Though many times over many years we’ve tried to conquer our addiction, Asia remains our travel drug of choice, and this year we’re back for another fix!
After sampling a few incredible edibles in Singapore’s ‘Little India’ we tag along with friends living here on their quest to purchase durian. The spiky, football size ‘sultans of stink’ are banned from public transport, and IMHO, should be banned by the Geneva Convention. Their stench is suggestive of dead fish and soiled diapers garnished with a gym sock; and those choosing to chomp its flesh are left with halitosis that smells as if they’ve been French-kissing week old road kill!
Looking for something more appealing we get our ornithology on at Jurong Bird Park, hosting over 5,000 fabulously feathered egg-layers ranging in size from canary to condor. Just for fun, at the Crested Cranes enclosure I try mimicking a few of its mating ritual moves by bobbing upand down,and amazingly one of the‘DancingQueens’respondsinkind.
Picking a stone up, it runs around in circles and throws it up in the air before coming back towards me for more foreplay, or more correctly ‘fowl-play’. I may be sticking my neck out here but I find the jocularity of these likable long-necks a definite Singaporean highlight.
Christine and I hop across the border into Malaysia’s city of Melaka; and among the old shop-houses on the narrow-as-a-knife Jonker Street, secure lodging at the quirky Baba House Hotel. Unfortunately there is no chance of a morning sleep-in with the megaphones set up outside that penetrate our ears corridors as they amplify the wailing Islamic call summoning Muslims to the mosque for the obligatory Morning Prayer.
For the cost of only a few Malaysian ringetts we sit down for a mango-chicken lunch beside the murky Melaka River. Devouring the plate of yumminess in the shade of a large Jackfruit tree we happen to notice the off-putting sight of a huge monitor lizard on the muddy riverbank below choking down a full size cat!
In contrast, during dinner in a courtyard beneath a spreading frangipani tree in full and fragrant bloom, an aromatic flower flutters down landing perfectly on Christine’s shoulder. Hopefully this omen will bode well for reacquainting ourselves tomorrow with Indonesia’s bewitching island of Bali; home of barongs and sarongs, temples by the tons, picture perfect rice paddies, and of course my beloved Bintang beer!
In Bali most people drive like Stevie Wonder trying to move up in the NASCAR standings, and road rules are a variation of rock-paper-scissors; bike beats people, car beats bike, and bus beats anything else! With traffic lanes, one-way streets, lights, and stop signs all meaning nothing, the roads are saturated with the motherlode of a new element on the periodic tables; ‘Stupidium’!
Like many places in Asia, motorbikes are often a family affair and it’s not unusual to see them dangerously encumbered with ‘pa’ working the gas and horn, ‘ma’ sitting side-saddle, and 2 or 3 little ‘lawn monsters’ spilling onto the handlebars, fenders, or any other unclaimed space.
Over the years ‘Hash Harrier runs’ have become a ritual, and despite today’s inclement weather we are at it again. Starting in the village of Pejeng, we splash-n-dash through the countryside sending chickens, ducks, and other ‘sate-able’ items frantically scrambling to safety. Locals using surfboard-size banana tree leaves as umbrellas are so confused by the sight they don’t know whether to scratch their watch or wind their ass!
For something different today we boat 18 miles across the Badung Strait to a salty flyspeck of real estate called Lembongan Island. Having heard all the upchucking stories about a vessel looking just one wave short of a shipwreck we’re quite skeptical about the crossing, but luckily we are blessed with a peaceful sea as flat as Olive Oyl’s chest.
As the boat chugs into shallow water the denim blue sea transitions to turquoise, and beneath us lays the islands main economy; seaweed aquaculture. At low tide harvesting farmers fill their dugouts with the slippery weeds of the sea, that are later dried in the sun before being sold to countries like Japan, China, and Singapore for use in the cosmetic and food industries.
The island is a former leper colony with few mod-cons, and erratic electricity for only a few hours a day. In addition, our woefully-inadequate shack has no air-con or hot water, and a toilet so small it’s like trying to shit into an egg cup. With voracious mosquitos our most ardent admirers, the insect-induced insomnia is turning this into the non-experience of a lifetime. The consensus is to swap the island from our bucket list to our ‘fucket list’, and tomorrow with seas permitting we’ll be gone faster than a toupee in a hurricane!
In the tropics, medical recommendations suggest drinking ample liquids, and back on Bali, loving the Bintang beer more than any man should, yours truly is following said advice with staggering efficiency! Attempting to guzzle and gulp the failing Balinese economy back to health, the voices in my head tell me all this liquid medicine must be good for what ‘ales’ me, because frankly I’ve never been so hoppy!
Having spent mega hours researching the aforesaid golden elixir I’m pleased to report that my ‘thirst for knowledge’ has resulted in a graduation in the field of ‘Bintangology’. Yes siree, in addition to the recent outstanding accomplishment of a PhD completion by ‘Dr. Christine’, I’ve now attained the self-certified status of professional ‘Bintangologist’. Oh my, what a credentialed couple we have become!
In the seaside sanctuary of Sanur our enthusiasm blooms with the ceaseless din of traffic replaced by the serenity of frog snorts! Our tropical bungalow is set under the vast canopy of a Jattie tree and has banana trees, hibiscus, and bougainvillea providing the perfect privacy. An array of birds drop by to watch us from the branches and we happily watch them back.
