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 surprised to encounter it smothered in smoke. The irritating air has drifted over from fires burning on the Indonesian islands of Sumatra and Kalimantan, and it looks as if a mass fumigation 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 prowess is a chromosomal disorder, but still I try to convince Chris and ‘Sis’ that we are in Singapore not ‘Spending-more’. My plea is like trying to teach a pig to sing; it wastes your time and annoys the pig, so I console myself with a bike ride alongside the Singapore River, excited to be moving on to Bali tomorrow.
In Bali’s airport Christine and I line up in an Immigration queue moving at the speed of a slug on anti-anxiety meds. Eventually we get to a pretentious official with an obviously disabled moral compass. After conspiratorially checking over his shameless shoulders, he looks back at me the way a shark grins at a seal and deviously proclaims; ‘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!
Luscious warm air embraces us like a long lost friend while waiting for a taxi. Arriving in Ubud, the 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 get stuffed. 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 a romantic dinner is Murni’s Warung, 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 that sampling the many different 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 the error of an extra zero. 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 dodgy shakedown attempts on our first day, 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 his young daughter Devi, and an American couple who will be joining us. After breakfasting in the mountains at Kintamani we collect the four guest bikes off the trailer, but unfortunately Wayan’s bike with an attached child seat is too big for him. This means his five year old daughter Devi won’t be able to come along, and 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 on the back which seems to make everybody happy. 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 she is 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.
Christine and I have brought a bag of stuffed toy animals from home to randomly distribute along the way. We know how little kids go gaga over gifts, and have been doing this for years as it brings an equal amount of joy to us. 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, his Indonesian 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. After completing the ride we are taken back to Wayans home for a scrumptious Balinese feast prepared by his wife, and sitting Buddha style on the floor, feed as greedily as tics.
Today, 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 standing beside me, beneath a tumble of black curls, a little girl wearing a big inflatable duck flotation device around her waist.
‘What do?’ the inquisitive chubby-cheeked toddler utters, looking up at me. ‘Stretch’, I reply. I’m not sure what the cutie thinks that means, but with a big-eyed look she wobbles away as fast as her pudgy legs will go cocooned inside her frantically bouncing purple duck. I cannot suppress the smile gathering on my face.
We pay a visit to Bali Bird Park in Singapadu, where lush tropical gardens host the flamboyant splendor of over a thousand exotic birds chorusing their vocal elegance. Next, we head to the temple island of Tanah Lot and somehow end up wearing a couple of massive live pythons as neckties! Completing the day’s trifecta we drive 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, we first encounter an orangutan living on the premises. The incarcerated fuzzy-faced former jungle swinger holds out a long hairy arm through the cage bars like he wants to shake hands; but it is a ruse. The rambunctious ape closes its dexterous digits on mine like a vice, and pulling me towards him, 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 am instantly met by an over amorous young dolphin named ‘Jon’, and as I stroke his slippery smooth skin it seems he’s 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 considerable 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. OK that’s enough naughty nature for today, I am definitely done with this frisky fin and fur fiasco!
Our next ten days is beside the seaside in Sanur at the Sativa Hotel. Surrounded by lush greenery, the swimming pool has a lovely ambiance, and when privacy permits, we enjoy a slow dance in the shallows. Enjoying Happy Hour on our balcony with rum high-diving from bottle to glass, we eavesdrop on squirrel chat in fragrant frangipani trees, and watch amusing sticky-footed geckos zig-zagging about the walls.
Early mornings we get our cardio along a new seawall stretching for miles along the aquamarine Timor Sea. My aching hip is feeling much better, and I’m crediting the improvement to the serious liquid engineering of Bali’s beauteous Bintang beer. The only negative is that the tropical sun causes the beer’s chill to surrender sooner and require faster guzzling; but not to worry, I find myself rising to the occasion!
Walking or running the beach is also an opportunity to embrace my inner shallow. A delectable abundance of mocha-colored maidens sprinkled over the sand display voluptuous weapons of mass distraction; downward dogging it barely-there-thong-bikinis with almost enough material for a pirate’s eye patch!
The vehicular lunacy on Bali’s highways is like some kind of machismo Asian stock car racing, and with the whoosh of passing traffic mere inches away symptoms of feverish prayer, piercing screams, loose bowels, and cardiac arrest are a constant.
For an adventurous Bali Hash run today runners have rented the ‘Magic Bus’ to take us outside of town to the village of Pasar Pongung. 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 the fun. 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 is terrific and we’ve come to love 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 strolling hand in hand in the shallows where sea and sand come together. While holding hands may look very romantic, it’s actually an economic measure meant to try and curtail the legendary shopping of the ‘Queen of Spend’.
Experience reminds me that holding hands with Christine is an absolute must, because if I dare let her go she’ll be off caressing price tags, emptying her purse, and turning me into a shopping Sherpa!
Savoring a final top up of delicious sunshine, Team Canada’s rather tame Balinese escapades have come to an end! Upon returning to Canuckistan I turn on the TV, and what should appear? Why, it’s none other than Don Cherry and Hockey Night in Canada. Good to be back home, eh?
Mark Colegrave 2006