances are amazing in their detailed movements, appearing to have no discernable sequence to our untrained eyes and ignorance of the story line in any detail. The dancers have been well trained it would appear. Even at their early age their movements are fluid and without any discernable hesitation. At other times, here on the stage or less formally around the bar, there are frequently spontaneous performances of song and/or music from talented locals.
There seems to be almost one waiter to each diner tonight. The crowd is not large, as might be expected, and as might also be expected, the attention of the waiters is very close if a little unexpected at times. We think that they are not particularly trained but are enthusiastic locals trying to do the best they can, and learn in the process.
The lighting in the café is just nice. Not glaring so that you cannot comfortably see your surroundings but (only) just bright enough to read the menu and to see the food when it is placed in front of you.
We are welcomed with an Arak and orange, a nice custom made even nicer because it has not been abandoned here despite what must be very hard times. This one was even nicer than the usual drink because it has a dash of Grenadine to lift the taste. Very cold, very nice, possibly very addictive!
We ordered Aqua, as is becoming our habit at the start of a meal, and when it arrived it was so cold there was ice in the bottle. It came with a small bowl of ice in case you wanted to really freeze the tonsils and a platter of nice thick lime slices.
Just brilliant. Bagus! And bloody good too.
I noticed that the paper serviettes had been cut in halves, a practise I deplore but one which is common in Bali. I’d like to think that it is a diminishing practise but I’m not sure. If you don’t need a full paper serviette then you don’t need a serviette at all.
HA’s Seafood Soup (RP8,500) came very promptly after our order was taken. The bowl was brimming, the contents hot and spicy, full of fishy flavour. There was a generous number of small prawns that I would call shrimps, but perhaps that’s the way they come here. Despite the abundance of waiters my Lumpia a la Queens (a crispy pancake roll stuffed with vegetables and with a sweet and sour dipping sauce) somehow was overlooked and I had to be content to suck on HA’s soup, of which there was plenty. I should have twigged when it didn’t arrive with her soup, or shortly after, but by the time I realised that it probably wasn’t coming I thought I really didn’t need it anyway, and the waiters, trying so hard to be helpful, didn’t need the hassle.
My Gado Gado made up for the missed entrée. It was just superb. There was enough on the plate to make a meal on its own and as I was coming to expect, the vegetables (and you might gather I am fond of my vegetables) were done just to perfection. I guess that if you can’t get a great Gado Gado in Indonesia where will you get one? The sauce flavour lingered with me through at least half a glass of Bintang after the last morsel was devoured and then traces slowly seeped out to my taste buds again from the peanut pieces stuck in my teeth. I should also mention that the Prawn Crackers that accompany this dish also had taste. They were not the fluffy cardboard I have had at times.
HA’s Mixed Satay only briefly passed my lips as she seemed determined not to part with any more that absolutely necessary. I can therefore only judge it OK on my own brief account and She must have thought at least the same as there was none left on Her plate.
My Gado Gado was Rp13,000, the Lumpia would have been Rp12,000. HA’s Satays were Rp18,500.
HA’s excursion to the toilet resulted in the report that it is a squat, but a fully tiled one, clean and with toilet paper as well as the mandi pool and dipper for the locals’ ablutions. The dipper is worth at least a casual mention, it is candy pink plastic and heart shaped! Functional and a work of art to boot! There is a toilet brush too, the first I have seen in Bali – a clear message to leave it as you found it. I’m not sure if the bristles were soft, hard or medium, but if you’re not intending to clean your teeth does it matter? The hand basin is outside the toilet, sensible to help cater for rush hours, with cold water only, no soap but a clean towel. As it stands (or as it squats if you like) she thinks it is worth at least a 5/10, probably a 6. Some living growth would have made the 6 a certainty and a 7 possible, but the lack of soap is a drawback. If your back and thigh muscles will stand (is that the best word I could use?) a squat it is probably as good as they come.
To make up for the Lumpia I am allowed to order a coconut pancake with Ice cream. She decides on a Banana Split. I think she is trying re-live her misspent youth in Sigalas’s Milk Bar, a notorious den and teen-age hang-out of half a century ago. Dessert follows her return and I find the plate sized pancake a little pale for my liking, as though the pan was not quite as hot as it might have been when the mixture first hit it. The coconut seems to be fresh as well as being liberal. Nice. The vanilla ice cream has run out. What the hell - the strawberry adds colour. HA’s Banana Split disappears much more quickly than my pancake and I am allowed only a tiny taste, so again I can only judge it to be OK, although I remember the banana flavour was as you would expect when there is probably a banana tree growing within the range of a tossed empty Bintang bottle from the back door. The sweets were Rp8,000 and 8,500 respectively.
I forgot to mention that our second Bintang came courtesy of the management, perhaps in appreciation of the real Aussie flag and the sparkling stick-on duplicate we offered for their bar decorations when we came in.
The menu is not extensive but obviously well within the skills of the cook(s) and wide enough to satisfy a range of tastes. Like a good bathing suit it covers the essentials and generates interest. What more do you need?
A few locals have wandered in to patronise the bar. Lively and noisy greetings are exchanged after which the discussions seem to become earnest and more subdued, so that these old ears can hear the table conversation again. The popularity of the establishment with the locals, and the life that they generate, speaks loudly for the value offered by the place.
The bill is Rp86,350 including 10% tax. A$16.60 for the two of us.
We will return we think.
As we left it to go back to the hotel it seemed to us that Queens was about the only place still open and with customers, and it’s a happening little cafe too.
This is our first day in Candi Dasa. The weather is beautiful. Yes, it is humid but at the CD Beach Hotel our bungalow (number 124 I think) is just the second one back from the pool which itself is right on the beach. And I mean right on. There is a path around the pool and the edge of this path is a concrete wall that drops straight down onto the beach, sand and broken coral at low tide, about half a meter of sea water at high tide. Perhaps a kilometre back on the other side of the town rise the local hills, steep and green with trees, peanuts, rice and maybe vegetables. It is an area that I will explore in future. If the breeze is off the sea it comes straight to us. If it is off the land it comes down the hillsides, seemingly cooled by the cultivated land and forests.
