With an aversion to damp winter weather better suited to growing mushrooms, it’s time for us to stop counting the days, and make the days count! So in order to circumvent an acute shortfall of heat in Canada we’re off on another ‘winteruption’ in search of sunbeams.
Previous pilgrimages to Indonesia have taken us to the fascinating islands of Java, Sulawesi, Lembongan, Borneo, Lombok, Sumatra, and New Guinea; but our hearts remain hopelessly shackled to the culture of kindness found on the little patch of paradise known as Bali.
Branded as the ‘Island of the Gods’, Bali is a Hindu island residing in the largest Muslim nation on earth. The island has over 20,000 temples dedicated to an array of spirits infiltrating all aspects of Balinese life. Even dentistry is affected as they have a mandatory tooth filing ceremony, believing it’s imperative that incisor teeth are filed flat to allow one into the afterlife. It seems if the ‘boar-like’ quality is not rid from humans they will be seen as being allied with the devil or monsters and denied entrance into the holy place.
The village of Sanur has a surprising hush, with the recent deadly terrorist bombing and current bird flu causing most travelers to put Bali on their ‘to don’t’ list. Sellers try schmoozing us with compliments, but quickly their words move from praise to pitch. Dog paddling with one hand to beckon us closer, they then Velcro themselves as firmly as our own shadow while cawing out sales spiels like; ‘You look my shop my fren’, ‘I geef you morning prize Meester’, and ‘Looking, looking’. Given their situation, it’s difficult not to have an attack of the ‘guilts’ when they’re pleading with a persistence that would do credit to a bloodhound.
Although Bali’s oven-like heat has my empty Bintang beer bottles multiplying at an alarming rate, I’m justifying the numbers by the fact that in ‘dog beers’ I’ve had but just a few! You may remember that on our last visit, yours truly received a Balinese PhD (periodic heavy drinking) in the art of ‘Bintangology’. Well, passing a funky little bar today I experience a case of Deja Brew, and the only reasonable course of action is a barstool meld with a bottle of the golden elixir. Everyone knows how important fluids are in the tropics!
At GWK Cultural Park in Jimbaran we check on the progress of the Garuda Wisnu Kencana Statue under construction. On completion, the monumental memorial of the Hindu God Wisnu sitting atop a mythical Garuda bird will be 400 feet tall; roughly 100 feet taller than the Statue of Liberty.
Visiting the awesome blossoms at Bali Orchard Garden we meet a lady named Kadeck, who offers to show us how to prepare a lotus seed so we can try growing one at home. Without the aid of an articulation coach, I say ‘thank you Kadock’. A disturbed scowl crumples her brow and she looks at me as if I’ve just asked if I could fart in her purse. Stomping her foot in a grump, she indignantly replies ‘No Kadock; Kadock frog!’
With crimsoning cheeks I apologize for sullying her name, while foraging for something to take the taste of foot out of my mouth. However the ‘dolt of diction’ quickly gives up his role as an apologist, and unable to restrain my mischievousness, I cheekily hop about like a frog. Luckily, Ms. Kadeck’s friendly ivory acquits my smart-assery and we all share a giggle at my froggy faux-pa.
Candidasa, a once beautiful seaside village when we first visited 20 Januarys ago, now feels more like a ghost town, as efforts to stop relentless beach erosion have resulted in flagrantly artificial cement breakwaters that blemish the sea. This leaves a hole in our soul, but this is the place we’ve prearranged to meet our friend Molly, who has travelled all the way from Saudi Arabia.
Watching a man and little boy fishing in a small lagoon, I realize the tyke has no chance of success because his hook is bare. In a mentorish mood I approach and put a grain of rice on his tiny hook and almost instantly he catches a minnow about the size of a guppy. Casting a triumphant mentee to mentor smile that can be seen for a mile, the little lad begins to giggle. The future fisherman has just learned a valuable lesson.
Four-wheeling it through the boonies to Virgin Beach we are up and down like a whore’s drawers as we jolt over a road pockmarked with potholes deep enough to swallow sheep. Locals returning from a cremation ceremony at the beach are oddly chauffeuring a duck in the center of a large straw matt. I’m thinking the quacker slacker is likely meant to be dinner, but we’re told the royal treatment of ‘Count Quackula’ is because the duck is considered a symbol of purity. Lord love a duck – and apparently so too do the Balinese.
