Arrived 2 August 2019
Sanur
From Puerto Princesa on the Philippines island of Palawan I took an evening flight to Manila, arriving at 9.00 pm. My onward flight to Bali was not until 3.45 am, so to rest in the meantime at the terminal I found a lounge that accepted walk in guests (most require membership or business class tickets). I set my alarm for 2.15 am and settled down to relax on a nearly fully reclining chair, only to find it was not as comfortable as it appeared in pictures; it was very hard, and the pillow was tiny.
I was just dropping off when the man next to me in the semi-darkened room got up, spent some time organising his bag and left. Just as I was eventually getting sleepy again, someone else arrived and rustled plastic bags for 20 minutes before sitting and looking at his phone for another 20. He left and I couldn’t get comfy until I padded out the pillow with my fleece, whereupon he returned and began rustling again. Patience wearing thin by this time, I politely pointed out that if he wanted to organise his case maybe he could do it outside. He quietened down and, after concentrating on my breathing for a long time, I slipped into a deep sleep…
…I woke up groggily and looked at my watch. 9.00! I had slept through the alarm and missed my flight! Panic! I tried to pick up my bag but it was stuck under the seat…
…I woke up again and looked at my watch. 1.45! It had just been a dream! I hadn’t missed my flight after all! Phew!
I had a bowl of the complimentary corn flakes and made my way to airport security, where they had a surprise for me.
“You have a pair of nail scissors?”
“Yes.”
“Not allowed on flights in the Philippines, sir.”
“But this is my fifth flight in the Philippines and no one has bothered before.”
“Sorry sir.”
“Goodbye nail scissors, again.”
The rest of my journey was uneventful and I was fortunate to be able to check into my guest room at 9.00 am.
Sanur is on the east coast; it merges into Denpasar, Kuta and other towns to form a more or less continuous urban area right across the south of the island. The main roads are crowded with traffic, both cars and motor bikes. Crossing the road can be a challenge; there are pedestrian crossings, but they appear to confer no special privilege at all. To get to the beach I have to walk along a very busy road on a narrow pavement that has occasional gaping holes that would break a leg if you stepped into them. Then I cross the road at traffic lights with the only pedestrian light I have seen. I have found the best way to cross is to wait until the man lights up green, then say my prayers as I dodge the traffic still turning at speed across the road from two directions.
To be fair, that local intersection is the worst I have found, and most roads do have decent pavements, unlike the Philippines. In fact, where the Philippines was scruffy and largely unbeautified, Bali shows what you can do when you care about the environment. Where the beachfront at Alona was spoiled by the hotch potch developments, In Sanur the beach front is a very pleasant place to be, despite or perhaps because of the more or less continuous series of bars, resort hotels, little shops and restaurants. And walking towards the centre of Denpasar along a busy road, it was lined for a mile on both sides by nurseries with attractive displays of plants right out to the pavement.
Perhaps I should not compare the two countries, especially as I suspect that Bali is not typical of the rest of Indonesia, but it is hard not to when they are both island nations, one about 10 degrees north of the equator and the other a similar distance south. I saw nobody begging or sleeping on the street in Denpasar, although I am told that does happen in the Indonesian capital, Jakarta. So far, at least, I have seen no examples of the shacks that a large proportion of Filipinos live in; people here have decent looking houses.
After a relaxing couple of days catching up on sleep and strolling by the beach, I went looking for the sights of Denpasar. First stop was Lapangan Puputan Margarana, a most impressive looking monument that on first sight, and even on closer inspection, appears to be ancient but was in fact built between 1988 and 2003. It celebrates the all out (‘puputan’) struggle against Dutch colonialism. As recently as 2006 the Dutch were invading and Balinese kings were dying in battle.
Next stop was Pura Jagatnatha Denpasar, a Hindu temple. This ancient looking structure also turned out be a youngster, just 52 years old. I had to cover my legs with a sari to enter.
Opposite the temple, and by far more popular, was a park, crowded with families enjoying the Sunday afternoon. The place was quite idyllic as children played ball and flew kites while parents ate picnics on the grass and hawkers sold drinks and food and toys from baskets on their heads. There was even a band.
Moving on from the relaxed atmosphere of the park I entered the crowded commercial market area, where motor bikes and pick up trucks vied with pedestrians to find a way between the backs of small trucks piled high with vegetables, not to mention the fish and chicken stalls.