Just after first light I take some photos of the front pools, the tall coconut palms and the four small islands just offshore, maybe a kilometre, with the shadow of Nusa Penida (Penida Island) on the horizon. Just to the left of the pool and ending right on that wall which keeps the sea at bay is an open eating area, just a roof really, with a hand-rail at the end to stop revellers walking out into the open air over the beach. It is a great spot to eat in solitude and to write, with a Bintang nearby. On the further side of this area is another pool. Along the beach there are ‘T” shaped concrete groynes and breakwaters at regular intervals. These protect the shore line structures from the attacks of the sea.
The disastrous results of these attempts at photography remind me, again, of a lesson I should have remembered from similarly timed attempts at the Bali Agung Village, indeed should have remembered from futile attempts on previous trips. The lesson is simple really; if your camera has been in a cool air-conditioned atmosphere all night, the lens will immediately fog up, the very instant it is exposed to warm, moist outside air. Because it was so early in the morning I was using automatic settings and took only a quick glimpse through the viewfinder to compose the picture before locking up the tripod. As a consequence I did not notice the thin film of moisture across the lens and, even as it started to disperse from the outside edge towards the centre, the pictures were only of use as good examples of the problem. I can’t blame the camera or the film for this mess.
To the right of the hotel pools, around the sweep of the bay, is a fuel plant, right on the bay shore with docking facilities running offshore and moorings scattered around this part of the bay. At night the tankers, moored and mooring here, provide a show of fairy lights around the horizon. Also across this side of the bay is the Blue Lagoon, a well known snorkelling spot we are to visit later.
Around town every young bloke you come across, and most of the older ones too, want to engage you in conversation, and they usually do so in one of the dozens of ways that they have developed over the years. Inevitably they want to sell you transport, breakfast, sailing, fishing, snorkelling, cloth, sunglasses, watches (even here), but they are not as persistent as are their southern cousins. In a short time it is easy to slip into a normal conversation, about their families, their work, what they are doing today – all of the questions that they ask you are good conversation starters when you ask them.
In due course of the morning we get around to choosing somewhere for breakfast, and our choice this morning is the pleasant Kubu Bali Bungalows Bar and Restaurant. We are the only ones there and although that makes me feel a little uncomfortable about getting fresh food there really is no other choice, every place we look into is quite empty. The Kubu Bali is on the hills side of the street, set back a little from the noise of the road behind a lotus pond which is fully into flower. The exotic blooms are at all stages of their development, from a green bud with a soft purple tip (and it really seems a shame that this wonderful blend of shading must be split asunder) to the elegant, fully opened candy-pink petalled flowers with their brilliant yellow pollen sacs waving on the end of ivory stalks. Inevitably there is at least one bee in residence, testament to the richness within, complementing the richness without. The final stage is a dull lettuce-green seed pod varying from the smallest with salt-cellar size holes in the flat top to the fully grown ones of almost tea-cup size where the holes have become enlarged to pencil sharpener size. On the edge of the pond is a bougainvillea which has been trained up a steel pole about three times the height of a netball goal post. The plant covers the pole and the plant itself is covered with deep pink flowers. This huge plant is flanked on each side by two smaller ones, a white and a purple. It is a nice outlook from the bale in which we are seated, open sided and constructed of timber without any finish on the surface. The supporting posts each rise to the roof from a short carved grey stone plinth just above which the post is wrapped in the common black and white cheque cloth.
The gentle sea breeze coming through or over the shops and houses on the other side of the street is cooling but we know that by the time we leave it will be sweat-time again. The peace is shattered only occasionally by some crazy youths on a motorbike which has the mother of all straight-through pong boxes.
Maybe life was not meant to be easy as Malcolm said, but in a place like this it certainly isn’t hard.
Our request for tea while we go through the menu and make our choices is quickly met and I’m surprised but not disappointed to find that the milk for mine is evaporated, not fresh. The taste is a nice change.
Our mixed fresh fruit juice arrives soon after (Astute readers will have noticed the “our” there. I am a fast learner about some things.) and they are just as good as the one She had at the Cin Cin – was it only yesterday? There is moisture condensing on the sides of the glasses already and the morning sun just hitting the edge of the table makes the beads sparkle as they run down the side. The contents are a pale mustard colour and so thick that the pristine white straw stands rigidly to attention in the centre. I have to abandon any pretence at propriety by using the straw, enough just will not come through it for a good mouthful. The taste is indefinite. Think of a fruit and you think you can taste it. Think of another and you can taste that too. Melons, pineapple, apple, lime, papaya (Oh yes! Papaya.) banana, even orange came firmly into my head at one time. Strange to us and refreshing.
I decide on Lumpia this morning as I missed out last night. They come as a pair, about the size of a spring roll but flattened on each end rather than squared off by folding in the pastry as it is wrapped as you expect your spring rolls to come. The pastry itself is a single thickness and therefore not flaky and crisp but nice and firm, certainly not soggy with soaked-up oil from the pan. They sit on a bed of shredded lettuce with a slice of tomato and another of cucumber on one side. They are accompanied by tomato sambal sauce rather than the soy/sweet and sour that comes with rolls.
The toast is only warmed bread really. It has none of the browned colour that I look for in proper toast and which speaks of crispness. The jam is “run out” so we have to make do with those little peel-top packs of Knotts Berry Farm Honey, all the way from California, USA, made, I read, from a blend of US and Mexican honeys. It is sweet and thin. I look back to the lotus pond and at the bees in those flowers and wonder about those far off bees that produced this drop. The butter is a bit more exciting (Oh, come on Filo, I can hear the critics mutter. Exciting butter? Give ‘em something to talk about I say.) It’s Elle and Vire Beurre de France, unsalted and unremarkable. But consider for a moment, all the circumstances that came together to put stuff from Mexico, America and France in front of an Australian eating breakfast in Bali!