Enjoying some lovin’ from the oven at Bonsai Café we can’t help but notice there is no shortage of strange on the beautiful island. Listening to the soul-soothing sound of waves rhythmically disassembling themselves on the beach, our sun-kissed bliss is interrupted by the Theatre of the Absurd.
Behind door #1 we have ‘Happy’. Sitting next to us and muttering gibberish to herself is a woman with an unruly mane of orangutan-orange hair unexpectedly gets up from her meal and wades fully clothed out into the ocean. Flopping down where the sand surrenders to sea, she is laughing like a high hyena while writhing about on the sand like a severed worm.
Behind door #2 we have ‘Dopey’. A ponytailed dude with the situational awareness of a tulip mumbles to an invisible friend while holding a large rock against his head. Obviously another certifiable fruit basket, Captain Quirk also vacates his table. As he wanders over to place his cranium on a coconut tree and give it a prolonged hug, we’re not sure if the stoner is attempting a Vulcan mind-meld or about to sexually assault it. In any case, definitely another loon as flaky as French pastry!
Behind door #3 and completing the witless triplets is ‘Grumpy’. Madder than a boiled owl and punching his chest with fisted hands, he is wailing like a howler monkey in heat during his temper tantrum. Grumpy could use an orthodontic intervention for a serious Bugs Bunny overbite, because while adequately providing shade for his chin, his splayed front teeth have probably never met the rest of the chewing team! Yes, it seems all three peculiar patrons have fallen off their pharmaceuticals, and even as a group would be likely be incapable of matching wits with a frying pan.
Saturated with silly at the ‘crazy-convention’ we push on to the cultural riches in the village of Ubud where a plethora of temples are guarded by mythical stone-carved entities with bulging eyes and ferocious fanged faces. Our delightful bungalow has a scenic setting overlooking waterlogged rice paddies, and as a nice bonus, for the first time this trip we have the luxury of a hot water shower.
On St. Paddy’s day we again put our adult on pause by partaking in a Hash run starting at an old ceremonial gate in the pig stud village of Bongkasa. Yup, if you’re keen on ‘makin’ bacon’ this is your spot! The sound of the starting horn punctuates the morning air and endorphins elevate the spirits as ‘runners’, now more like Cheetos than cheetahs, funnel down a mud-slickened path.
Mud and water collected at multiple knee-deep crossings of the Agung River turn our shoes squishy, but long ago we learned trying to stay dry on a Hash run is like trying to cuddle a cactus! Bare-breasted women thump their laundry against rocks in the river, and stop to stare both open-eyed and open-mouthed as the group splashes past them like spawning salmon.
With superstitious Balinese believing nighttime is when evil spirits wander about, they put themselves to bed early and one could likely find more signs of life in an oyster bed. But as stars fill up the night sky we are serenaded by the chirp and croak of crickets and frogs, while geckos chime in with an awkward little ditty of their own; and for us, the twilight highlight is an integral part of the magic that is Bali.
To reach the stone carving village of Batubulan we are shoehorned, along with 14 locals, into a small road- unworthy bucket of bolts called a ‘bemo’. As the driver ties the busted door with a rope it becomes questionable as to who has more loose screws, the vehicle or driver. Folded up origami-like with our arms and legs at absurd angles we’re discovering positions sure to be a hit in the next edition of the Kama Sutra!
Though Kuta is about as welcome as a porcupine at a balloon party, we return there today as it’s close to the airport for tomorrow’s early flight home. While Christine is out hopping from one shop to another like a bee pollinating flowers in the garden, I’m enjoying a couple of chilled ones while scribbling this travelogue on the flora-laden balcony. My plan is to simply relax and do nothing, and so far I’m right on schedule!
With Singapore Airlines 747 reaching cruising altitude and the engines humming westward, we’re treated to a little levity when a stowaway suddenly shows himself! A befuddled crew give chase to a feathered felon that somehow managed to smuggle itself onboard in Singapore.
The robin-size bird looks scared shitless, and sitting under its flight path as it frantically flies back and forth between first class and the toilets at the rear, we are hoping it doesn’t go all B-52 on us. The ensuing drama is hilarious, with the flight attendant’s attempts to capture the elusive little bugger failing spectacularly. It is unclear to all aboard as to who is doing more squawking; the bird or crew!
In hot pursuit, the crew tries for ages with blankets and plastic bags to trap the uninvited guest, but our formidable feathered friend is still in a flap and frantically flying evasive missions about the plane. By this time most passengers are cheering for our avian aviator. What a hoot!
Eventually the frazzled crew prevails and subdues our winged hero. Considered a ‘flight risk’, the bird is then unceremoniously placed into an overhead storage bin, but passengers are assured the prisoner will be soon returned to Singapore and liberated. This is a most sympathetic gesture, as after Singapore’s 33 degree heat, our next stop is Korea where the temperature is only 9 degrees, and the poor little bugger would likely freeze his tail feathers off. And frankly, returning to Canada I’m beginning to worry about the same damn thing myself!
Mark Colegrave 2002