Though many times over many years we’ve tried to conquer our addiction, Asia remains our travel drug of choice; and as self-confirmed ‘Asiaholics’ unable to kick the habit, 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 to our senses we get our ornithology on at Jurong Bird Park, where the trees are rowdy with 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 up and down, and amazingly one of the ‘Dancing Queens’ responds in kind.
Picking a stone up off the ground, 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 along the narrow-as-a-knife streets of old shop-houses we secure lodging at the quirky Baba House Hotel. Unfortunately there’s no chance of a morning sleep-in with our ears corridors penetrated by megaphones outside, amplifying the wailing Islamic call summoning Muslims to the mosque for the obligatory Morning Prayer.
For only a few Malaysian ringetts we sit down for a mango-chicken lunch beside the murky Melaka River. However, devouring our plate of yumminess in the shade of a large Jackfruit tree, we notice an enormous monitor lizard choking down a full size cat on the muddy riverbank below!
In contrast, having dinner beneath a spreading frangipani tree in full and fragrant bloom, one of the aromatic flowers 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!
Our first stop is the worst stop. Kuta’s shop-infested streets are victims of strangulation by traffic, and while Bali’s beautiful countryside may be blessed with geckos, dappled in ducks, and sprinkled with monkeys; the bedlam of Kuta attracts its own brands of ‘wildlife’.
Take for example the raucous species ‘surfer dudeus’. With a spiky hedge of hair and seemingly a full set of cutlery inserted into the nose, ears, tongues, and eyebrows, I would argue these pierced clowns are irrefutable proof that evolution can be reversed!
Another wildlife species endemic in Kuta is ‘moneychanger ripoffus’. These scruple-free scoundrels are slipperier than snail snot on a door knob, using magician-like skullduggery to fleece their unsuspecting victims. Lower than a halibut’s nipple, the double dealing, dollar-duping, dishonest, despicable and deceptive degenerates are definitely to be dodged!
However, by far the worst ‘wildlife’ irritant is a feral species known as ‘hawker aggressiveus’. Claiming sidewalks and alleys as their hunting grounds, they circle outsiders like seagulls in search of lunch; peddling everything from massages to marijuana and watches to women. The ‘watchmen’ of the group vigorously flaunt fake watches from old briefcases being opened and closed like the jaws of a shark!
The pesky problem is the profusion of these pushy, pugnacious poverty-pleaders, whose primary purpose is producing profit by putting persistent pressure on the passive public. People get so perturbed with their pursuit they’d probably be pleased to provide this prolific plague of petulant and parasitic perpetrators with a punch on the proboscis. But enough of the prolonged pontificating on these pathetically pitiful pests, you get my point; one must perpetually keep the peepers propped open in preparation for the plethora of prowling ‘wildlife’ permeating the pestiferous concrete jungles of Kuta!
Everywhere in Bali most people drive like Stevie Wonder trying to move up in the NASCAR standings. With lanes, lights, one-way streets, and stop signs all meaning nothing, the roads saturated with the motherlode of a new element on the periodic tables – ‘Stupidium’!
The dearth of road rules is a variation of rock-paper-scissors; bike beats people, car beats bike, and bus beats anything else! And as far as safety goes, any vehicle with a functioning horn is considered roadworthy despite the wire, rope, or duct tape holding it together!
Whenever rain falls on the island, entrepreneurs magically make ponchos and umbrellas appear at the same time the first drops strike the ground, and the clear plastic ponchos worn by countless motorbike drivers leave the roads resembling a river of large motorized condoms.
Like many places in Asia, motorbikes are also 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, and any other unclaimed space.
Leaving Kuta’s crescendo of chaos, our enthusiasm blooms in the seaside sanctuary of Sanur, where we trade the ceaseless din of traffic for the serenity of frog snorts! Our tropical bungalow is set under the vast canopy of a Jattie tree, with banana trees, hibiscus, and vines of bougainvillea all providing privacy.
Over the years ‘Hash 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. Meanwhile, locals, using surfboard-size banana tree leaves as umbrellas, are so confused they don’t know whether to scratch their watch or wind their ass!
For a shift in routine 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 skeptical about the crossing, but luckily we’re 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 of seaweed aquaculture. At low tide harvesting farmers fill their dugouts with the slippery weeds of the sea, and later dry them in the sun before they are 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 only available a few hours a day. 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. We also suffer from insect-induced insomnia with voracious mosquitos our most ardent admirers! With this 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!
To avoid being enfeebled by the heat in the tropics, medical recommendations suggest drinking ample liquids. Back in brewtiful Bali, and loving its Bintang beer more than any man should, yours truly is following said advice with staggering efficiency! In fact, I’ve morphed into ‘Sir Gulpalot’; a swift-slurping beer extremist awash in a ‘tsunami of beer’; trying to guzzle and gulp the failing Balinese economy back to health. The voices in my head tell me that all these bottles of brown 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 have now attained the self-certified status of professional ‘Bintangologist’. Oh my, what a credentialed couple we have become!
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 talking gibberish to herself is a woman with an unruly mane of orangutan-orange hair. Unexpectedly, she gets up from her meal and wades fully clothed out into the ocean, and flopping down where the sand surrenders to sea, starts laughing like a high hyena and 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, and 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, but in any case this is another loon as flaky as French pastry!
Behind door #3, and completing the witless triplets is ‘Grumpy’. Throwing a temper tantrum, this wacko looks as if somebody shoved the rough end of a pineapple up his arse. Punching his chest with fisted hands and wailing like a howler monkey in heat, Grumpy could use an orthodontic intervention for a serious Bugs Bunny overbite. Though adequate for 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 incapable of matching wits with a frying pan.
Saturated with silly at the ‘crazy-convention’ we push on to the treasure trove of cultural riches that is Ubud. The village teems with temples guarded by mythical stone-carved entities with bulging eyes and ferocious fanged faces, and our bungalow overlooks waterlogged rice paddies. 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! As the sound of the starting horn punctuates the morning air, 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 beat their laundry on rocks in the river, staring open-eyed and open-mouthed as the group splash 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’re serenaded by the chirp and croak of crickets and frogs, and geckos chiming in with an awkward little ditty of their own. 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!
Even though Kuta is about as welcome as a hole in a lifeboat, we head back because of its proximity to the airport for our morning flight. Trying to make the best of it we luxuriate in the penthouse of Rum Jungle Hotel. Having been born with a rum gene I plead guilty to being seduced by its spirited name!
While Christine is out hopping from one shop to another like a bee pollinating flowers in the garden, I’m scribbling this travelogue on the flora-laden balcony accompanied by a cold Binny. My plan is to simply relax and do nothing, and so far I’m right on schedule! With still a few more beer left to burgle from the fridge, I vow to valiantly soldier on until they too join fallen comrades! Tomorrow we are headed home.
With Singapore Airlines 747 reaching cruising altitude and the engines humming westward, we are 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’re hoping it doesn’t go all B-52 on us! The ensuing drama is hilarious, as the flight attendant’s attempts to capture the elusive little bugger are 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 using 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 unceremoniously placed into an overhead storage bin, but passengers are assured the prisoner will be returned to Singapore and liberated. This is a most sympathetic gesture, as after Singapore’s 33 degree heat, our next stop is Korea where it’s only 9 degrees, and the poor little bugger would likely freeze his tail feathers off. In fact, returning to Canada I’m beginning to worry about the same damn thing myself!
Mark Colegrave 2002