This winter we’re removing the robotic regularity of routine to reward ourselves with a little romantic recreation in a region radiating a warmer postal code. The plan is another Asian invasion to the balmy nirvana of Bali, where tomorrow’s sun is already shining.
Stopping in the miniscule in size but Herculean in ambition Singapore we’re flummoxed to find it smothered in smoke. Drifting over from farmers burning land for agricultural purposes on the Indonesian islands of Sumatra and Kalimantan, the irritating air looks makes it look as if a mass fumigation is underway.
Christine’s sister Brenda arrived today and the sibling spenders are eager to blitz the shops and give their credit cards a right proper workout. Obviously their preposterous purchasing is a chromosomal disorder, but still I try to convince Chris and ‘Sis’ that we’re in Singapore not ‘Spending-more’. Alas, my plea is like trying to teach a pig to sing, it wastes your time and annoys the pig! I console myself with a bike ride alongside the Singapore River, excited to be moving on to Bali tomorrow.
At the airport in Bali, Christine and I line up in an Immigration queue moving at the speed of a slug on anti- anxiety meds. Eventually we reach a pretentious official with the morals of a wolverine, who after conspiratorially checking over his shameless shoulders, looks back at me the way a shark grins at a seal and says; ‘So, you from Canada; you have some money for me?’
With my bullshit meter redlining I too birth a counterfeit smile, and being economic with the truth, respond; ‘Sorry no cash – only travel checks’. Scowling as if he’s just stepped in canine fecal matter the conniver breaks the lengthening silence by smashing down a stamp on my passport like he wants to do it harm. He flings it back at me and we are in; welcome aboard the good ship Ass-Kisser, nice day for a sail!
A luscious warm air embraces us like a long lost friend while awaiting a taxi to Ubud. Reaching the village, our ethically-impaired driver claims he works for the bungalows and asks for the room payment before we even have a chance to view it. Wondering if his ass is jealous of all the shit coming out of his mouth I tell him to piss up a rope. Denied of any ill-gotten gains, the vile smile slides off his face as he makes his shameful exit! As Bali veterans we are well aware of this all too common scam.
Our choice for dinner is Murni’s Warung, a romantic restaurant beautifully sculpted into fern-covered rocks high above the Ayung River. I inform Christine that if the barman isn’t kept busy he may be laid off, and sampling the varieties of beers is my contribution to the betterment of mankind. The sacrifices I make. It’s heroic, really.
All is well until the bill arrives and I notice the waitress, is trying to rip us off for fifty thousand rupiah, likely assuming I’ve gone too goofy on grog to notice. With an apology dressed in insincerity she says; ‘Oh sorry boss, me make mistake’. Yeh right sister and I am Humpty Dumpty! Having now avoided three shakedown attempts we trudge back to our bungalow and call it a night!
Picking us up for a prearranged cycling trip, our guide Wayan drops by with an American couple who will also be joining us. After breakfasting in the mountains at Kintamani we collect our bikes off the trailer, but unfortunately Wayan’s bike with an attached child seat is too big for him meaning his five year old daughter Devi won’t be able to come along.
Heartbroken, the thwarted toddler is sobbing because she wants to go riding with her dad. As a solution I offer to give up my bike to Wayan and take the bigger one with the child seat. This seems to make everybody happy, and unaccustomed to my extra responsibilities and new chauffeur status, I cautiously pedal away adjusting to my new ‘backseat bundle’.
The little cutie is a real sparkplug and has apparently decided to be my tormentress for the day. Poking me in the butt when she wants to go faster and gleefully prattling on in Indonesian during the high jinx, her girly giggles soar into the tree canopies.
Knowing little kids go gaga over any little gift, Christine and I have brought from home a bag of stuffed toy animals to randomly distribute along the way. So she doesn’t feel left out, we give little Devi a small stuffed owl which she just adores, and when we stop for a snack the first thing she does is to try and feed it a banana. The sticky little owl doesn’t give a hoot but the rest of us find the episode delightful!
Cycling through the rice fields I stop to take a photo of a gaunt and greying farmer lumbering past with a large bundle of elephant grass over his shoulder. Using Wayan as an interpreter the elderly fellow inquires where we are from. With a twinkle in his wrinkles and thoughtfully stroking his chin after being told, his reply is translated back to us as ‘Canada, US, Bali; we all same, all brothers’. A lovely thought from this toothless but cheery country gent. Completing cycling we then drive to Wayans home for a scrumptious Balinese feast prepared by his wife, and sitting Buddha style on the floor feed as greedily as tics.
With Ms. Shopalot ricocheting from store to store for a thrill at the till I lotion up and visit the pool to advance my tan. While attempting some yoga positions I see beside me a little girl beneath a tumble of black curls wearing a big inflatable duck flotation device around her waist.
