When Juha and I arrived at Tanah Lot the previous evening, a ceremony was taking place (Naturally!  It’s Bali, afterall!) and the temple and area surrounding it were bustling with Balinese attending the ceremony and tourists photographing them and the temple itself.  I enjoyed the atmosphere, but also wanted to experience Tanah Lot under more quiet conditions so the next morning, I got up before sunrise to revisit Tanah Lot.  It was dark as I walked the quiet streets to the temple.  What had been a gauntlet of souvenir hawkers the previous night on the strip of road just before entering the temple was now a more passive and receded row of corrugated metal doors, hiding the wares that were tucked away behind them.  As I approached the temple entrance, the only sound that broke the morning quiet was a series of Balinese prayers being played over a loudspeaker some distance away, an almost eery sound as I walked by myself through the darkness. 

Tanah Lot at sunrise

I passed through the gates to the general temple area. It was 5:45 am. Only two priests and a few people sweeping the steps shared the temple area with me.  I walked over the rocks across from the temple, noting that the tide had come up through the night and left small pools of water in the rock crevices.  Some kind of green mossy plant covered much of the rocks and was slippery to walk on after its recent watering from the  sea. I scrambled to the top of a rock that had been covered with tourists the night before and piece by piece hauled up my photo gear and tripod.  As I waited for the sun to come up, the gentle sounds of the ocean waves crashing against the temple rocks and the prayers over the loudspeakers kept me and thoughts company.

As the sun rose, a small stream of Hindu faithful began their march with offering-filled baskets across the temple grounds and up the temple steps.  I was curious to see what the temple looked like inside, but respected the “no tourist” rules.  I wondered what was so different about this temple, the only one off limits to tourists.  As it got more light outside, I noticed small boats of fisherman already at work just offshore of the temple.  “Was it considered lucky to fish near the temple?” I wondered.  

morning fishermen

After getting my photographic fill, I headed back to the hotel.  I inquired with the desk clerk about internet access … I needed to let my family know that I had survived the first segment of my solo-driving bike trip.  “There’s no public internet access here, but you can use our office computer to check your email if you want,” the clerk generously offered.  I swear, the Balinese are the most accommodating people I think I’ve ever met.

After Juha and I had breakfast and revisted the souvenir gauntlet to buy a shirt for him, we packed our bags and hit the road.  Today, we were headed up to the mountainous lake region of Danau Braton.   

As of yet, I’ve never been motorbiking anywhere other than Bali so I can’t really make any comparisons, but here are some observations on motorbiking in Bali.  There is no speed limit in Bali.  The twisting two lane roads that cover most of the island render speed limits unnecessary.  As I became more accustomed to the motorbike, I tended to drive at around 40-60 kph (about 25-38 mph) which seemed about average, if tending a bit toward the cautious side.    

I drove around the island on a little Yamaha Mio, probably the smallest motorbike made and perfect for a petite beginner like me.  It took 2 liters of petrol (it’s called petrol here, not gas) to fill up the tank (which I guess also becomes a “petrol tank” and not a “gas tank”).  During my stay in Bali, a liter of premium petrol cost 6,500 rupiah. After converting liters to gallons and rupiah to dollars, I calculate that petrol in Bali currently costs about $2.86 per gallon.  

When it comes to buying petrol in Bali, you have options.  There’s the standard option of filling up at a petrol station where all the drivers line up their bikes and an attendant fills your tank and takes your money (all cash, no plastic).  The routine goes like this:  get in line and turn off your bike.  Get off the bike, raise the seat, open the gas cap and have your money in hand as you wheel forward in line.  Usually it took 15,000 rupiah to fill up my bike. Small bills (exact change or nothing more than a 20,000 rupiah bill) were preferred as small change is hard to come by (I remember this from Mexico too).  You can pay with a 50,000 bill but it will earn you a scowl.  Present a 100,000 bill (standard issue from many ATM’s) and the attendant will plead, “Don’t you have anything smaller?” despite the fact that they’ve been collecting small bills from people all day long and must have loads of small change.  It’s considered courteous upon filling your tank to roll your bike ahead a bike length, consolidate your belongings and start the bike from there if there are others in line behind you, rather than starting right from the “filling spot.” 

petrol stand

Actual petrol stations in Bali, while not exactly “few and far between,” are pretty sparse.  If you’re enjoying your drive so much that you neglect to keep track of the petrol gauge and find yourself suddenly close to the “E” mark, however, never fear!  The industrious and clever Balinese have figured out a solution.  They recycle discarded plastic water bottles or old glass Absolut vodka bottles, fill those at the petrol station and then have petrol stands on the side of the road where they resell the petrol for 7,000 rupiah per liter.  At this rate, petrol costs about $3.08 per gallon.  Besides the increased price, the downside to buying from the petrol stands is that you risk getting “dirty petrol” which, I later learned first-hand, can cause problems with the bikes carburetor.  As Juha and I left Tanah Lot, I noticed that my bike was “acting funny” (about the extent of my mechanical descriptions) with some then slightly noticeable “stop/start” jumping as I accelerated.  But it ran and Juha didn’t seem to think it was anything I needed to worry about immediately so we just drove on.

The drive up to Danau Braton took about 3 hours.  It was a lovely drive.  We were clearly out of the touristed areas as the industry evident along the roadside metamorphosed from tours and souvenir sales to a more agricultural scene.  As we drove further north, the crops changed from rice paddies to fields of peanuts, soybeans, strawberries and other plants I couldn’t identify.  In addition to agriculture, I enjoyed seeing the other types of industry that existed along the roadside. 

Many guides in Ubud and other areas pitch their tours to the countryside as a chance to see “the REAL Bali.”  As real Balinese live and work in Ubud, Kuta and other touristed areas and as tourism is probably the biggest industry on the island, I don’t really buy into the concept that those places are not the “REAL Bali.”  They are an aspect of the real Bali today.  But the countryside is another side of present day Bali, one that more closely resembles the island-wide scene of Bali past and, I have to agree with the tour guides, is much more appealing to me.  

Kite-flying is big in Bali. Every six months, there is an island-wide competition in South Bali and each village makes its own kite to enter in the contest. The kites are huge!  Much larger than kites I flew at home as a kid, the typical Balinese kites measure about 6 feet by 4 feet and sometimes are larger.  Instead of the typical diamond-shaped kites I was accustomed to, the creative Balinese gave animal shapes to theirs.  I’ve seen dragons, lions and animals that appeared to have been created in the imagination of a Balinese kid as they were unrecognizable to me. On our drive, Juha and I stopped beside a field of peanuts to observe some kids attempting to get a kite up in the air.   

 

Around 2 pm we stopped for lunch.  I saw a sign advertising lawar, one of my favorite Balinese dishes so I promptly pulled over.  Unfortunately, we discovered that the warung only served pork lawar and Juha didn’t eat pork.  Gracious man that he is, he agreed to eat lunch there anyway. I felt a bit guilty enjoying my freshly made lawar and pork soup (some of the best I’ve ever eaten!) while poor Juha ate reconstituted chicken noodle soup from a package.  What a guy!  Toward the end of our lunch, about ten Indonesian men walked into the warung.  Wow! Balinese power lunch, I thought.  This warung with its tasty lawar obviously had the stamp of approval from the locals.  

carefully guarded lawar

About two-thirds of the way through my lawar, I realized I had forgotten to photograph the dish before digging in.  I sheepishly asked one of the men sitting at the table next to me if I could photograph his lawar which he had just received.  I’m not sure he completely understood, but he aquiesced … sort of. He kept his arms protectively around his food while I snapped off a shot.  I guess perhaps he thought I might want to do more than photograph it.  His friends all watched me, amused.  I laughed out loud at how ridiculous my request had been (sometimes I just get a little too obsessed with photography and forget social graces).  They laughed at me laughing and pretty soon the whole restaurant was all chuckling together.  

Juha and I went back to our private discussion of something … probably how silly I had just been to ask a stranger to photograph his food … and then something funny happened.  Two of the business men approached us and asked if they could have their picture made with us.  I’m rarely one to shy away from a photo request (that would be pretty hypocritical), but there was certainly no way I would conceive of declining after the stunt I had just pulled.  So the men sat on either side of us and had their picture made.  We all chuckled together.  They sat back down and Juha and I went back to our discussion. Then two more men came over with the same request.  We posed with them too … and eventually with the entire group as, two by two, each of the men had their picture made with us.  At this point, it was pretty clear to me that we all were interested in interacting with each other so I invited the men to come sit with us and talk.  Their English was very broken, almost as bad as our Bahasa Indonesia, but through much miming we managed to figure out that they were from Sumbawa, a neighboring island to the east and that they were government employees touring Bali for seven days learning about something:  either how to use land in farming, building, recreation or development … our game of charades kind of fell apart at this point. We shared our travel plans and then all got together for a group photo in back of the restaurant.  As we were wrapping up that “photo shoot,” another man wandered in and announced that he was the local English teacher.  He invited Juha and I to come to his home for dinner and to spend the night but he lived 30 minutes back in the direction we had already come from and we were anxious to make more forward progress. We still got a picture with him and the restaurant owners and he left me with explicit directions to his house in the event we were ever back in the area. 

From that point on for several days, I felt like Juha and I were walking around a Disney World amusement park … and we were the Disney characters.  Everyone wanted a picture with us, to shake our hand or to say hello and try to practice some English, stopping just short of asking for autographs. It was highly amusing to be in areas where so few tourists traveled.  