Is that not remarkable? OK. It’s not exciting.
HA reports that the toilet is VERY clean, a flushed variety in western style, (No, it’s not blushing with embarrassment nor is it wearing spurs or a 10 gallon hat.) sitting on a tiled floor with natural stone walls around. Yes, there is paper too. Outside there are hand basins with only cold water but with soap and – wait for it She exclaims – an electric hand dryer! 9/10 She insists. This I have to see, and I find the male version identical with the addition of a piddler on the wall. Not the sparkling cleanliness She insists She found (I decline the offer to verify the facts.) but very adequate and a pleasure to be in. I would say 8/10 but you can go and make up your own mind.
Our bill is Rp122,000, about A$21.50. Certainly not the cheapest but good food if not good value. The tax of 20% does not help I suppose. Again I have to ask why tax is 20 % here but at other places it is only 10, or 7 or even 5%? Does it include an unannounced service charge? And if so who gets this?
Ready to face the remainder of the day we set out down street where we stumbled last night. How different things look in the light of day. The softly lit lagoon of the night before was really an almost dry swamp being dredged of dead vegetation and plastic mainly. Perhaps it will look Venetian again when the water is readmitted. The redeeming feature, if there was one, was in the far corner where the cleaned up remains of both lotus and water lilies slump, unsupported but still with vibrant blooms. It’s easy to slip into a critique of rubbish when you find it in a third world country, in the middle of period of depressed economy, exactly where you expect to find it. But it’s not any more difficult to remember the downstream end of our own Torrens Lake, down by the weir that creates it from a trickling stream. It’s in the heart of Adelaide, right on the doorstep of two of our better restaurants and certainly clearly in view from their posh balconies over the lake’s edge. It is regularly be-fouled in similar if not worse manner, possibly with dead animals and birds not too far under the surface. All our authorities seem to be able to do it clean it up every so often – and that’s just what is happening here too.
We walk.
Immediately we are reminded that what is not so easily dismissed or excused however, are the footpaths. Although not as bad as Kuta perhaps, but that really depends on where you go in Kuta, they are still up and down at angles of 45 degrees at every property entry. The footpaths are about 300 mm (a foot) above the road surface so a step up of this size, time after time is not easy, and it’s very unwise to try to step onto the 45 degree surface as they become slippery with either rain or windblown dust, and a quick kiss of the footpath is not what you want on a holiday in Bali. The surface of the footpaths is often broken, with cracked cement slabs or missing bricks or tiles, leaving a hole to wrench an ankle if not break a leg. In Bali, the cautious tourist, even the careless one too, soon learn to walk on the road whenever possible, with at least one eye cast downwards for safety.
You don’t see a lot of scenery walking like this.
Much of the damage appears to be caused by the property owners. If they want to put in a drain or another entry or a tree, they simply dig up whatever they want to, but accept no obvious responsibility for fixing the damage. I think that the first village Banjar that really tackles this well known problem will be rewarded with an upsurge in tourist numbers.
We walk on.
When midday comes we are forcefully reminded of “mad dogs and Englishmen” under the sun. The dogs are asleep, the attendant at the Internet shop is asleep (At least she’s in air conditioned comfort.) The roosters in their cane cages are asleep as are the pet birds that hang under verandas and trees. The drivers in their cars are asleep, although with one eye half open it seems, as we are frequently assailed with, “Transport Boss?” as we walk past.
Back to the bungalow with a couple of Bintangs in a black plastic bag. (What else?) Our pool is warm but the one on the other side of the bale is a little in the shade down one side and therefore cooler. We migrate to the coolest corner and hang with our chins tucked over the edge and our eyes half closed.
Soto Ayam for two. Very hot Chicken soup with an egg cracked into the centre to cook in the heat of the liquid and a bread roll. Rp25,300 including the tax and service charge. This is about 5 Aussie dollars. Not too bad for a hotel. With a couple of Bintangs from our fridge it makes lunch.
We decide it is time to try the beach ladies for a massage. Actually they are not beach ladies as the beach is to temporary for good business and they use a corner of the hotel grounds for 10% of their take. Nyoman (a third child), one of the young lads I have been talking to still wants to take me sailing, or fishing? Or to the islands? Or snorkelling? You dive Boss? I will go sometime somewhere, out of curiosity as much as for the chance to sail a jukung again and for a chance to look back onto this coast with its hilly (mountainous?) backdrop. When and where, we just don’t seem to be able to decide yet.
The massage lady I attach myself to turns out to have a death grip like Attila the Hun. I was used to the rather gentle Wayan from Tuban. Gentler is a very comparative term as I use it here. Wayan has made me flinch but this girl made me yelp and flinch on more than one occasion. Sore? she enquired after each episode. It’s not that she’s deliberately rough I don’t think but she has a thumb like Sean Connery in that well known film when he was an American Major or some such. Why do I find these well known films forgettable? The base of her index finger is also a force to be reckoned with and should be registered as an offensive weapon. I’m sure it could poke the eye out of an elephant. Together, or between the two of them really I suppose, in compression at the end of a long sweeping stroke she had a pinch that New Scotland Yard would expect to see in the media headlines the next day. I frequently go to sleep under the hands of Wayan and have difficulty in coordinating the necessary muscles to sit up or turn over. Not so here. The price was Rp50,000 and we did not attempt to bargain. These girls had changed each day and we had not seen them use their skills in the time we had been here so far. Who were they going to work on if not us?
The massage is on top of the wall that keeps the sea from invading the pool, maybe 3 meters high and less than half that from the sea at the time. Out of the corner of your eyes here you seem to be ready to drop into the breaking waves over the reef or floating along the cloud line over Nusa Penida on the horizon. It’s an eerie feeling and not a comfortable one.