Tonight I sipped, slipped, and dipped! Consuming far too much alcohol leaves me with the motor skills of a drunken toddler, and on the way to dinner, my Arak fueled exuberance leads to an inglorious slip beside the bungalow’s pool. With the splash of a calving glacier, the ‘Maestro of the Misstep’ confirms he cannot walk on water by tumbling fully dressed into the deep end of the pool submerging myself; along with my money belt, passport, airline ticket, wallet, calculator, and camera!
Popping up for air, I hoist myself out of the water quick as lightning, sputtering out a cocktail of filthy words and chlorinated water! The manager of the place just happens to be showing a bungalow beside the pool to potential customers, and their jaws become unhinged. They stare and stare, and then stare some more! With my dignity disintegrated, extremities dripping, and the ego-pulverizing fail seared into my brain, I slosh on by them on my return to our room during my squelching walk of shame!
Trying to stifle her merriment, my raven-haired spouse reminds me of another Arak incident some years ago when I ended up hanging upside down in the branches of a Jambu tree howling at a full yellow moon, bedecked in nothing more than my skivvies and a goofy grin. Yes, it seems a cauldron of calamity always rides in the sidecar when Arak is involved. Tonight, after taking all my gear for an evening swim, I have mixed drinks about my feelings; and am giving considerable consideration to a new choice of beverage!
Ringing out my soaking wet clothes I hear noises behind me sounding suspiciously like laughter from Christine and Molly. Having put dinner on hold as a result of my senseless swim, we finally arrive at the restaurant and tuck into our chow with the barbarian gusto of famine survivors. Somehow the table’s candle container catches fire, and as a one man fire brigade I try snuffing it out with a napkin. Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory, that too is set ablaze, and I clumsily knock over the candle spilling a hot wax that blisters my hand and arm. It’s apparent that Christine and Molly have a drinking problem. Me!
Vexed by my failure as a fireman and the odor of singed arm hair lingering like a rude perfume, we finish dinner and return to our bungalow to avoid the cascade of crises. Then ‘Mr. Murphy’ shows up! As we walk through the door, a cockroach big enough to rearrange the furniture falls off the top of it landing atop Christine’s head! Hyperventilating and making noises humans are clearly not meant to be making, she attempts to dislodge the villain by flailing at her lovely long locks with such zeal that I emphatically know our tenancy here is terminated! It’s time to find a place where the cockroaches are a tad more discrete!
We travel the seldom-used coast road to the fishing village of Amed. The exotic bathroom at Santai Bungalows is set outside in a private garden area, with exotic birds and butterflies fluttering about among the lush greenery and scent of Asian flowers. However, while delightful during the day, these Jungle Johns can become quite the adventure in the middle of the night with the change of wildlife. Protective footwear and a light are a must!
On a beach speckled with colorful jukung fishing boats, I donate to the fishermen the boxes of stainless steel fish hooks I’ve brought from Canada. The sun-weathered faces birth toothy grins as I distribute the hooks into outstretched hands callused from years of extracting a living from the sea. Wishing you all tight lines on your next fishin’ mission gentlemen!
Wooed by the mood of Ubud, we are seduced by nature’s sweet symphony of sounds from gangs of geckos, beautiful birds, delightful ducks, and feisty frogs. The only negative is an insomniac renegade rooster vociferously vocalizing at the most ungodly hours of the night. Damn, with the island’s serious bird cull now underway one would think this breakfast-pooper would exercise a little more subtlety!
Grabbing life by the handlebars, we pass wiry brown farmers plowing rice fields using Banteng cattle with Hannibal Lecter style muzzles, then arriving at the wholesale village of Tegallalang, cause poultry in motion with scruffy chickens frantically flapping out of the way of a Christine on the spend.
Her appetite for handicrafts, including a pair of lamps, far exceeds the cargo capacity of our bikes, and fulfilling my husbandly obligation I’m forced to grunt my carcass back to Ubud laden with the hefty merch strapped to my back like a camel’s hump! Thinking about it, I’m pretty sure my new Sherpa status is penance for Christine’s recent cockroach hairpin!