After lunch, we drove a little farther and were rewarded with some amazing views of Lake Braton which was clouded in a dramatic fog from the mountains. We stopped to watch some men repairing the “spider legs” on a fishing boat and then headed down the road about 100 meters to Ulun Danu, a lakeside Hindu temple sitting immediately adjacent to a Buddhist temple. The moody feel of the mountain fog coupled with the perfectly manicured gardens made a perfect backdrop for our photos and Juha and I spent at least an hour there, happily shooting away.  

Ulun Danu temple

Before shooting the “beautiful things,” I stopped to use the bathroom. The farther we strayed from touristy areas, the more common were the tissue-less squat toilets that I had read about and had been dreading.  Luckily, I was a Girl Scout and prepared with tissue (my Mom, queen of preparedness, would have been so proud!).  The rest, you just kind of “deal with.”   

I quickly forgot the squat toilet as Juha and I passed through a fabulous playground with vintage pieces of rusty play equipment. I had to stop and play on each piece and Juha indulged me in taking photos of my silliness.

a typical Southeast Asia squat toilet

As the sun dipped down, the already cool temperature dropped dramatically.  I was freezing and wished that I had brought more than one long sleeve shirt with me - I had pretty much only brought the bare bones of things I thought I would need and left the rest of my belongings in Ubud.  I was so cold that I even put socks under my sandals, ignoring the fashion faux pas in favor of some extra warmth.  I became anxious to find a warm place to stay for the night. 

 

We managed to find a very posh resort (almost as nice as the one we “almost” stayed at in Tanah Lot) perched on the rim of a volcano crater in a small village about 30 minutes north of the slightly larger village of Bedugul.  It was obviously not high season as the place was deserted so we bargained our way into a lovely room.  I relished the hot water and thick blankets inside - indulging first in a delightfully long hot and steamy shower and then curling up in my pajamas and burrowing under a blanket while Juha and I watched a dodgy pirated copy of War, Inc. on my laptop.

 

The next day, we continued our drive hugging the volcano crater’s edge which made for spectacular views along with lots of ear popping.  On the opposite side of the crater from where we’d stayed the night before, we came across some forest monkeys hanging out right by the side of the road, clearly used to being fed by passers-by.  After my experience with the monkey bite my second day in Bali, I stayed a good distance away from those guys although I did stop for a photo of them and the crater lake in the background. 

 

We biked all day and the terrain around us changed from flat ground to rolling hills to steep mountain passes with many switchbacks.  My confidence driving the bike on slightly curvy roads had improved greatly, but 45 degree drops and U-pin turns were another story.  This drive was a motorcyclists dream, but I felt it was wasted on a novice like myself, driving at about 15 kph.  I became even more careful after Juha and I passed an overturned truck that had apparently taken one of the curves too sharply.  

 

 

 

WWe didn’t stop for many photographs on the way as the drive itself along with general jungle-like greenery surrounding the roads were the main attractions.  During all the driving, thought, I kept noticing that my bike was still “acting funny” and at one point, it just completely quit. Luckily, there was a mechanic only about 100 feet away so we pulled in and watched as he disassembled my bike and cleaned the carburetor.  He worked for about an hour … and then charged 5,000 rupiah (about $0.50) for his work.  I happily paid him 10,000 (and wish now I’d given him more) and he was thrilled.  The bike still wasn’t perfect when we left (I later discovered I needed a spark plug replacement) but at least it was running again and got us all the way to Banjar, our stop for the night.  

motorbike surgery

Additional photos for this and other blog entries can be found on the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of this blog.

2 comments

(Although I’m currently in Thailand, I have a lot of catching up to do on stories and experiences from Bali.  Over the next few days, I’m going to try to my best to get caught up on those before moving on to blog entries about Thailand.)

Typically, when I take a trip, I research the hell out of it before I go. Nothing burns me up more than to be in a place, do my thing, go home and discover that only blocks from where I was was the coolest little thing that I could have seen/done/tasted … if only I’d known.  I don’t really make out minute-by-minute itineraries.  OK. Who am I kidding?  Of course I do!  Or at least I’ve done that in the past.   What can I say? I like to cram it all in and there’s always loads more to see and do than time allows.  In some regards, I can be a really laid back traveler and rather enjoy the oddities that come my way.   In fact, oddities are sort of what I seek when I’m traveling.  But sleeping in until 10am or, God forbid, noon and wasting all that precious travel time that you can’t get back???!!!  Yeah.  Not so laid back in that department.  So I guess my travel style could be described as Mussolini on the outside with a soft Ghandi core. Or maybe it’s the reverse.  Not surprisingly, I frequently travel alone. 

Before going to Indonesia, I studied the Indonesian language for 4 weeks and read every travel guide I could find on Bali.  I also read travel fiction books set in Bali, Thailand and Vietnam and watched any movie that was set in or filmed in those countries - all in the name of preparation … or at least trying to fit into my head some idea of what to expect.

During my travel throughout Bali, however, I found that my travel style changed.  Mussolini, whether inside or out, kind of melted away as I developed more of a “let’s just see what happens” mantra.  Maybe it was the luxury of having six weeks in Bali that helped me feel like I didn’t need to cram it all into six days.  Or maybe it was just Bali’s laid-back spirit that I absorbed through osmosis.  Whatever the reason, “let’s see” was the motto of my most recent and last road trip through Bali.  

Before I could take off, I had to master (or at last substantially improve) my skills on the motorbike.  For several days after I got back from my road trip with Mun, I practiced late at night in Ubud when the streets were nearly empty, save for the street dogs.  On the fourth day, I took a test drive to Tegalalan, a village about 30 minutes north of Ubud which has gorgeous terraced rice fields.  I made it, got some nice photos of the rice paddies, managed to stave off the relentless sellers of chopsticks, sarongs and other souvenirs that wouldn’t fit in my backpack and headed back to Ubud.  I even relished the little bit of road grit in my teeth which I chalked up to a biker’s rite of passage.  Although not exactly a road warrior, I felt confident enough on the motorbike to undertake a second unguided Bali roadtrip, this time driving the motorbike instead of riding on the back.

The week before, I had met a Finnish man, Juha, through Couchsurfing during a rice paddy walk in Ubud.  He had also traveled with Mun and me for a day in Amed.   He had been traveling for about 14 months on a quest to see the world and was “tired of making decisions about where to go and what to see.”  I often meet people during my travels and, if I sense they are like-minded travelers, am open to joining forces for a while.    Juha seemed like-minded so I invited him to join me.  He was all for letting someone else play tour guide so he decided to afollow me around Bali for a week on his own motorbike before heading back to Finland. I decided our first stop should be Tanah Lot, one of the most sacred temples in Bali. I had seen photos of it on postcards (my new alternative-to-a-guidebook method of deciding where I wanted to go) and it looked stunning!  From the photos, the temple appeared to be suspended in mid-air on a giant, interestingly shaped rock slightly offshore of Bali’s rocky Southwest coast.  Entrance to the temple is off-limits to tourists.  Even the sea, however, could deny access to non-tourists as the temple is accessible to potential worshippers only in low tides.  The photos on the cheap postcards showing Tanah Lot washed out in the mid-afternoon sun with ocean waves lapping at the base were intriguing.  The more expensive postcards featured Tanah Lot in all her glory, basking in the setting sun.  Stunning.  Tanah Lot had definitely made the list of “Road Trip Places to See.”  

 

Juha had been staying in South Bali so I headed to Denpasar to meet him.  He had to mail some packages so we settled on the post office as a meeting point.  When I later looked at a map of Denpasar, it occurred to me that we hadn’t specified WHICH post office since neither of us had been there or knew where they were.  I hoped that Juha would read my mind and also think to go to the main post office, the only one marked on my map.  So that’s where I headed.  

I drove about 30-40 kph (only about 18-25 mph), hugging the left side of the road (they drive on the left here).  The streets didn’t exactly follow what was reflected on my map so, as when I was driving around with Mun two weeks before, I frequently stopped to ask, “Dimana Denpasar?” (“Where is Denpasar?”).  The answers always came in the form of an arm chopping the air in a certain direction, a motion resembling the signature tomahawk chop of Atlanta Braves baseball fans.  Just as well since I understood very little Indonesian anyway.  

I was definitely a tentative and overly cautious driver, but I felt the ride was going well … until 1.5 hours into the trip when I hit the Superhighway in Denpasar.  All of a sudden, the road widened from 2 relatively quiet lanes (1 in each direction) to 6 lanes!  More than the tomahawk-like directions were making me feel like I was driving in Atlanta. I and my little motorbike were on a virtual interstate! Huge trucks were barreling down on us.  The lines marking driving lanes were apparently mere suggestions.  I wanted to stay to the left, in what I deemed the “safe zone,” but somewhere ahead I had to turn right.  I knew the turn would sneak up on me and I definitely didn’t want to try to cut across all 3 lanes of maniacal Denpasar drivers at the last minute, so I steeled my nerves, ground my teeth on some road grit for good measure and crossed through the torrent to the far right.  This was apparently an unpopular move with the masses as I drew what seemed like hundreds of honks on my way.  I sped up to 60kph just so I wouldn’t get run over.  Of course there were no assurances, but I figured speeding up would at least decrease the chances of it happening.  The sight of huge trucks right on my tail filled my mirrors.  