We have so far had two films developed here, at the Kodak counter of the supermarket across the road from the Hotel. The young man there has charge of a fairly recent machine and seems to clean it daily about 8.30 when he opens. He’s certainly not busy and is able to get the developing and printing done in half a day without problems. Some of the results are not too disappointing and I risk a couple of enlargements but they’re not really good. There is a Fuji shop a bit further down the road but I have not yet seen it open and fear that the lack of tourists has had the ultimate effect. The shades of blue and turquoise along this shore just demand my continued efforts to capture them but I am beginning to get frustrated. I even resort to reading the camera instruction book again. Now that’s proof of desperation!
I looked long and hard at these colours again while I was trying to take my mind off the massage.
Looking down over the edge of the wall into the shallows the water was almost transparent, just the faintest tinge of blue, lighter even than HA’s Blue Sapphire Gin. Now there’s a world-wide definitive colour chip of light blue. Between the swells the blue begins to take on a tinge of green over the weed growing on the rocks and coral. Over the clear sand patches and dead, white coral the blue just deepens. A little further out these colours deepen more, alternating in bands that reflect the nature of the bottom. Where the sun light reflects off pale sand the blue persists but darkens. Where there’s weed growth the green shows more and more, darker and darker until it’s just black. The whole sea across these shallows, until the depths on the other side of the breakwaters and reef, is a patchwork of alternating colours that move in harmony with the swells.
As you look higher the purple of Nusa Penida on the horizon seems just a lightening of the sea colours and above the island the purple merges into the blues of the sky and these in turn become the greys and white of the clouds, repeating the pale transparency of the shallows under the wall in front of me.
If you’re lucky enough to have been here, or to come at some time, you’ll know how inadequate my description is. One of the reasons I want good pictures of this shore is to show people what it’s really like.
I know that at some time I am going to be in trouble with some of the local fishermen. One or two seem to be the husbands of these massage girls. (Can you use that word to describe these female humans with four children? One, who laughs like an imp, looks a teenager so she’s probably well into her 20’s, and could probably put a stranglehold on Hulk Hogan given half a head start. I’m willing to bet that their husbands don’t misbehave.) I know that I am going to be in trouble because there are now three who assure me I promised to go in their boats. Despite putting them off so far the hour will come when one will be happy and two will be sure I’ve done them wrong. I have not really promised any of them but saying that will not really change their stories. Such is the way of things in Bali and the present difficult times only intensify their efforts to earn some money.
One promise we have made is to the man who cleans our room. He offered to act as our guide to the Bali Aga village of Tenganan just north of Candi Dasa – “maybe tomorrow”. (The present Aga are recognised as the descendants of the original Balinese, sometimes called the Bali Aboriginals.) There are several such villages where the inhabitants have taken a decision to live by their ancient traditions. Such is their determination that the young people must marry another member of the village or leave. Severing ties with one’s village in Bali leaves you an outcast in society, separated from your religious roots and therefore separated from an integral part of your heredity and your life. Apart from my interest in their history and the consequences of their marriage strictures HA is enthused by stories of Ikat and Double Ikat weaving which is common in and unique to the villages. Our intended guide tells us we should not try to compare this cloth to the machine made material from Java or the second quality work from Lombok. We have some Lombok Ikat which She is very proud of and to have it referred to a second quality only doubles her curiosity. I must take a break with the notes here as I have been summonsed next door for drinkies with the Dutch ladies and if I don’t get some clothes on I will cause quite a stir.
Drinkies with the ladies is at the very end table of the open seating area between the two pools, right on the edge of that drop to the beach. It is cool here, peaceful (until the conversation picks up at about the second G & T), relaxing and in the present company it is entertaining too. Much of the entertainment comes from a string of fairly childish jokes and the cultural differences that emerge from perhaps a single word of the punch line. For some reason (it might be the G & T) the kiddies question, asking for the name of a blind deer – answer; No idea! (“No eyed deer”, if you’re slow this morning) causes great hilarity and becomes essential re-telling as every friend drops past. A really forgettable joke (?) about the name of a quadriplegic swimmer reveals that in Holland a “Bob” is the person who does not drink at a night’s revelry but has to drive everyone home –what we’d call the designated driver in Oz.
It all seemed funny at the time but does not re-tell well.
We open a bottle of that champagne and also some smoked oysters, pistachios, cheese, dips and crackers. They have been here a long time and have not had such fare for a while. For some reason they have not discovered the supplies that are available in the larger supermarkets or, as we were to discover later, at that most excellent establishment near the airport, the Dijon Delicatessen. They are a gay couple, in the old-fashioned sense of the word, and the hour passes too quickly. The table is eventually cleared and we each make our preparations for dinner.
Our selection for tonight is the restaurant at the Pondok Bamboo Sea Side Bungalo (sic), chosen from our notes as being worth a look. It’s on the seafront again and only about a 5 minute walk from our bungalow. The outside is very unimpressive, so much so that we walked right past it the first time and had to retrace our steps in confusion. The restaurant is called the Sea Side and it really is, with a large semi-circular extension of the main dining area seeming to hang over the water below. The menu displayed outside shows that they offer more than seafood (which is not high on my list of stuff I could eat every night) so we take the plunge. I’m really a bit surprised that we do, as the inside is quite dark and not at all inviting. Perhaps they were trying to save on the cost of electricity. It is with some trepidation and a great deal of care that we follow the hostess down the long passage between the” bungalo’s” but at the end we are rewarded by the sight of a sparkling kitchen, flashing with polished stainless steel this and that, and overlooking a large seating area around what might have been a stage at one time but now holds the round marble table-over-the-waters which is offered to us alone although it could easily seat 6 or 8 diners. We are not alone tonight, there being two other tables occupied, perhaps by residents of the bungalows. The lighting is a bit dim but the addition of a couple of candles to the table allows the menu to be perused in relative ease. Later when we had almost finished I blew these out and the vista over the sea seemed to leap into life with the fairy lights of the moored fuel tankers sparkling along the horizon to our right.