Joined for dinner by our friends Brooks & Sue, our group seems like a little United Nations; Canadians travelling with a friend from Saudi Arabia, sitting in an Italian restaurant in Indonesia with American friends who we met in Vietnam and now live in Singapore.
Stopping at an artist’s shop during a hike along Champuahn Ridge, ‘She who Shops’ simply cannot resist purchasing yet another Balinese painting. Meanwhile, Brooks and I decide that along with H1N1 Bird Flu, Bali may have the potential for ‘Bintang flu’, and accordingly make best efforts to implement a Bintang cull!
With the days quickly whooshing away Christine and I join a mish-mash of characters assembled under the guise of ‘runners’ for another Hash Harrier run! These runs are always in some obscure location, where the day before a person known as the ‘hare’ meanders through the bush with a bag of shredded paper or flour, laying out a semi-hidden trail to confuse the other Hashers.
Most of the runners are as swift as a cheetah. An old one. With Rheumatoid arthritis. Run over by a truck. Ten days ago! In honor of today being Valentine’s Day this is a cross-dressing run called ‘Transvestites in Paradise’; a pointless attempt of prettification by guys wearing ghastly skirts and scary Frankenstein makeup that makes them look like Braveheart’s gay cousins!
A bugle, sounding like a goose with asthma, is blown and runners pant off into the Sangeh Monkey forest sending startled Macaque monkeys into jungle gymnastics as we bushwhack along a muddy soufflé of trails more putty than path!
Long ago many of the hollow-legged crew’s six-pack stomachs were replaced by kegs, but undoubtedly they will shine at run’s end when it comes to singing silly songs and drinking beer in heroic proportions! A couple of hours, and multiple river crossings later, the group reconvenes at the beer truck and wolfishly attack the contents with the subtlety of malnourished refugees!
Without chocolate or roses this Valentine’s Day may not be the most romantic, but it’s certainly one of the more memorable. The following is a Hasher’s somewhat salacious write-up about the run that made its way into a local paper:
A huge gathering of fags, whores, sluts, tarts, and lesbians filled the big car park. The sounds of beating hearts echoed throughout the forest. The cross dressers were in heaven. Pretty boys in cute skirts raced through the gorgeous forest, crossed raging rivers, and climbed steep mountains and stairways in recognition of Valentine’s Day.
Mount and Groan’s pretty frock got sopping wet so he or she wrapped it around his or her head to dry it off. Other explorers of their feminine side gently raised their skirts to avoid ripping them on the razor sharp forest flora, and muddy fingers were carefully placed at arm’s length to protect cross dressers from smudging their carefully applied lippie.
Not a monkey was seen, which indicates the presence of pretty boys had terrified them into fleeing the forest. A big bad gaggle of slags hovered around the Bintang barrel. The pack of poof transvestites was truly in force and totally dominated the surrealistic scene.
The Valentine’s Day run was an extremely bizarre event that we’ll all attempt to erase from our memories. It scored 9.5 for the run, 9.5 for the paper, 4.5 for the Susu (breasts), and 10.5 for the area!
Today under a sky freckled in clouds we probe the island’s lesser known areas to see what treasures can be uncovered. Driver Ketut asks where he is to go, and we suggest getting lost on any roads he’s never been on before. He simply can’t grasp the concept and instead deposits us at the popular Goa Gaja elephant cave.
To enter the temple Brooks and must don a sarong, and seeing us draped in the frumpish ankle-length ‘skirts’ the girls are a-smirk, with Christine suggesting we just need earrings and a purse to complete our ensemble! Brooks and I clearly do not share her opinion that something sarong could be so right, and coming on the heels of the bizarre Hash run the scenario is definitely causing testosterone trauma!
Again we ask driver Ketut to take us someplace quiet, but it’s like trying to pick a lock with an earthworm! Frustrated, I yell ‘turn here’! He veers onto a scruffy dirt road, and with a furrowed brow, says ‘I drive here?’ ‘Yes’, I tell him, ‘and I’ll tell you where to turn and when to stop.’ A few miles later we’re amazed to stumble upon Bali Begawan Giri; the most exorbitant resort in Bali with suites up to $4,000 US a night! Armed guards stop us at the gate to sweep the car in a bomb check. OK, we give up; Home Ketut.