My thoughts raced as fast as my heart and the traffic around me.  Oh God!  Where’s that #$^(^#%& turn anyway????  Juha, why didn’t I just tell you to meet me in quiet little Tanah Lot?  Here’s what looks like a major road.  No street sign.  But this MUST be it.  Shit, shit, shit!  Ok, ok, ok … I’m going for it!  [makes right turn crossing through 3 more lanes of oncoming traffic.]  

The road I turned right on, although major, is no Superhighway.  What a relief to be off that suicidal stretch.  After about 10 blocks, my heart rate slowed back down to almost normal.  After 15 blocks, I was beginning to question whether I made the right call.  There was no sign of the post office where I was supposed to meet Juha.  Finally, I pulled over and asked someone, “Dimana Kantor Pos?”  The tomahawk chop began … back in the direction I’d come from.  Oh no!  Ugh!  You’ve got to be kidding me!  I turned too early and now I needed to get back on the road from hell?  I was desperately wishing that I could call Juha, change the plan and just meet in Tanah Lot, our destination for the day, but because his number is international, my phone will accept calls from him, but not make them.  I can’t just not show up … although the thought seriously crossed my mind to just head to Tanah Lot and email him from there an apologetic “come meet me. I’m a wimp on a motorbike.” 

I drew on one of the faults that tops my list of character flaws … stubbornness … and reluctantly turned the bike around back toward Suicidal Superhighway.  My heart pounded like a rabbit again as I was assaulted with honks, threatening looks and even a rock that flew from a truck’s wheel and missed my head by inches.  I drew on a second flaw - extreme abilities to disassociate from any situation.  I was no longer scared.  I was mad, determined and just downright steeled.  I was going to make it to that flipping post office if it’s the last thing I did (and at this rate, it very well might be!).

Thankfully, some verbal landmarks came along with the tomahawk chop that sent me back to the interstate so this time when I made a right turn on another unmarked major road, I was fairly certain I was on the right track.  Yet still, 25 blocks and no sign of the post office.  Defeated, I pulled over to a laundromat on the side of the road.  “Dimana kantor pos?” I asked pathetically.  At least this time, the tomahawk was pointed in the right direction and wasn’t sending me back to suicide alley.  Unfortunately, it was followed by about 5 more chops in different directions.  Basically I was being told “Go straight.  Then a right (somewhere). Then a left (somewhere).  Keep going.  Chop chop chop.”  My disappointment must have shown in my eyes.  A man who had just retrieved his clean clothes offered, “Would you like to follow me there?”  Thank goodness he didn’t know that I would have eagerly kissed him, bought him dinner and possibly given him children for this information!  He did it for a smile.  And 10 minutes later I arrived at the post office.  What would have taken a local about an hour to drive from Ubud to the main post office in Denpasar took me three.  Whew! 

Oh just wait until I tell Juha what all I’ve been through!  I was two hours past my designated meeting time with him at this point.  Surely he must know that I had difficulty getting here, I thought.  I parked my bike, lugged my heavy backpack off the bike and onto my back and huffed into the post office, looking for a big white man with a silver scraggly beard.  Shouldn’t be that difficult to spot, I thought.  But there were no white people anywhere.  Hmmm, maybe he had trouble getting here too.  

The post office had a rudimentary internet cafe inside so I went in and shot Juha a message.  “I’ve arrived!  Please call or show up.”  I did some more emailing, but after 30 minutes, still no contact from Juha.  “I’m starving and going across the street for lunch,” said my second email. “Meet me there when you get here or just wait.  I’ll be right back.”  

stone fish "swimming" in their tank

 

 

I wandered across the street and found a very interesting Japanese restaurant.  Live seafood was their specialty and they had many different varieties in large tanks in their front window.  Business was slow that afternoon so the manager gave me a personal tour.  He proudly pointed out stone fish, eels, grouper, lobster in four different types and sizes in addition to a variety of other fish and sea creatures.  Unfortunately, the seafood dishes were made to order and usually served 3-4 people so I settled for a comparatively boring chicken and noodle dish.  When I returned from washing off the road dust I had accumulated on my way to Denpasar, I saw that I had missed a call from Juha. Damn!  I ate my lunch and hurried back over to the post office.  No sign of Juha.  I checked my email messages (nothing from him) so I did a little more internet work and waited for his call.  

 Finally the call came. “I’m in Matahari shopping center,” he said casually.  “What about the post office?” I asked.  “I went to one already and now I’m at the Matahari shopping center.”  A man standing nearby indicated the shopping center was close by.  I was really hoping Juha would volunteer to come meet me at the post office since that was our original plan and I was still rattled from my earlier Denpasar driving, but he sounded grounded at the shopping center.  So off I went again asking “Dimana? Dimana?” about 5 times until I finally found it.  Another 2 dimanas got me to the food court where Juha was sitting.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long.” I said, still anxious to tell him about my horrendous morning.  “Only for four hours,” he said.  I think I detected a note a grumpiness although he’s Finnish so it could also be that (not that I’m saying the Finnish are grumpy people; they just don’t put on the “dog and pony smile show” … or so Juha tells me).  Sensing his mood, I decided to wait and tell him share my driving horror stories over a beer that evening.  

We sat for a bit, got rehydrated and hit the road.  After a couple wrong turns trying to find our way out of town (I’m hating Denpasar by this time), we finally find a road sign that says “Tanah Lot!”  Hallelujah and glory be!  From that point until we got to Tanah Lot, about 45 minutes later, road signs clearly marked our way.  I was fearful that the word “dimana” was going to disappear from my vocabulary.

Now that the way was clearly marked, I could relax and enjoy the drive.  The sun was out and the day was beautiful.  We passed rice fields filled with mature rice ready for harvesting.  I laughed at a rustic wooden sign with hand-painted letters that advertised “Playstation” and another that invited guests to play miniature golf in a rice field (I imagined a giant sprig of rice in a mini rice paddy as a water hazard and a large motorized quacking duck whose mouth was the target hole.)  We drove through a village still decorated from the Galungan/Kuningan festival with pretty penjors lining their streets.  The decorating committee had obviously convened and organized the villagers as all the shrines of one side of the street were decked out in yellow while the shrines opposite where cloaked in white.

Finally, we saw a sign that indicated we had entered Tanah Lot.  As Juha was riding behind me and we didn’t have verbal communication, I raised my left arm in the air and shook my fist in a sign of victory.  I didn’t see the police officer parked at the “village limits” sign.  Juha later told me the officer gave me a strange look at my gesture.  

We had arrived!  Yay!  We decided to go find a hotel and dump our heavy bags (my bigscreen laptop and photo gear keep me from ever traveling light even though it’s compressed into small bags) before catching the sunset at Tanah Lot temple.

First, let me tell you a little about hotels in Bali.  In the first place, they’re very inexpensive.  The majority of them range from $5-20 per night - ideal for a long-term traveler’s budget.  The room amenities will also range from fan only (no a/c) with a cold water shower to rooms with a/c (which really isn’t necessary throughout most of Bali’s temperate night-time climate) and hot water showers.  There are some hotels in Bali that charge “normal” US prices for a room and range from $75 per night to over $1000.  Of course you get more for your money in Bali as the $75 room here is more like a $1000 room at home.  But I don’t require that kind of luxury.  The higher end of those hotels don’t exist for me in the States, so as far as I’m concerned, they don’t exist for me in Bali either.  Sure I could stay there, but then I’d have to come home in two months instead of seven.  Easy decision.

 

The first hotel we stopped at was very rudimentary.  It was fan only (no problem), but had no shower at all, only a mandi.  Almost all Balinese (and, I understand, Indonesian) bathrooms have a mandi, which is a tub that stands about two to three feet high and about two feet across.  The mand is filled with water.  To take a bath, you don’t get into the mandi.  Instead, you stand next to the mandi and scoop water from it and pour it onto yourself.  You don’t put “dirty” or used water back in the mandi which is your clean water supply.  Naturally, since the water in the mandi sits there all day, the water is never hot.

Juha and I had decided ahead of time that neither of us required a/c, or TV but hot water would be nice.  (Frankly, some of the coastal areas of tropical Bali are warm and humid enough during the day that I find a cold shower refreshing and often opt for that in the evening even when hot water is an option.)   While neither of us were opposed to a cold water room if that was our only option, we did, however, want to have an actual shower and not a mere mandi so we passed on this hotel and moved on down the road.  We had to laugh that despite the lack of any amenities, the man wanted to charge 100,000 rupiah (a little more than $10) for the room, a room that would have been lucky to bring $4 in Ubud.  This was a well-touristed area, I thought, so I guess the prices are a little higher  here.  

We drove a few blocks and saw a small metal road sign with a picture of a bed.  Neither of us had seen any advertising this “formal” before in Bali and were curious.  We turned our motorbikes down the road and drove … and drove … and drove.  The grounds were meticulously manicured.  The longer the drive went without seeing any sign of a hotel, the more ch-chings I heard on the cash register in my head. We finally came to a guard post (ch-ching, ch-ching, ch-ching).  I suppose few of the guests at this resort arrive on motorbike so we were given a once over at least a few times (would that make it a thrice over?) before we were allowed to pass.  What the heck? We were already here … or almost, depending how much longer the driveway stretched.  We might as well ask about the room price.   

no bugles allowed ... or car horns

I laughed out loud at a sign posted at the entrance to the golf course we motored past.  The sign had a picture of a bugle in a circle with a line through it.  “What?  No bugles?” I thought.  What kind of place had we come to that bugles were so popular that guests needed to be told affirmatively not to bring them?  I laughed for a good five minutes (the driveway continued to stretch onward) … and then laughed at myself as I belatedly got the reference … no horns.  Sheesh.  Sometimes I have to wonder how I made it through law school.  Or high school for that matter.