HA latches onto the avocado dishes on the main course list, but the crab and the squid and the snapper are not on tonight we are informed. Bugger, She says. Not to be deterred She adds Grilled Local Fish to her entrée of Avocado Shrimp. I decide to test the Spring Rolls; I think for the first time this trip, to be followed by Grilled Pork and Mushrooms, not magic ones the waiter assures me. The Aqua with ice arrives, accompanied by the dish of lime slices that we both relish, and the mandatory Bintang which I seem to remember was really Anchor, and which is not really cold by the time it has chilled the warm glasses. The settings at the table are arranged on a large, closely woven fibre or grass mat and a real, deep red, folded and ironed, cotton serviette. In the reflected candle light the full range of eating irons, all in order, sparkle as they are set out according to our individual orders. A touch of class that’s nice every so often and is often reflected in the final bill too. It’s an impressive start and we begin to be glad that we re-traced our steps in the street and came in through that “haunted house” entrance.
The arrival of Her full bowl of Avocado Shrimps is impressive too. Not the usual 5 or 6 here, they must number closer to a dozen. They sit on a lettuce leaf lining the bowl and which is held down closely to it by the weight of the beasts, not floating up in the air to make the dish appear full but really with a chasm of nothing underneath. My Spring Rolls are a threesome of largess with that suggestion of salad. The dish looks great but the heart stopper I find is the plunge pool of sweet and sour sauce. Sweet and sour indeed, with largish chopped pieces of red and green capsicum, white onion and yellow pineapple sitting in it, and thick enough to cling to the roll. Beyond the appearance and the taste of the sauce the rolls themselves are disappointing. Fat, yes, but not crispy, the wrapping is more like a pancake than a shattering, splintering, brittle, real roll wrapping. Are they just a variation of this morning’s Lumpia I wonder? They are hot, hot, hot in temperature but a bit oily; they sag and dump their contents into the clinging sauce after the first bite. HA has no complaints and avocado and shrimp alike disappear with alacrity while I am distracted, trying to rescue the middle of my rolls from the sauce bowl.
The owner’s dog, “Snoopy” has rights that no other dog would be allowed, and unashamedly begs from each table in turn. He is a sort of a long haired Corgi, his hair glowing red.
The setting reminds us of the Pantai in Tuban (where Cha Cha, the restaurant dog is larger and sleepier), looking down onto the beach and the slowly rolling waves glowing in the moonlight, with the ships’ lights out in the blackness, the air warm but the soft breeze cool. The lights from the terminal are very bright. With the lights from the tankers they reflect an angel’s ladder down the tops of the waves towards us.
Another Bintang/Anchor arrives but it’s still not cold
The main courses arrive; a tall cone of rice on a separate plate is a change from the rounded bowl dump we have become used to. The serves are not large. What I at first took to be a soup-bowl sized dish of pork and mushroom turned out to be deceptive with only the bottom covered with bite sized pieces. The pork tasted like pork and was not overwhelmed by vegetables or slippery mushroom sauce. The sauce was there but in a moderate quantity, the mushrooms by far the greater quantity. Her fish is firm and white, tasty, in bite size pieces like my pork, cosseted on all sides with a nice fresh salad and soon consumed. It must be said that quality made up for quantity and both meals were tasty and hot.
My Aqua was still colder than the beer. We decided on dessert, a result of the smallish serves as much as anything else, Her deciding on a Dadar Guleng (a thin pancake containing grated coconut and filled with palm sugar) at Rp12,500 and myself the Black Rice pudding at Rp12,000. There are three pancakes, green coloured wraps dripping palm sugar, and with thick and sweet shavings of coconut inside. My rice pudding really was a generous serving (was someone looking over my shoulder as I was writing these notes?) with a spiral of snowy white coconut milk making a stark contrast against the almost black sheen of the hot rice.
The service has been attentive and precise but not in your face or pushy about anything. Just nice and relaxed. With 3 waitresses, and three cooks to attend to three tables I suppose it should have been good. In the face of the great emptiness everyone seems to be trying hard to please. By the time of the bill we are alone, the kitchen had been scrubbed. One of the cooks had gone home to see his mother or someone else and the waitresses were hunkered down behind their desk yacking away as only young girls can.
Snoopy was in bed.
The appetisers were Rp 14,000 and 20,000. Rp24,000 for my pork and Her Ikan Pepes, the fish grilled in banana leaves with Balinese spices, Rp27,500. The small Aquas were Rp6,500 each, large beers Rp15,000. To the total is added 16% service charge and Tax. Rp177,480, in all, a bit over A$34 for the two of us. Not bad by home standards but just a little disappointing by Bali norms.
We followed Snoopy’s lead.
A little bit of sleeping in this morning.
Are we relaxing at last?
For a holiday that was supposed to be simply R & R (That’s rest and recreation, Ralph. Not riot and rum tiddly um tum tum as I’m sure you’re thinking.) it seems to have gone at the usual hectic pace so far – and we haven’t even been to Sukawati yet.
Today is the day, we agree, for Tenganan village, one of the Bali Aga villages and famed source of single and double Ikat cloth weaving. Now for the life of me, I could never get a simple answer that I could understand, that clearly explained the difference between single and double. I was shown one piece that was lighter and thinner than another and told that it was double Ikat. Now that was the opposite of what I would expect. Something that is double would be thicker, denser, whatever, wouldn’t it?
I.A.K. !
I Am Konfused ! What? You don’t spell “Konfused” with a “k” ?
Well, there you are. You can see just how Konfused I am.
Just a bit of geriatric mental exercise. Don’t let it worry you – until you start doing it yourself.
For a while I thought that in single Ikat weaving only the cross threads were tie-dyed whereas in double Ikat weaving both the long and the cross threads are tie-dyed.