Ever the clotheshorse, Christine is persistently on the prowl, and as days go by I look at the shopping bags strewn over our bungalow floor and swear the bloody things are breeding like the ‘tribbles’ in an old Star Trek episode. I’m nervous that we may soon have to rent a forklift to transport her purchases to the airport!
Driving to Kerbokan we have about as much confidence in our taxi driver as in Noriega’s dermatologist due to him putting us in harm’s way with his state-of-the-art version of the game of chicken. When they were passing out the dumb, this dullard obviously went through the line more than once! For us it’s a case of ‘deja glue’, having been stuck in this same kind of vehicular lunacy countless times before.
Yelling at him to slow down he nods his assent like a woodpecker working a tree, but in reality my plea is about as useless as a man’s nipples. After paying him he quickly buggers off before we realize he’s dropped us at the wrong location, and setting off on foot, we spot some endearing Balinese signage. One shop is signed ‘Antiques – Made to Order’, and a tattoo shop nearby sports a sign reading ‘Tattoos While You Wait’; which I suppose means you can’t just drop off your arm to get inked and come back later to pick it up!
We notice a shop selling stone carvings from Java, and the fact we can barely budge them doesn’t stop us from purchasing three. A few blocks later we find stone lanterns and buy eight! Finally we locate the store we have been seeking, and purchase a table! Now in need of a shipping company, we’re lamenting the fact that retail therapy is not covered under our health insurance!
Female passengers in Bali perch side-saddle on motorbikes facing perpendicular to the direction of travel, with petite feet dangling freely and supported only by fresh air. Casually holding on to nothing more substantial than their handbags, the bewildering balancing act seems to defy the laws of physics as the motorbikes swerve through a disorderly jumble of traffic in an unchoreographed Bali ballet on wheels!
As befitting in Bali, in a bold bid to beat being burnt by the blistering bright sun, this bad boy has been boozing in a bewitching bar beside the beach; building biceps and badgering my bladder by banging back a bevy of big bottles of my beloved Bintang beer. The background behind my bamboo barstool consists of beautiful bougainvillea bushes and banana boughs bristling in the balmy breeze and bountiful boats bobbing about in the bay beyond. As a bonus, a bunch of bodacious babes with buxom bronzed bodies bound in bum-floss, bravely bounce on by! Beauteous, but I’d best beware as all is becoming a blissful blur because of the bubbly brew beneath my belt. Bugger, before my behavior and balance become more befuddled, I better buck up, and get my butt back where it belongs! I am now going to be a ‘b-leaver’, hoping that slamming the brakes on this brutal babbling bull doesn’t burden me with grammatical whiplash. Well then, enough of this verbosity; I think it’s time for my alliteration rehabilitation!
Taking a rare break from shopping, Christine decides she wants a picture of us outfitted in traditional Balinese wedding costumes. I want to run and hide, but in order to keep her happy I grudgingly acquiesce rather than act the curmudgeon. Entering the costume compound the two of us are taken to a room in the back and told to disrobe, and to my dismay an enthusiastic harem of girls begin lavishly applying makeup including rouge, lipstick, and eye shadow!
Adding to my ongoing angst I’m garbed in elaborate ceremonial threads that look like a dress, and dreading the ‘beauticians’ may be tempted to shave my hairy legs and garnish me in a strand of pearls and provocative pumps! Meanwhile, Christine is being attended to in a similar fashion and all aglow. I can see she is brimming with perk, and unable to restrain her tee-heeing at my mortification of the situation.
Finally the four doting make-up women finish with their gussying and declare their clients presentable. As we emerge outside to staff vigorously applauding the ‘newly married’ couple, I’ve never felt more unmanly in my life, but dear Christine is cartwheeling with joy and running amok with the camera. I sense entrapment, and have a nagging suspicion this catastrophic caper is riddled with the DNA of blackmail!
And so there you have it my friends. With another travel verse added to the song of our lives, and my bride by my side, it’s time for us to divorce ourselves from beguiling Bali and head back home to the land of ‘He shoots, He scores’, where we’ll shiver in the penalty box until the spring thaw.
Mark Colegrave 2004