At long last, Juha and I actually saw the hotel.  Definitely resort material.  We pulled our bikes under the canopied “welcome” area and headed inside to inquire about a room. Before we made it to the second step, the doorman (ch-ching, ch-ching, ch-ching) asked us to move our bikes to a different area.  The place was virtually empty, but I suppose our motor scooters were unsightly and not in tune with the cliental they were trying to attract.  Or who knows why.  At this point, Juha and I took bets on how much the room would cost.  His bet $45.  My bet $75.  Dollars, not rupies.  

Bikes properly parked, we walked in, prepared for a quick dismissal and back on the bikes.  “How much is a room here?” we asked.  The lovely, well-dressed and groomed Balinese woman behind the counter told us, “The normal price for a standard room is two hundred, but we can give you a special price today of one hundred sixty-five.”  Naturally, in Bali, prices are typically quoted in their currency - rupiah.  At this time of this writing the exchange rate was approximately 9100 rupiah to the dollar so even a $5 room sounded phenomenally expensive at 50,000 rupiah.  “One hundred sixty-five thousand?” Juha asked, making sure we were talking rupiah and not dollars.  This was too good to be true!  A $17 room at this smashing place?  “Rupiah or dollars?” I chimed in.  We both heard “rupiah” as the answer so, convinced we’d found the best bargain in all of Bali, we asked to see a room.  

The lovely young lady escorted us to a room with a lovely teak door.  She opened the door and, ahhhhhhhh, the cool air brushed past my face.  Air conditioning!  I hadn’t experienced this since I arrived in Bali!  The room was brilliantly decorated with very modern Balinese appointments.  There was a full size tub in an extravagantly large bathroom that had doors which could open up to lovely bedroom.  My accommodations in Bali up to that point, which I had previously regarded as perfectly fine, more than adequate even, now looked like shanties compared to this luxurious room.  Score! 

We didn’t have to think twice.  “Yes, no problem. We’ll stay here,” we fell over ourselves exclaiming practically in unison.  The lovely lady escorted us back to the front desk to check in.  While we were waiting, another beautiful Balinese girl brought us mango juice and wet towels to refresh our hands and faces.  We beamed at a young Western couple who were also checking in, acknowledging that we had all been so smart as to find this brilliant bargain jewel.  Juha and I toasted each other with our fresh juice that we hadn’t turned around in the face of all the signs of opulence. If this had been a movie, cheery soundtrack music would have begun playing in the background.  It was perfect! 

The desk clerk delivered the paperwork and asked for a credit card.  “Oh we’ll just pay cash, “ I told her.  “We’re only staying for one night” (although thoughts of spending my remaining three weeks here were already circling in my head). “Ok. The minimum deposit is 2,000,0000 rupies,” she said with a smile.  Screech!  The soundtrack music playing in my head comes to an abrupt and jarring stop.  The juice turns sour in my mouth and the refreshing cloth becomes a snake in my hands.  Ok, not really, but an ugly reality was setting in.  

“Two millions rupies?” Juha asked.  “The room is only 165,000 rupies.”  “Dollars,” the lovely clerk corrected, smiling the entire time.  “The room is $165 US dollars.”  

We turned red, embarrassed at our mistake.  We both looked at each other, dumbfounded.  “Didn’t we clarify that the price was rupies before we looked at the room?” “I thought so.” “I thought it was too good to be true, but she said rupies.”  “Didn’t she say it more than once?” “I thought so.”  Well, regardless of what we had thought, we now knew that it was time to move on.  “Thanks anyway for your hospitality,” we said, exiting with our tails tucked between our legs.  

Tanah Lot temple at sunset

It was now late in the afternoon and we needed to find a hotel soon if we were going to catch the Tanah Lot sunset unburdened.  Someone on the road told us that there was a hotel on the Tanah Lot property itself.  We gave it a shot, negotiated an acceptable rate and dropped our stuff in the room … just in time to catch the sunset.

After watching parts of a ceremony outside the temple and taking loads of photos, we walked the gauntlet through dozens of souvenir sellers and made our way to dinner.  “Well, Juha,” I started, “if Day 1 of this road trip is any indication, we have an interesting week ahead of us.  I think I need a beer tonight.”

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I never imagined that I would be so unexcited about going to Thailand.  Thailand had been my dream for the past several years.  Yet here I sit in the airport in Jakarta, Indonesia awaiting my flight for Bangkok … already “homesick” for Bali.  

Yesterday morning, I left my beloved Amed.  A Balinese woman riding in the back of a truck on her way to market gave a quizzical look to the red-headed Westerner riding on the back of a motorbike with tears streaming down her face.  Did she frequently see teary-eyed tourists on their way out of Bali? Or did she imagine some other reason for my watery eyes?  

 

For the first hour of the winding trip back to Ubud where I was returning my motorbike, I was inconsolable. The sights that usually warmed my heart only tore at it yesterday morning: the yellow-green terraced rice paddies settled on rolling hills, elephant-sized leaves of banana trees waving in the wind seeming to fan the passersby below, children in neatly pressed uniforms on their way to school, women balancing various buckets, baskets and assundries on their heads on their way to market, men sporting machetes as they worked in the fields, the winding roads that twisted their way through the mountains - a motorcyle driver’s dream, the smell of incense perfuming the air and the sight of Balinese everywhere making their morning offerings.  Oh, cry cry cry.  Bali, I love you and don’t want to leave! 

Unfortunately, before I even left the States, I had committed to leaving Indonesia on September 22. That commitment took the form of a non-refundable plane ticket from Jakarta to Bangkok.  I had actually planned to leave Bali September 15 to spend one week on the neighboring island of Java before heading to the Kingdom of Thailand, but couldn’t bear to go so soon, so I stayed in Bali, grounded in Amed.  I went to a travel agent in Ubud four days ago to try to postpone my departure from Indonesia.  Unfortunately, the only way to stay meant just throwing away the ticket I had already purchased without any refund or credit.  Even if I was willing to do that, my visa expired the first of October which would only buy me an extra eight days.  So with a heavy heart, I headed back to Amed and delivered the news to my guys: I’m leaving Amed September 21 and flying to Bangkok early in the morning on September 22.  

Sweet Wayan Mendota (curly-haired Wayan) who uses his car to transport tourists around the island for a living was giving me a lift back to Amed when I sprung the news on him.  He immediately offered to drive me along with the available Amed Scuba guys to Kuta when it was time for me to go, so we planned a small send-off with a little gathering on the beach in South Bali.  

Wayan Mendota (far right) along with Wayan 1 and Shark at a beach cookout

 

This sparked an interesting discussion with Ali, ever the philosopher.  He essentially refused to tell me goodbye or ackowledge in any significant way that I was going or that anything would be any different.  “I don’t go to airports anymore to tell anyone goodbye,” he told me.  “I knew a German tourist who stayed here for three months. She became the girlfriend of one of my good friends and we spent a lot of time hanging out together.  When she told me she was leaving, it really hurt.  I knew she was going to come to my shop on her way out of town to say goodbye so I closed my shop and sat up on the hill.  Sure enough, she came by and called to me, ‘Ali! Ali!’  But I didn’t want to say goodbye so I just sat up on the hill where I could see her, but she couldn’t see me and I watched her go.  Bob Marley had it right when he sang, ‘Good friends we’ve had and good friends we’ve lost along the way.’”

I had a sudden realization, as I often do in discussions with Ali. The guys from Amed  (and many Balinese all over the island) encounter lots of tourists on their holidays. We blow in, love them, love their island and culture and then go home or on to other destinations and they’re left holding their hearts in their hands, not going anywhere. After hearing Ali’s point of view, I have a whole new appreciation for them now and the resiliancy of their hearts.  They know the tourists they come to love will eventually leave … and yet they still offer their hearts for the duration of the visit anyway.  They know that, bitter as the goodbyes are, the sweetness in the temporary connection is greater and worth the heartache when it eventually does come. 

bull and lion sarcophagi for upcoming cremation ceremony

I reflect on this as sweet, caretaking Bagong drives me back to Ubud.  This reflection along with the sun warming my shoulders and Bagong’s continued assurances that “It’s all good. It’s going to be okay,” eventually do make it all okay in my mind.  My heart stops aching (as much), my eyes stop tearing and I thoroughly enjoy and embrace all the sights of Bali as Bagong and I whiz past.  I even notice a few new things I hadn’t seen before: some of the mature rice fields have thin gauzy nets stretched over them presumably to keep the birds away from the grain that’s so close to harvest.  Sometimes the nets overlap and the whispy whiteness looks like a breeze that’s simultaneously blowing yet come to a halt over the rice paddy.  Or maybe they look more like giant cobwebs.  I can’t decide.  