Then I thought that in single Ikat the cross threads went under (or over) each individual long threads, one at a time. This would be in contrast to double Ikat where the cross threads went over two threads and under one.
Now I know only one thing – and that is that I don’t know.
We found our guide, or rather he found us, and he had his brother driving the car. Now guys, before we go let’s get the payment thing sorted out. Who do I pay when we get back? They looked at each other and at me and at each other and at HA and at each other, and as it went on we all started to smile, then to grin and finally laugh. I nominated our hotel friend to get the payment and he would pay his brother, OK?
OK!
And we headed off.
Back down the road towards Kuta we went, but only until we came to the beginning of the town which was marked by the traditional candi bentar. Then we turned right, inland, up the road which had the “German Bakery” sign, up the hills. At the bakery we stopped and selected from their remaining stocks of this mornings bake, enough of this and that for breakfast for all four of us, and a bit more for luck.
Tenganan is not far and we soon pull into the car park. This looks highly organised for an ancient village I think. I think so again when we are directed to the ticket office to make a donation. Through the gate in the village wall, a wall which seems to surround it, and there is our first glimpse of the Aga enclosure. The whole place seems to be about 100 metres wide but it runs up the foothills in regular steps of flat ground separated by quite steep ramps of stone pressed into the earth. Each flat area forms roughly a square with the houses along the outer, walled sides and community buildings or trees in the centre. The result is three rows of buildings with two “roads” running up between the rows as far as I can see. Signs at the front of most of the housed advertise Ikat cloth making or music lessons or something else.
In the areas near the gate, where there are no houses, men sit at tables making lontars. Lontars are booklets made of rectangular palm leaf pages about 250 mm by 40 mm (10 inches by 1.5) held together by interwoven strings. The pages, perhaps up to a dozen in those that we saw, open downwards, a bit like the folds of a concertina, and not unlike what we call a Venetian blind. Each book has a front and back “cover” (or is it a top and bottom cover) made from split bamboo just a little larger than the pages. To make the lontar the surface of the palm leaf is finely cut with the very sharp point of a knife or chisel. At this stage not a thing can be seen until you get up very close, and then I could only make out a sort of mild roughening of the leaf surface. The magic bit comes when a macadamia nut is used to rub stain onto and into the surface. Immediately the intricacies of the work leap into sight. Lines, lettering, drawings, the finest of shadings – sometimes in two slightly different colours, have become indelibly infused into the leaf surface. The permanence of the marks is demonstrated by rubbing vigorously with a cloth which has no effect. The process might be as old as Bali itself, and was originally used to keep court and district records; who did what, who owned what, and so on. In the museum at Singaraja I believe, there is a display of some of these records which go back hundreds of years. The leaf pages and the inscriptions are still clear and bright. Some years back, before the historical significance of the historical lontars was recognised, colonists and tourists were buying relics from the era before the Dutch occupation for a few dollars each. The loss was stopped by President Sukarno I understand.
The lontars we were shown were of three qualities. With unerring accuracy She (OK, we) coveted the most expensive. The one we badly wanted was an illustrated synopsis of the Kecak Dance, commonly known as the fable of the Ramayana, an epic tale of princes and princesses, of love foiled by evil forces and eventually of good triumphing over evil.
Now these things are expensive, after all there was 3 months work involved, or so we were told, but even Higher Authority, who frequently throws Rp100,000 notes around like she was dealing in a Bridge game, visibly blanched when Rp900,000 was the opening price. Nearly A$180. The pause in proceedings was interminable while she gathered her composure. An event such as this was certainly a challenge and an inadequate response could disturb the cosmos to such an extent that the clocks at Greenwich might need to be adjusted.
This was simply money we had not brought with us (a saving intervention by the Gods I still believe to this day) so some tough talking was about to happen I could tell. The lesser qualities were inspected, and the differences were obvious when they were pointed out to us. The prices of these gave some perspective to the oncoming proceedings I think and there was much to-ing and fro-ing. It was all too fast for me to record or remember but in the end we did not get to first base.
So sorry.
We cast envious eyes over the lesser quality ones again, but even at the prices he was now offering them they would not have satisfied our lust.
Taking our regretful leave we proceeded up the ramps along the roadways, looking at incredibly old frangipani trees, red, pink, yellow and blue dyed chickens (just for fun, I was told when I asked why.) ancient but still solid buildings.
I confess that I was more than a little curious to observe the folk who had set their course so close to what could be an inbreeding disaster. If there were such problems they were hidden and defied discovery. Certainly the young man who would not succumb to Her bargaining wiles was not one dime short of a dollar! All in all they looked and behaved like Balinese to my eyes.
Eventually we accepted an invitation to inspect the weaving and the finished Ikat cloth in one of the houses. The process begins with the cotton thread being wound into skeins of the precise length for the threads that go across the cloth. These are then tie-dyed at exact intervals for the pattern that is to be woven. The initial dying of the best quality fabric is done with indigo, a process which alone takes three months. Subsequently lighter colours can be added to the parts initially left un-dyed under the tight ties and this alone determines the final pattern. We (She) did not ask a price but that did not seem to matter to the woman who patiently explained the process to us. The family sat a little further back in the open house and were quite happy for me to photograph them, or anything else I wanted to. Perhaps the Chuppa Chups all round earlier had helped. One particularly old man I wanted to photograph and, with great dignity and tolerance he allowed me to twiddle to my hearts content, looking in whichever direction I indicated by signs that I wanted.
Back towards the car park eventually and as we pass the lontar man engages us in conversation once more. He knows that he’s got us hooked; it’s only a matter of how much we’ll pay. Well, as She explains to him by opening my money bag, it’s really a matter of how much we have with us. In short order all the notes are counted out and a deal is struck for Rp180,000, Chuppa Chups for him and his friends who have gathered round to see the struggle, and an empty wallet for me. For about A$35 we must have the bargain of the year, and a treasure to hang by our much loved painting from the ’99 trip.