‘What do?’ utters the chubby-cheeked toddler looking up at me. ‘Stretch’, I reply. I’m not sure what the cutie thinks that means, but I can’t suppress a smile when, with a big-eyed look, she excitedly wobbles away cocooned inside her frantically bouncing purple duck.
At Bali Bird Park in Singapadu we enjoy the lush tropical gardens hosting the flamboyant splendor of over a thousand exotic birds chorusing their vocal elegance, and follow up with a visit to the temple island of Tanah Lot, where we somehow end up wearing a couple of massive pythons as neckties! Completing the day’s trifecta is a visit to the stunning eleven-roofed Pura Ulun Danu shrine on the shore of Lake Bratan.
Travelling to Lovina Beach for a swim with a dolphin today we’re surprised to encounter an orangutan living on the premises. The incarcerated former jungle swinger holds out a long hairy arm through the cage bars like he wants to shake hands, but it’s a ruse. Closing its dexterous digits on mine like a vice, the fuzzy-faced rambunctious ape pulls me towards him and a strenuous tug-of-war ensues before I’m finally able to un-ape myself. OK, enough of the simian shenanigans, I’m here to swim with the fishes!
Entering the pool I instantly encounter an over amorous young dolphin named ‘Jon’, and to my chagrin as I stroke his slippery smooth skin he is only interested in doing the ‘Wild Thang’. Looking for love in all the wrong places, ‘Randy Jon’ repeatedly rubs his sizeable aroused appendage against my leg causing me no end of angst!
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m hugely fond of Flipper and all, but having this lewd and rude dude trying to impregnate my leg in a watery porn flick is a whole other matter! Holy Hell; first I’m yanked, then nearly wanked. All right already, that’s enough naughty nature for today, I am definitely done with this frisky fin and fur fiasco!
Our next ten days are spent beside the seaside in Sanur. Surrounded by lush greenery, the Sativa Hotel’s swimming pool has a lovely ambiance and when privacy permits we enjoy a slow dance in the shallows. During Happy Hour on our balcony with rum high-diving from bottle to glass we eavesdrop on squirrel chat in the fragrant frangipani trees and watch amusing sticky-footed geckos zig-zagging about the walls.
Early mornings we either walk or run a seawall stretching for miles along the aquamarine Timor Sea. My aching hip is feeling much better, and I’m crediting the improvement to the liquid engineering of Bali’s beauteous Bintang beer. The only negative is the tropical sun causes the beer’s chill to surrender sooner and requires faster guzzling, but not to worry, after the opening ceremony I have the situation well in hand!
Walking or running the beach is also an opportunity to embrace my inner shallow. Mocha-colored maidens sprinkled over the sand are displaying voluptuous weapons of mass distraction by downward dogging it barely-there micro bikinis with almost enough material for a pirate’s eye patch!
One concern in Bali is that it’s not exactly a pedestrian-first kind of place. The vehicular lunacy and machismo is akin to some kind of Asian stock car racing, and with the whoosh of passing traffic mere inches away the symptoms of feverish prayer, piercing screams, loose bowels, and cardiac arrest are a constant.
Looking for a bit more adventure today we hook up with other runners who have rented the ‘Magic Bus’ to take us outside of town to the village of Pasar Pongung for a Bali Hash run. Fueled by a few last minute beers, the rabid, rough and ready, raucous and raunchy, rabble-rousing rebel rogues who revel in causing a ruckus rapidly race off into the boonies like ridiculous retards.
As usual the route is challenging and requires running through forests and rivers, and at times clinging to wrist-sized roots and vines to hoist ourselves up steep and slippery gorges. But when the run is done it’s time for fun, and all the usual Hell breaks loose with gallons of carbohydrates migrating from kegs to stomachs that long ago went from washboard to washtub!
The camaraderie of the participants is terrific and we’ve come to adore the unexpected occurrences on these adventure runs, because there is substantial agreement that for Hashers the only thing ‘normal’ is a setting on the washing machine!
Our final few days on the island are spent in the conundrum of Kuta, where the only redeeming feature other than shopping is to stroll the beach hand in hand in the shallows where the sea and sand merge. Experience reminds me that holding hands with Christine is an absolute must, because should I dare let her go, she’ll be off caressing price tags, emptying her purse, and once again turning me into a shopping Sherpa!
Savoring a final smothering of delicious sunshine, Team Canada’s rather tame Balinese escapades come to an end, and turning on the TV upon our return to Canuckistan, the first thing to appear is none other than Don Cherry and Hockey Night in Canada. Good to be back home, eh?
Mark Colegrave 2006