We drove through a village that was preparing for a mass cremation to take place September 26.  Two lion and six bull sarcophagi have been prepared to carry the bodies to heaven and are standing sentry by the roadside as Bagong and I pass.  I haven’t seen anything like them in person during my time in Bali - only photographs. Ugh!  I’m kicking myself that I’m leaving 4 days too early!  I console myself with the thought that these ceremonies and many others are constantly occurring in Bali and will still be here when I come back. I’m certain that I will. 

babi guling from Ibu Oka

 

Bagong and I made it to Ubud in time for me to have a Skype conference with my family and then we went to check off one of the items on my to-do list … eat suckling pig (babi guling).  Most countries have a signature national dish.  If Bali were a nation and not just an island, babi guling  would undoubtedly be the national dish. It’s served at all the important ceremonies and events.  Somehow, I’ve managed to spend 6 weeks in Bali without having eaten it so Bagong and I head to the place in Ubud known to serve the best suckling pig:  Ibu Oka.  I now have yet another reason to come back to Bali.  It’s one of the best dishes I’ve eaten since setting foot on the island!  Ibu Oka serves an overly generous portion (neither Bagong or I could come close to finishing ours and regretted not just splitting a single order) of pork and in a variety of ways. The dish contains the roasted pork meat itself, tender, juicy and covered in spices; the skin cooked to a crispy sweet crunch; two different kinds of sausage; pork lawar (a veggie-based dish with small chopped pieces of pork mixed in) and a little bit of lung (I passed that part on to Bagong - it’s his favorite).  Oh and of course, plain steamed rice on the side as no Balinese meal is complete without it.  

Bagong in front of a rice field temple

Ibu Oka is understandably very popular and, accordingly, incredibly crowded.  I could tell that Bagong, who is a country boy to the core, was getting “itchy” being in the “crowded city” of Ubud so after stuffing ourselves, we went for one last drive in the countryside before turning in the motorbike.  We went down random roads that I had never explored before, marveling at the green rice fields with their many single temples where farmers prayed for healthy harvests.  We laughed at the quacking ducks wading through the brown stalks in rice fields already harvested looking for bugs and eels.  Each time we would come to more than two houses in a row, Bagong would say “not natural,” turn the bike around and head in a different direction.

At 4pm, we turned in the bike and soon after, Wayan Mendota along with Shark (who calls me Mama and who I’ve come to call Panak Kia which means Baby Boy Shark) and Wayan from Amed Scuba showed up with the car and we all drove to Kuta where I would spend the night.  Nyoman had customers doing a night dive that night and was unable to make it.  Miskin and Putu also had things to attend to so it was only a small band of us who journeyed South. On the drive to Kuta, the guys started singing the song “Leaving on a Jet Plane” which goes “I’m leaving on a jet plane. Don’t know when I’ll be back again. Oh babe, I hate to go.”  I’m sure I’m not the first tourist they’ve sung this to, but it brought tears to my eyes anyway.  Man, are they ever right about how much I hate to go! 

We had planned on spending a few hours on the beach in Kuta before they headed home, but on the way there, Wayna Mendota spotted a big sale on QuickSilver clothing, one of their favorite brands.  We shopped together for shirts for everyone … and that’s pretty much how we spent our last time together.  After my emotional roller coaster earlier in the day, I decided that a shopping party was probably better than a teary-eyed beach party where goodbyes would be more drawn out and painful.  As always, he had fun together which is the main thing.  

So here I am, now on the plane to Bangkok, still heartsick for Bali, Amed and all the friends and family I gained in the past six weeks … but also curious about what awaits in Thailand.  Maybe I’ll become as attached to that land and its people as I have to Bali and the Balinese.  On one hand, I hope so - that would make for an amazing 6 weeks.  On the other hand, I hope not. As much as I’m embracing it, I’m still feeling the sting of goodbye.

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I’m writing from Amed, the sleepy fishing village that tugged at my heart three weeks ago.  Technically, I’m still in the middle of my road trip. I’m just not making any more forward progress for the moment, happy to settle temporarily in a place that’s full of friends and that fits me like a glove.  I’ve been here for eight days now and think I’ll stay another three.  Or maybe five … or eight.  My original plan was to leave Bali September 15, but I’ve fallen in love with this island and am finding myself postponing my departure.  I can easily see how people come here for a short vacation and then never go home.  And that is particularly true for me of Amed.

 

So having spent eight days in a place described as a “sleepy fishing village,” you’re probably wondering why you haven’t seen more blog entries from me.  There have actually been a number of contributing factors.  When I arrived in Amed, I had the beginnings of what “blossomed” into a 10-day+ horrendous cold and lost my voice almost completely for four of those days.  The cold is still with me, but on its last legs thank goodness.  How do you get a cold in the tropics? Well, who knows exactly the source of each and every cold one gets, but I suspect that driving from cool, mountainous Ubud to warm coastal Tanah Lot, then up into and on top of the downright freezing mountains and through to the hot northern coast has something to do with it.  (I’m planning to tell you all about that trip at some point.  It appears that I’ve gotten wholly into the spirit of “Bali time” though so I won’t even pretend to make any promises as to when, but hopefully soon!) At any rate, all that is to say that I was really sick for my first 4 days in Amed. 

The main culprit in my distance from the keyboard, though, isn’t my cold.  It’s Amed itself.  Amed is a beautiful, peaceful place.  The water is an inviting clear blue color.  The road hugging the water’s edge runs like a roller coaster, at first straight and at sea level and then suddenly soaring up to the sky.  The next thing you know, you’re on a rocky cliff overlooking the curve of the water below into a quiet cove.  Cheerful colored quaint hollowed-out wooden boats fill the sea in the morning with hopeful fisherman and in the afternoon they decorate the rocky beaches.  The villagers, typically cheerful Balinese people, wave and shout hellos to everyone passing by on motorbikes, locals and tourists alike. But for me, the magic of Amed is concentrated in one special place: Amed Scuba.  

The first time I came here, I was charmed by the way the guys who work and hang out here interact with each other.  Although mostly in their mid-twenties, they have a endearing innocence about them that’s reminiscent of young teenagers. They’re completely sincere, although rarely serious; always joking, laughing and teasing with each other, their guests and customers.  They take care of each other and have an easy manner together that is devoid of the typical testosterone-charged atmosphere when western men get together, although they’re in no way effeminate.  As I watch them work, play and eat together, it’s clear to me in the way they share everything and work cooperatively what a marvelous team they are.  Although I’m trying, I’m really failing to adequately describe them, other than to say they’re clearly quite a special group of individuals around whom I feel very comfortable and happy.  

In fact, during this second visit here, I’ve come to think of four of them in particular as family. They have taken me in as a sort of a big sister and I’ve ensconced myself in their quasi-traditional Balinese life … at least for the time being.  Over the past eight days, I feel like I’ve gained four younger brothers as well as a host of other friends.

 

Nyoman, 26 and the owner of Amed Scuba, is the main jester of the bunch, silly and monkey-like in his antics, but also a good leader, well-respected and much liked by the others. Bagong, who I call “shy shy cat,” at 25 is the hardest worker in the group.  Tall and skinny, he’s a natural caretaker, sweet and thoughtful of everyone around him as well as an amazing cook.  He seems to have put himself in charge of my comfort here as he’s always doing extra nice things for me:  bringing a baby chicken for me to watch and enjoy, washing my motorbike, surprising me with a soda from the shop down the street, chopping everything for me when I cook … the list goes on.  Wayan, 20, also a good worker, lives for tunes. Each day, I feed him a steady diet of my favorite music via my iPod which I loan to him every morning.  He returns it in the evening for recharging and a new playlist.  Shark, 19, is the curly-headed baby of the bunch.  He’s quiet, lost in his world of music, but spends much time doting on a chicken the group recently acquired to enter in a cockfight.  At the request of my brother John (my American brother that is), we’ve named the chicken Little Jerry Seinfeld.  Despite the fact that all Jerry does is blink at us, crow and peck at his corn, I think we’ve all become rather attached to him so I think he’s safe from becoming dinner anytime soon … unless of course he loses his fight.  I spend most of my time with these four guys as they actually work at Amed Scuba.  

The dive shop is the same kind of communal gathering spot as an old-timey barbershop (or as Douglas Hardware in Brookport, Illinois) though so there are a number of other regulars who spend a lot of time here, but don’t actually work here. Putu and I naturally connected because of our shared name.  He drives a bemo which is like a public transportation shuttle bus.  He’s a live wire, always laughing and creating mischief. Everyone agrees that he’s a little bit crazy - or, as they say here, “one o’clock.”  Ali, 28, is Nyoman’s very wise older brother.  A former rastafarian, he’s very spiritual and enjoys deep philosophical conversations.  He runs a silver jewelry shop for a living, but plays guitar and sings on the side at a few restaurants around town.  Miskin, 26, is a student in law school. He’s very bright, energetic and outgoing and is also quite interesting to talk with.

When I first got to Amed, I stayed in the same hotel as last time which is right next door to Amed Scuba.  For some reason though, water was only dripping from the shower  and only one of the lights in the room worked which meant I could barely see after dark.    When the owner wasn’t able to repair these things after three days, I was ready to find a new home.  I asked Nyoman for recommendations for hotels close by.  He would hear none of it and insisted I stay in the guest room upstairs at his shop.  He told me that he had occasionally used this room when he was too tired to drive to his home, but most recently it had been mainly used as a spare room.

I went next door to pack my bags and was astonished when I returned to find that the guys had jumped into action in my absence and had completely cleaned and rearranged the room for my stay.  The bed was freshly made and flowers were laid out on my pillow.  Later that evening, when I came back from using the internet, the guys had piled up all kinds of creature comforts at the bedroom door to make my stay more pleasant:  a fan, special lotion to keep mosquitoes away, fresh towels and blankets and lots of extra pillows.  Each day since then, they’ve continued to leave something at my door to make me more comfortable and/or bring a smile to my face.  