As the noonday gun will soon be fired we decline the invitation of our guide and driver to continue along the road (where my map tells me no road exists) to Amlapura and beyond. Back to our room it is, to the pool and siesta.
When we return it is to find that the room has been beautifully cleaned in our absence. Across the pillows of the bed are arranged white frangipanis which have had tiny blood-red flowers inserted into their central hollows. There is a wonderful mixture of flowers in a vase on the dressing table and a floral perfume has been sprayed around which so far at least, has defied the efforts of the air conditioner to overcome. It is such a welcome home that we both remark on it and go in search of any more surprises that may have been left behind. Obviously this is not the first time the room has been cleaned during our stay but it is so different from the others that we have to find out who did it and let them know that we appreciate their efforts. Off to the lobby to find out who has done this. After some initial concern, that maybe some thing has gone missing and I want to know who to turn upside down and shake until the missing treasure falls out, our explanation that we think the room is very nice, is accepted and the receptionist checks her roster, giving me the name. Concerned that I might forget it I ask her to write it down, which she does on an envelope.
Ngurah Adit.
Still here, I ask.
Yes, cleaning bungalow next to yours.
Out of sight I put aRp100,000 note in the envelope and seal it down. Back along the path and I round a corner to bump into the short, Budda-like guy I have seen before doing some gardening. Ah, I question. Ngurah?
Yes, he says.
Where? I ask, looking for the lovely lady over his shoulder.
Yes he says again.
This lady, I say, pointing to the name on the envelope.
Yes, he said again.
Where is she? I ask again, feeling a bit foolish in this circular conversation and looking for Herself to help me out.
Yes, he said again.
This lady Ngurah? I ask, pointing again to the name on the envelope.
Me, he says.
Well! I am taken aback and I guess it must have shown.
You cleaned our room this morning? I asked, pointing to our bungalow across the path.
Yes, he said. It is OK?
It is bloody beautiful I reply. So good. So nice. Or something equally inane.
We are very happy. For you, I said as I gave him the envelope.
I am happy, he said with a little bow.
We shook hands and parted.
Later I saw him in the garden again and smiled and waved. He smiled and waved back. If someone had told me that he was an all-in wrestler I would have believed them, but a careful and sensitive flower arranger too - - - ?
These wonderful and gentle people continue to find new ways of getting under my skin. I’ll remember him next time we go to Candi Dasa, and I think he’ll probably remember me too, not for the money but because that’s the way people are in Bali.
If you ever go to stay at the Candi Dasa Beach Hotel, ask for Ngurah Adit to clean your room. You won’t be disappointed.
I’ve mentioned my wonderment at the electrical system at the Bali Agung Village but I don’t think that I mentioned the complete contrast that we found at Andrew’s wondrous house close by. During the construction of the house Andrew had an electrician who was obviously not a local to do his electrical work. The result stands supreme in its own room, of not inconsiderable size, and consists of a double steel doored cabinet, taller than me and even wider. On the doors are volt meters, other gauges, switches and Lord knows what else. Within the doors there are neatly parcelled looms of wires about the same diameter as a pencil. It is either a discard from a large factory or the ship for which it was designed sank before installation. I think that Andrew himself is bemused by its bulk.
At Candi Dasa I was again confronted by the casual attention given to electricity.
Around the pools at the hotel there were a number of very tall coconut palms reaching for the sky. Many of these had a flood light nailed to the trunk just above the level of the lawn in which they were growing, and pointing upwards towards the crown of the tree. I had earlier marvelled at the visual effect of these at night, particularly when you were in the right place to see their reflections in the rippled surface of the pools. Today as I hung on the side of the pool I was confronted by the connections between the supply cables that popped up out of the lawn and the short wires that came out of the flood lights. The ends of each were bared and simply twisted together, then covered with a round or two of sticky tape. The electrician obviously had some concern for the possibility of an electrical short between these connections as they were bent outwards slightly, away from each other. To overcome any risk of danger if they became wet, being so close to the edge of the pool, a small Coca Cola bottle had been cut in halves and the bottom half slipped over the connections.
That’s it. There it sat, right by the pool, right at ground level without any form of security from either big or little fingers dripping with pool water. Obviously the electrical authorities in other countries are far too concerned with regulations and rules to see how simply electrical connections can be made!
Later, in Legian Street I watched briefly as a new light was fixed to a pole outside a restaurant or bar, I forget which. The electrician had propped his extension ladder against the pole but it was obviously just a little short. Not to be beaten by such a small problem he had climbed up beyond the very top rung and was standing on the ends of the vertical sides of the ladder. Now in case you think that this was a little precarious let me hasten to assure you that he was quite safe as his offsider had climbed up behind him and was standing on about the second to top rung with his arms wrapped around the electricians legs and the top of the pole to keep him secure. The whole arrangement was waving around a bit more than I would have liked, and by chance I looked down to see that the pole was also very new and so was the hole it stood in and so was the cement that had not yet set but was surging from one side of the hole to the other side as the pole waved from side to side.
I’m afraid of heights, especially things that fall from great heights, so I left.
At the pool a couple of glasses finished off the remains of the Hatten’s Alexandria. We wonder if it is made from the same grape that is used to make Muscat of Alexandria that we have memorably sampled from our own Southern Vale wine district. There are similarities although the Hattens is not as thick and fruity as those wines. It is easy to drink, refreshing and gets the juices flowing sufficiently for her to ask about lunch, late though it may be. What do you fancy I dutifully enquire? Pizza She says, in a way that suggests no alternatives will be considered.
Just what I was thinking, I lied.
Her word is my command as always.
Down the street we find the Grand Natia Bungalows and Restaurant.