 

When I was suffering through the worst stages of my cold, they put much thought and effort into making me well.  Over the course of several days, Ali sent Wayan to buy ginger and they made me ginger tea. Nyoman picked up some medicine from the pharmacy for me and Bagong mixed up a homemade Balinese remedy that his grandmother had taught him called “loloh” which was herbs, water, salt and onion.  The loloh actually tasted quite good in the morning when the herbs were most fresh.  My second and third batches which Bagong supervised in the afternoon and evening tasted more of salt than herbs as the batch had settled and become less fresh through the day.

Three days ago in the afternoon,  the guys took me to see some rice fields out in the country where farmers still use cows to plow the soil.  We sat on the cliff overlooking the field while the farmer and his cows tilled the soil.  Ali made us all laugh when he sighed and with a big grin said, “There’s nothing better than watching other people work.”  After the rice fields, we went to see a waterfall.  At least I thought that was the plan. I didn’t actually see the waterfall because the guys had decided they were going to take fresh water showers under it so I waited under a large banyan tree, drinking a soda they had bought for me, watching some local village kids play soccer in a dusty field with a lovely temple as a backdrop.  

 

 

For each of the things they’ve given me (medicine, sodas food and even a new pair of flip flops), they refuse money when I try to repay them.  Nyoman will not let me give him money for my stay either. So I help with the chores and cooking around the “house,” buy whatever groceries they will let me and burn them many many CDs of the American music that they like.  

 

An unusual thing happened several nights after I got here though.  On Friday, I asked Bagong early in the afternoon to take me with him to the market when he went to buy ingredients for dinner.  I wanted to pay.  He managed to divert the subject.  I later asked Nyoman the same thing.  He indicated that I still wasn’t well enough to eat their spicy food so I should just get something to eat at Cafe C’est Bon, where  Ali and a friend of his where playing guitar that night.  We were all planning to go.  He still never answered what they were eating. 

I went to check the internet (posting my last blog entry).  When I came back, they were all gathered around the table eating peanuts. “Aren’t you coming to Cafe C’est Bon?” I asked them.  I knew they were anxious to support Ali.  “Later,” was the answer.  I was confused.  “Aren’t you eating dinner there?”  Mumble, mumble.  It was 7:30 and they hadn’t started cooking dinner yet - strange for them as they usually begin around 6:00.  Putting this all together, I began to suspect they weren’t eating tonight either here or at Cafe C’est Bon.  Now I was more confused.  I had never known them to skip any meals, but given their hesitation to discuss it, I got the feeling that for some reason they didn’t have the money for dinner that night but were too proud to say so.  “What are you guys eating for dinner tonight?”  The laughed off my question. 

I felt awful … and very protective.  These sweethearts had been buying all kinds of things for me.  My brothers were not about to go hungry while I was around.  I decided immediately to buy them some dinner from the restaurant and bring it back.  Nyoman went with me to Cafe C’est Bon and we caught the beginning of Ali’s act.  We ordered our food plus 7 orders of Nasi Campur (local chicken and rice dish) to go.  Nyoman suggested I just order 2 portions and they would all share, as I had seen them do on a number of occasions.  Although they’re all in their mid-twenties, they still seem like “growing boys” to me so I insisted we buy a full portion for each person.  Besides, when I’m hungry, I can eat a full plate and they do more physical labor during the day than I so I’m sure they’re hungry enough for a plate each.

After a minute, I thought, this is silly.  They want to be here to support Ali and the only reason they’re not here is because they can’t afford to eat.  But we’re bringing food from this very restaurant back to them.  They might as well come and eat it here.  It felt wrong to be there at the restaurant enjoying food and Ali’s music without them.  So I asked Nyoman to call them, fill them in  on the situation and invite them to come.  They were ecstatic.  

Shark was the first to come bounding in with a big grin on his face.  The thought of a big plate of food clearly pleased him.  Wayan, Putu and Bagong followed and piled in around the table.  The others had apparently gone home before getting the call. 

During part of the meal, they spoke Balinese to each other.  When I asked what they said, Bagong kept waving me off, imploring them not to tell me.  Wayan reported that Bagong had suggested no one eat the meat in their food so they could take it home and use it for a soup for tomorrow.  Bagong blushed, mortified.  I assured them there would be plenty of food tomorrow.  

fresh mackeral for dinner

 

 

 

They won’t let me pay for every meal so sometimes we share 5 fish and a pot of rice among 7 or 8 of us.  Even when they do let me buy, they still insist that one chicken (and these aren’t the full size chickens we get at the grocery in the States) will be more than enough for 8 people.  So I do what I can and otherwise am adapting to their concept of “enough.”  I’m never hungry, but I do worry that they’re not getting enough protein or nutrition - green vegetables are only on the menu when I cook.  Since this is just a temporary situation for me, I’m not too worried about my own nutrition.

As I’ve gotten progressively more healthy from my cold each day, I’ve been joining more and more in the chores which seem to go on and on all day, but they don’t feel like work since we’re always doing them together and having fun.  Cooking here takes much longer than at home.  Nothing is bought ready to cook, most especially the chickens which we buy live.  It’s been an interesting mental adjustment picking out and carrying home the live animal that will become our lunch or dinner.  Typically, when the Balinese go to buy a chicken, its feet are tied together.  To transport the chicken home, the Balinese hang the chicken upside down by the string around its feet on a plastic hook on the motorbike. The first chicken I bought with Bagong had the disgrace to ride home this way and I was troubled the entire time.  It’s bad enough we’re killing the poor thing, I thought, but to have her be so uncomfortable for the last 30 minutes of her life was more than I could stand.  All the guys think I’m silly about this, but now each chicken I buy rides home right side up in a plastic bag with her head poking out, a modified version of the way people carry little dogs around in bags that look like purses.  Although I’m sure the chicken is still scared, I figure it’s got to be far less frightening than flying (not of her own accord) at 40 kph upside down hung from a hook on a motorbike with the blood all rushing to her head.  

(left to right) Ali, Shark, Wayan and Bagong under a banyan tree

 

 

 

 

At any rate, these days I spend most of my time helping the guys care for the grounds (my official job is to water the flowers and plants), sometimes cooking, sometimes helping to clean up after meals.  It seems like something is always going on so between everything, I haven’t found much time for writing.  I miss the writing very much, but am also enjoying living somewhat like a traditional Balinese person for a while.

Funny.  When I came here I wanted very much to be part of a homestay where I could really become part of a family.  I had envisioned more a traditional nuclear family.  I’m sure “living with” a bunch of Balinese guys in their early to mid-twenties is not exactly a traditional experience (actually, I’m the only one sleeping on the property but all our waking hours are spent together so it feels like living with them), but I couldn’t be happier than I am for the time being with the family I’ve found.

Regarding my Bali Eco tour post the other day, the additional photos have now been added to the “Photos of Her Adventure” page and video is now available by clicking here.

POST-SCRIPT (September 23):  It’s come to my attention since writing this entry that I had some misunderstandings in Amed and would like to correct some impressions I had and about which I wrote.  I thought, based on the portion sizes that I saw the Amed Scuba guys eating, that they didn’t have enough money to eat and that they were hungry.  In fact, they simply don’t eat a lot.  Even when I cooked or bought food and served them Western sized portions which I thought they would gobble down, they still ate the same amount as usual and it turns out a lot was left over.  I guess eating only Balinese portions and not our super-sized Western ones is the way these guys stay looking so fit and without lots of “junk in the trunk” like they tease me about having!

Also, the night that I thought they didn’t have money to eat and I bought them food at Cafe C’est Bon, they were apparently teasing me and had already eaten.  Jokers that they are, they were probably also pulling my leg telling me that Bagong suggested saving the meat.  I guess this just means I need to learn to speak Balinese!  Then I won’t misunderstand as much and also can catch them when they try to play a joke on me.  So look out boys! 

My apologies to these guys if I made them sound like paupers - they’re definitely not -  and for misunderstanding the situation.  They made me feel like a queen during my time in Amed and I’m most appreciative of their friendship, generosity and hospitality.

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I started my second motorbike roadtrip exploring Bali 8 days ago.  Between that time and now, I’ve had internet access only once as the small villages around the island are not yet connected to the ether.  I can’t blame being behind on my stories entirely on the internet though as I’ve also had a complete lack of time to write as well.  So now I’m finally hitting the keyboard again.  I’ve been missing it a lot.

the view from Kintamani

Although I’m not always an organized person, I’m typically a pretty organized thinker so instead of launching into some stories about the roadtrip that I’m still in the middle of as you might expect I would do, I’m going to fill you in on some stories from Ubud on which quite behind.  In between the current roadtrip and the one I took with Munawar a couple weeks ago, I took the only organized tour I’ve been on thus far during my trip:  an “Eco Bicycle Tour.”  

Now I have to confess, I’m not sure what exactly about this tour made it eco-friendly - perhaps that we were using bicycles (known here as “push bikes”) instead of motorbikes? - but the trip itself was wonderful.  I was picked up in a shuttle bus from my hotel in Ubud and driven, along with 9 other people, about an hour and a half away to a village called Kintamani that sits at the top of a mountain and overlooks one of eight volcanos on Bali as well as a large lovely lake.  On the opposite side of the lake is a village, isolated even by Bali standards, who have the unique distinction of not burying or cremating their dead, but laying their bodies out in the cemetery exposed to the elements to decompose naturally.  As we gazed out at this splendid view (mountains and lakes, not decomposing bodies), we ate a yummy breakfast of chocolate and banana pancakes (the pancakes here are more like thick crepes than what we call pancakes in the States), fried rice and fresh fruit.  

jackfruit tree

 

Bellies full, we hopped back in the shuttle buses to a coffee plantation that also served as sample garden of the many varieties of herbs, spices, fruits and vegetables grown on Bali.  We saw and smelled lemongrass and curry leaves as well as some additional spice leaves which don’t exist in the States. We saw jackfruit, mango and salak (the “mystery” snakeskin fruit I encountered in “In Asia at Last!”) trees.  And remember the special coffee that was an obsession of Jack Nicholson’s character in the movie the Bucket List?  It was called Luwak and cost $100 per cup.  His character was distraught toward the middle of the movie when he learned that the coffee received its distinctive flavor when the fruit containing the seed that eventually becomes the coffee is eaten whole by an animal called the Asian palm civet.  The animal can’t digest the seed which is excreted, still whole, the collected, washed and roasted.  Well … it turns out the palm civets are native to Bali and this plantation had several that were happily snoozing as we wandered the grounds.  

Asian palm civet

The plantation guides walked us through the coffee roasting proess and then treated us to same samples of coffees and teas from ingredients grown from their land:  Balinese coffee (very strong), hot chocolate from homegrown cacao (best hot chococate I’ve ever had!), ginseng coffee (my favorite), lemongrass tea (tasted like a mild form of ginger) and ginger tea (very strong … delicious!).  They also had homegrown tobacco and papers so customers could roll their own cigarettes.  I’m not a smoker, but figured this was something I’d like to try.  I struggled as I attempted to  roll my own cigarette until a more experienced member of the group took pity on me and took over.  Our group of 8 watched expectantly, waiting for this non-smoker to cough and splutter after my first toke.  I took a page out of Bill Clinton’s book, however, and didn’t inhale, disappointing those who were waiting to laugh at my coughing fits.  After about 3 puffs, I confirmed that, while this was a novel experience, smoking (even with homegrown Balinese tobacco) wasn’t for me.  

different types of coffee and tea

Post-coffee and tea sampling, the plantation folks gave us samples of tropical fruits some of which were already familiar to me:  salak, passion fruit, mango and papaya.  New fruits to me were tamarillo (they look like a plum tomato outside, but have black seeds on the inside and taste sweeter and more fruit-like than a tomato) and mangosteen (looks like an apple with round hard leaves on the outside. The inside is a hard shell with soft, white pulpy sections in the middle.  You eat the the white pulpy part.  It tastes sweet, and kind of like pineapple with a completely different texture. I’m a fan!).  

checking out the local flavor

Of course after all these free samples, these marketing geniuses wisely took us to their giftshop where they sold everything we had just tasted along with about 50 different kinds of additional spices.  They also had Luwak coffee for that bargain basement price of $100 per box.  One nice thing about traveling light as I’m doing is that I’m not tempted to buy anything because I know I don’t have room to carry it.  It makes browsing much more relaxing!  

At last we were ready to hop on our bikes and start the hard work  … of coasting downhill for about 2-3 hours.  Easy on the legs, but hard on the hands for constantly braking.  We were offered the option of doing a fast ride which included a lot of uphill work.  Naturally, all but one really fit German guy (who, incidentally, happened to be a juggler) chose the slow downhill, picture-taking mode.  

 

high fives with the local kids

Our guide told us in advance that we would feel like celebrities during our ride because the children would run out into the street and line up to give us “high fives” and everyone would shout hello to us.  They weren’t kidding.  I must have given over 100 “high fives” that day and said “hello” about 200 more times.  The children and adults alike happily posed for photos.  In fact, many requested that their photos be taken and then thanked me for doing so.  A photographer’s dream, for sure! I must say that it’s nice to feel welcomed by the Balinese and not resented.

The first stop on the bike tour was at the home of a family who specialized in making bamboo products: baskets, mats, woven bamboo ceilings.  As we walked through their compound, I noticed a home gym setup that was straight out of a Fred Flinstone cartoon.  The weight lifting bench was made of wood and each of the weights were different sized round wheels of concrete.  

 

 

 

 

Bamboo in Bali is used to make everything imaginable.  It’s used for clothesline, drinking cups, baskets, walls, ceilings, fences, ladders and a number of things I’ve forgotten to list. In addition to learning about the multiple uses for bamboo, we saw a typical Balinese kitchen and learned about the physical layout of the family compound.  The compound, our guide explained, is like the body; it has a head a torso and legs.  The head end of each compound is always the end closest to Mount Agung, considered the holiest mountain in Bali.  This end contains the family temple.  At the “feet” end of the compound is animal pen.  The family lives and cooks in the “body” with sleeping quarters closest to the temple end and the kitchen closest to the animal pen.  Because the Balinese believe the spirits of their ancestors return to their former homes, no Balinese can sell their family compound because that would be like selling the ancestors themselves.  Another interesting aspect of the family compound concerns the placenta of each person living there.  The Balinese believe that the placenta and blood of each baby is holy and akin to the baby’s brothers so at birth, these (called “ari ari”) are saved and placed inside a hollowed-out coconut shell.  The shell is then buried in front of the northernmost building in the compound.  Ari ari’s of boys are buried on the right side of the building and girls’ are buried on the left.  The burial spot of each ari ari is marked with a special stone and three sticks tied together to form what looks like the spine of teepee. 

 

We left the home of the “bamboo family” and rode our bikes down quiet country roads through miles and miles of rice fields and temples.  We passed men working in fields and weaving mats out of palm leaves for roofs.  I saw women carrying baskets of leaves, large bundles of firewood, buckets of concrete and entire tree trunks on their heads.  Men everywhere were massaging their prized fighting roosters for cockfights I have yet to see.  We stopped at the home of a woodworker and then at the home of a  family of rice farmers. It was quite an education in the lives of Balinese who are not involved in the tourist industry (although even these families are affected - they received a small stipend for allowing us to view their homes and businesses).  

Balinese man working by the roadside

In general, the main roads in Bali are pretty well maintained.  The roads not considered main roads, however, range from pretty good to filled with potholes.  Unfortunately, this particular fell into the latter category.  I tried filming as I was coasting to give you an idea of what it’s like to ride down a lovely road in Bali … and almost fell off my bike a couple of times as I would ride right into a pothole when I wasn’t watching the road.  After coming close to breaking both my arm and my camera equipment, my survival instincts won out over my photographic ones (I included my “near spill” in the footage … it’s obvious!)  

a beautifully laid out lunch

 

We finished our interesting and interactive bike ride with a tasty lunch that was beautifully presented in clay pots lined with banana leaves.  Although we hadn’t exactly burned many calories during our “coast,” we were still hungry and smoke duck, smoked chicken, lawar (Balinese vegetable-based dish), mie goreng (fried noodles) and nasi goreng (fried rice) hit the spot. As usual, I was so hungry, I forgot to photograph my multi-colored feast.  I did remember to photograph our fresh fruit salad dessert, however, which was just as lovely.

dessert

 

The “Eco Tour” was offered through Bali Budaya Tours and I would highly recommend it to anyone in or near Ubud.

 Additional photos for this and other blog entries can be found on the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of this blog.  

To see video from my Eco Bike tour (including my near wipe out) click here.

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This is just a quick post from Southwest Bali to let you know that I’m on another jaunt around the island by motorbike - this time I’m driving!  I’ve gotten much better on the motorbike but I must say that it  took nerves of steel driving through Denpasar (that’s the city in Bali that has the airport) but that should be the worst of the trip.  

I’m currently in Tanah Lot on the coast where there is an amazing temple built on a rock that comes right out of the ocean.  Non-Balinese are not permitted to enter the temple and the Balinese can only access it in low tide because otherwise it becomes a mini-island.  It’s really an amazing sight (which I’ll share with you later).  There’s not public internet access here - the hotel I’m staying at is letting me use their computer briefly … just long enough to send a few emails and post this story, but I’m unable to upload photos so I’ll just tell you a little bit about it until I can post them. 

I got here yesterday afternoon just in time for sunset.  There was (not surprisingly in Bali) a ceremony going on so the air was perfumed with incense and chanting.  The temple was an amazing sight in its own right, but really came to life as the Balinese, dressed in their ceremonial best, ascended the stairs to pray.  I got up at 5:30 this morning to catch sunrise on the temple and was also treated to glimpses of fisherman in small charming wooden boats and crabs scurrying across the rocks as I approached.

Later this morning, my friend Juha and I will head north to the mountains to the Danau Bratan area (I’ll also post a map of the roadtrip when I’m able) which should have lovely views of a mountain lake.  We’ll pass through many small villages on the way, including an area known for growing deliciously sweet strawberries.

Back soon … Putu.

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So there I was, in the midst of a cremation procession (I can’t say that everyday) and I could barely contain my excitement.  As the parade advanced toward us, I noticed groups of people carrying different objects. The first man carried a long white cloth and about ten women walked behind him each holding a segment of the cloth. Immediately after them, four men passed in front of me carrying an empty wooden coffin that looked like a bed and was painted bright yellow with other colorful accents. Next in the procession came a small tower that appeared to be about five feet tall. It was also painted in bright cheerful colors and was attached to a bamboo grid platform born by 9 adolescent boys. At the base were a variety of local fruits. Strips of young coconut leaves waved in the wind from the top.