The entrance is not imposing, even in daylight, giving the appearance of being just a bar. Through the bar area however, down a narrow path between the bungalows, a little to the left of a beautiful blue pool with three dolphins endlessly circling and chasing their tails tiled into the bottom there is a small, narrow bale ending right on the edge of the beach, as so many do on this side of the road.
The menu on the edge of the footpath said “Pizza” and this as the only reason, probably, that we were to enter and find this little oasis. Like a number of restaurants on this side of the road, from the entry you can’t see the good parts that are right at the other end of the property. The menu of thirteen A5 sized pages will take some getting through so we ordered iced lemon teas to replace the fluid lost in our 5 minute walk to get here.
The view from the very end corner of the bale is distracting to say the least. The sparkling pool, ruffled across the surface by the mid afternoon breeze, seems to make the tiled dolphins alive. It is one of those infinity pools where the overflow washes over the very edge of the pool on the ocean side. We haven’t got our cosies with us of course but from flat on my stomach (I can hear Her now – You call that flat? - With your stomach!) on the grass by the small plunge pool at the end, I can get the same picture a swimmer would. Water into water into sky. Blue into blue into infinity. I have some photos to prove the illusion. They are a great view. Back off the flat of my stomach and seated my attention is diverted again, this time to the beach which seems just under our feet. Just out from the end of the bale, across a swimming pool of sea inside the reef, are two concrete breakwaters. They are the tops of a “T”, anchored to the beach at the bottom of the stem. As the waves come over the reef they are flattened of course, but the remnant comes to the breakwater at a bit of an angle and, as it hits, a curtain of spray begins at the right hand end and travels quite quickly along the concrete to the other end. Here it subsides into the opening between the two breakwaters momentarily before rising again at the end of the next one and running along again. It’s sort of like a musical fountain without the music. It goes on and on, always the same but not quite the same. Some sprays are a little bit higher than others, some spray less than others as the run off from the previous wave dampens the energy of the next. They all sparkle in the bright sunlight.
Endless captivation.
While we are waiting we were shown into one of the bungalows. The entry door is in on the corner, leading off a little veranda which has 2 chairs and a small drinks/nibbles table. By the door is a shoe rack (the floors inside are polished timber) and drying rack for bathers and towels which I was also to find useful for shirts later on. The door opens into the main room, a large bedroom with a dressing table and another table and 2 chairs for breakfast (and writing). This area looks out through glazed concertina doors into a small, walled pool and garden. Over the king size bed is a timber false ceiling. I guess this prevents any little lizards from falling on you in the night. The ceiling over the rest of the room vaults upwards to the peak of the pyramid which is the roof. Just to the side of the entry door is the door to the bathroom which is long, with an enormous hand basin, quite adequate for bathing the baby, a bath with shower over (Damn. Why not do things properly?), and beyond is a small garden at the side of the bath. The ceiling finishes just beyond the far edge of the bath and the treetops and the sky begin. It’s open in appearance but discrete too. This area has a pebbled floor with plants growing up the wall to the open sky above. The floor tiling is very attractive with bands of feature tiles defining the area by the bath and being repeated around the lower part of the wall. The quality of the tiling is so much better than one commonly finds in Bali bathrooms that you just can’t overlook it.
In all, it is most attractive. The asking rate is Rp300,000 per night but we are immediately invited to make an offer. We decline because we are not then in a position to take up any offer that might be accepted, and it is inappropriate to enter into a negotiation that you do not intend to accept. There is also a cheaper option at the Grand Natia, the same accommodation but without air conditioning on mini bar fridge. These units are also further from the beach and pool. The cost of these is Rp225,000. Later over lunch we discussed the bungalow offer and felt that if it could be bargained down to Rp225,000, which is what we are paying at the larger but older Candi Dasa Beach Hotel, then it would indeed be a bargain.
That pool is SOOOOOO inviting.
Maybe next time. Next time? I’ll have to break that possibility to Herself gently.
The iced teas are very iced and the big glasses are too. They are Rp4,000 each. That’s about 76 cents Australian. Before we have finished them our orders arrive; a Spaghetti Bolognaise (Rp15,000) and a Bali Pizza which has chicken, pak choy, bean sprouts, peanuts and a Balinese sauce (Rp30,000), accompanied, naturally, by the first big Bintang, frosting the bottle with it’s chill.
Komeng, who is one of the waiters and who showed us the accommodation, wants to practise his English and hovers close during lunch. He has tried very hard to sell us on the property. Is he the manager I ask? He laughs and the waitress who is his sister also laughs. The barman is told of the question and he laughs. I begin to wonder what the joke is. He is the gardener he tells us when he catches his breath. I tell him that he is very good and that when things pick up in Candi Dasa he might well be made the boss.
Our food arrives, a lot quicker that you have been able to read this I think. The pizza is about a 10 incher (250 mm), only just confining itself within the boundaries of the dish. It is piled high over the pastry base. Tomato drips over the edge and I pick it up on the tip of my finger. The taste is just the start of what is to come. The tops of the cheese are just browned and the pieces of peanut provide a surprising change in texture, one I have not experienced before. Overall it is a delicious and different pizza; not at all like those that some people buy from Pizza Hut. Bagus.
The spaghetti bolognaise came in a large sized soup bowl. The large size bowl is full, with lots of meat in the pasta and the sauce which is covered with a thick layer of parmesan cheese. In addition there is a side plate of green salad, lettuce, onion rings and cucumber dressed with low cholesterol vinaigrette dressing and with a little dip of a finely chopped relish.
Baik, baik, which is like a double Bagus.
It is a lunch worthy of well trained taste buds and a bargain at 6 bucks for the pizza and 3 bucks for the spag bolly.
Certainly one for the recommended list.
The dishes are served on matching plates, white and red with a mottled green edge decoration dotted with black. It is called “Palung” and is from “ligne Hortesse, Sango Ceramics”, if that means anything to anyone. The bill is Rp72,000 with 11% tax and includes the iced teas and a large beer. Not quite A$14