The second tower to approach was larger and was born by about 20 men on a wider bamboo grid. It looked to be about eight feet tall. Sitting at the top of the colorful tower, there appeared to be a regal-looking chair sheltered from the sun by a happy yellow silk-tasseled umbrella. The seat of the chair was stuffed with different kinds of grasses and about five fabrics of different colors and lengths flowed from the front of the seat like carpets.

wade coming up the hill

Both of these towers, however, were dwarfed in size, color and detail by the last and largest tower, the wade, which was so heavy it had to be carried by 50 men who still strained under its weight. As the twelve-foot tall tower approached me, I noticed two men riding in the top tier, each hanging on for dear life as the men carrying the tower ran and twirled it in the streets. Sometimes the weight of the wade was too much for its carriers who would collapse under it making me wonder if the tower and men inside would fall to the ground. The men in the wade were there to secure the body of the deceased which was wrapped in a white sheet and was also riding in the tower. Given all the spinning and near drops, it was amazing that the men and their precious cargo didn’t all spill out. Luckily that didn’t happen although sometimes it apparently does as I was advised that there exists a special ceremony to take the body back in the event it falls and touches the ground.

Following the wade was a throng of people with a twenty-five or thirty member band of musicians playing upbeat festive Balinese music that contributed to the mood that more closely resembled Mardi Gras than a funeral procession.

When the men carrying the wade approached the intersection at the top of the hill, they began running in a circle, spinning the wade to confuse the spirit of the dead woman so that she could not return home. As they spun, some of the carriers fell to their knees causing the wade to dip very precariously. Apparently it was well attached to the bamboo grid, however, and didn’t fall off. The men recovered, rebalanced and surged forward at a run. Sometimes the power lines were too low for wade to pass and a man carrying a long bamboo pole with a V-shaped tip would lift up the line so the wade could pass under.

Mun and I hopped on our motorbike and took up the rear guard of the procession which passed right in front of Ayu and Raka’s house. Mun, who had been sick on and off the past few days, was exhausted and didn’t share my enthusiasm for the cremation ceremony. So he stayed at the house where Ayu and Raka kindly let him take a nap while I continued to follow the procession on foot. I had only walked about one block when I heard a friendly voice behind me say, “Hi. How are you? Where are you from?” I turned to see a handsome young Balinese man smartly dressed in black and white with a video camera in his hand.

He introduced himself as Wisnu and told me that he was the great-grandson of the woman being cremated. He was in charge of making a video of the proceedings for the family and invited me to join him! I eagerly agreed and all of a sudden, instead of filming and photographing the events from the rear, I was now escorted to the front and given, along with Wisnu, the choicest spots from which to record the celebration. Wisnu and I would run to the front of the procession, film for a bit as they passed us and then run to the front again. I wanted to capture the event both on video and with still pictures. Without Mun there to assist me, I often had the movie camera in my left hand, my D5 in my right hand and a lens cap in my mouth as my pants pockets were completely inaccessible under my sarong. It was probably the most exhilarating photography I’ve ever done.

The procession turned down a quiet street and shortly thereafter into a field that apparently served as the village cemetery. Wisnu and I were in front of the wade at this point, walking backwards over the uneven terrain, filming as we went. Several times I tripped over the back of my long sarong which kept getting caught under my shoes. The men carrying the wade were having just as difficult a time controlling their cargo and Wisnu warned me that if I fell, I would simply be trampled by the wade-bearing men as they would be unable to stop their momentum. Already sensing that this would be the case, I ceased filming momentarily, hiked up my sarong and moved to higher ground.

About 100 yards into the cemetery, the men set the wade down near a small hill about 15 feet high upon which was constructed a wooden table covered by a temporary bamboo pavilion wrapped in white sheets. The musicians took their seats in the field and the music ceased. The four men who had been carrying the empty casket placed it on the table. Several men took the body down from the top of the wade, placed it on what looked like a stretcher made of bamboo and carried it to the top of the hill. They processed around the pavilion three times, shaking the body somewhat violently as they escorted it. I think the significance of the three circles was the same as in the Memukur, each pass representing the three levels of existence: the lower beings, humans and the gods. After the last pass, they placed the body in the casket and threw the stretcher on the ground to the side. Women carrying large black tubs on their heads walked up the hill and about 15 immediate family members gathered around the body.

I could see that they were performing various mini-ceremonies around the body but couldn’t really see what was going on. Wisnu was at the top of the hill filming, but I assumed that my invitation to join him had only included the procession and not this intimate gathering which was family only. I joined the rest of the villagers and more distantly related family in the field and put a long lens on my camera to resume photography from there. As I looked around the field, I noticed about 5 westerners photographing the event, presumably equally interested in this fascinating custom. I turned my attention back to the people around me and was surprised and amused to see a man selling cigarettes walking through the crowd and hawking his wares. It was most definitely a different atmosphere from any funeral I’d ever attended! 

I looked at the top of the hill again and was astonished to see Wisnu beckoning me to come up. It was obviously such an intimate gathering at the top of the hill, I thought I must be imagining things. “Who me?” I indicated, pointing to myself and giving him a quizical look. Yes, he nodded. Come up here.

I must have turned fifty shades of red to match my kebaya as I walked up the hill, hoping everyone had also seen Wisnu invite me, imagining though that they did not and were wondering who was the presumptuous white western woman invading this special ceremony. At the top of the hill, he introduced me to several of his relatives and then cleared a space for me at his great-grandmother’s feet so that I had an ideal view of the ministrations to her body. I photographed quickly, thinking that my invitation to be present was merely momentary. Wisnu again surprised me when, instead of indicating that I should return to my place at the bottom of the hill, he began explaining what was going on. I filmed and listened simultaneously. 

The body was still wrapped in a sheet. Several people on either side of the coffin held a piece of cloth that looked like cheesecloth about a foot over the body. There were already flowers strewn on top of the cloth as well as on the body itself and the priest was pouring container after container of water over the flower-covered cloth. Some containers were lovely ceramic while most others were humble plastic baggies. Wisnu explained that the water symbolized cleansing and each container of water came from different rivers and temples all over the island; each having been specially gathered for this ceremony. There are obviously a lot of different rivers and temples with holy water on the island; I must have seen at least 20-30 containers of water poured through the cloth and onto the body.

Wisnu explained that unlike many Balinese, his great-grandmother had not been buried after she died but was immediately cremated. Apparently, his family was wealthy enough to afford the expensive ceremony (in their case around $6,000). Most families have to save money for many years to afford a cremation during which time their dead lie buried in the cemetery. “Immediate” has a different meaning in Bali though than it would in the west. Wisnu’s great-grandmother died 20 days before she was cremated. Those who have money for immediate cremation will consult the pednanda (high priest) for the first auspicious date dictated by the Balinese calendar to hold the cremation ceremony. Until then, body is laid out in the bale of the family compound (the bale is a special room in the compound used only for the most important ceremonies). Immediately (in the western sense) after death, the body is injected with enbalming fluid to preserve it and prevent decay during the wait for the cremation. The Balinese also use this time to prepare the myriad of offerings used in the ceremony, build the wade and accompanying towers, gather the waters from all over the island and many other things that take place “behind the scenes.” Everyday during the time that the body is lying in state, special offerings are brought to it, including coffee, tea and symbolic meals.

box with great-grandmother's personal belongings

At this point, five women carried another white sheet from the bottom of the hill to the top and placed it on the body. They unrolled the sheet which contained flowers, rice and some belongings of the dead woman. They also brought a small white wooden box whose contents they emptied one at a time and placed on the body. Mostly, these were clothes and personal items that belonged to the lady. They laid her with her sarong and kebaya on top of her body, pulled a brand new pair flip-flops from their plastic wrapper and placed them near her feet. Money and Chinese coins were put in the coffin along with the rest. I have read that the purpose of a Balinese cremation ceremony is to free the body of all worldly attachments so I presume that was the reason the family was burning all of the woman’s belongings along with her body, preparing her soul to be reunited with the Supreme Being as a first step to her reincarnation. Before leaving the hill, the family last placed under the table a bamboo basket of green leaves that I guess also contained some offerings.

body prepared for cremation

 

At one point during all the ministrations, Wisnu had left the hill, telling me to stay and keep photographing. That was all the encouragement I needed. He returned a while later with a bottle of water for me. My God! Could this guy make me feel any more like an honored guest?! Throughout our time on the hill, I thanked him profusely for allowing me this rare close-up glimpse into a ceremony I’d been reading about since before my trip began. I told him repeatedly what a very special gift he was giving me and that I considered it an honor and a privilege to be allowed into such an intimate family moment. His reason for inviting me, he said, was so that I could tell other westerners about Bali and their traditions, hopefully enticing others to come see for themselves. No problem, I thought! But what about the other western photographers lingering in the field that day (who I’m sure were not happy to have a white woman “embedded” with the family “ruining” their photo opps)? Why didn’t Wisnu invite them for a close-up view too? Was it just because he and I had already chatted in the street? Or because I was the only one wearing a traditional Balinese costume (if so, thank goodness for the ceremony that morning!). Whatever his reason for inviting me, I will be forever grateful.