One end of Sanur beach is crowded with motor launches taking visitors to neighbouring islands. I booked myself on one going to Nusa Lembongan, a 30 minute trip in the 40-seater fast boat with three large outboard motors. Getting on and off involves wading through the water. Several passengers planned to stay on the island; their large suitcases were carried over rocks and onto the boat on the shoulders of a bare-footed youth who was clearly stronger than he looked.
We disembarked at Mushroom Beach on the sheltered north coast and I set out to walk across the island to Dream Beach in the south. It was more noticeable here than it had been in Sanur that this was the dry season: plants were drooping and losing leaves; even the cacti looked parched. Despite this it was a pleasant walk except for a couple of large piles of plastic bottles amongst the trees, looking like they had been there some time.
Dream beach was spectacular; not more than 200 yards long with headlands at either end, it channelled the waves into the bay. I spent a long time watching the breakers roll in and surge foaming up the steeply shelving beach; almost as hypnotic as the traffic below my Manila hotel, and distinctly more beautiful. Plenty of people sunbathed and quite a few would stand at the edge of the water for a while, but very few were brave enough to try swimming.
Not far away was a small inlet where the sea had carved under the rocks. Waves rushed into the caves and then the pressure would explode the water out and into the air, soaking anyone who stood in the wrong place.
The whole coastline was subject to a battering from the waves, the headlands when hit by a large one sending spray high into the air.
I eventually made my way back to Mushroom Beach where I found a vacant sun lounger and busied myself making a short video for granddaughter Isobel and soon to be husband Garrett, and advertising the Taunton Thespians next production with a picture of a poster on my phone. Strange to say I didn’t get many takers.
Although the sea was not rough going to or from the island, the boat on the way out had tended to bang down on the water sometimes as it rode the long swells. Returning, the effect was much stronger; it sounded like the hull was crashing down on concrete not water, or that Arnie Schwarzenegger was attempting to smash his way into the boat with an iron bar. I wondered how long boats last with that sort of treatment, presumably every day. Fortunately it survived long enough to bring me safely back to Bali.
My stay in Sanur has been very pleasant. So far Bali is living up to its reputation as a great place to visit.
Ubud
After 5 nights in Sanur it was time to move on to Ubud, the supposedly more laid back centre of arts and temples. I booked a place on a 11.00 bus for the 1 hour journey, and was told to wait 100 yards up the road from the office. There was no bus stop or other indication on the busy road full of parked cars and motor bikes, but a taxi driver assured me I was in the right place – and that I would be much better off travelling with him for four times the price. I resisted his admonishments and waited for the bus, which finally arrived 20 minutes late. I was one of only 3 passengers on the 30 seater vehicle, which travelled non-stop and did the trip in 50 minutes, despite most of it being on a crowded and seemingly endless high street lined with shops, restaurants and businesses.
It was a bit of a hike to my guest house (that is where the taxi would have helped), which is a little outside the town centre on a quiet street, how I like it. And just as well, too; Ubud town centre is choked with traffic the whole day and evening. The streets are not wide and the pavements narrower, thronged with visitors trying to get past one another without stepping into the road and being mown down by a motor bike. It does not feel very laid back at all. In fact, I don’t need to be there very long before I am glad to get out of it again.
The good news is that you do not have to go far to find more peaceful areas. I took a walk through rice fields on the edge of town. To start with the 6 feet wide concrete path was shared with motor bikes travelling to and from the homes and guest houses in the fields, but the further I went the quieter in got, until the concrete disappeared along with the traffic and I was on my own. The largely flat agricultural land here is dissected by steep, narrow gorges hidden by trees. My path became very narrow and wound along the edge of one of these valleys before crossing a little bridge and turning back towards the town. I passed increasing numbers of ‘warungs’, little roadside restaurants, but none of them looked very comfortable, and as I planned to have a long slow lunch and maybe catch Corriene in the US on Messenger I waited until I found somewhere with cushions and wi-fi in the town.
After lunch I took a look at Ubud’s temples and royal palace. At Pura Dalem preparations for a big local ceremony were in full swing; in the temple grounds and outbuildings decorations and offerings were being prepared on a lavish scale:
Walking round in the evening I found one street that was closed to cars from 6 to 11 pm. It would have been better if it was closed to motor bikes as well, but at least it was an improvement on the chaos and cacophony of the main roads which ruin what would otherwise be a very pleasant town. I’m not sure what the answer is. Maybe a tunnel, but that isn’t going to happen.
The next day I went on a cycling tour. I haven’t cycled since leaving England 3 months ago (and didn’t do a lot before that), so I was pleased that my legs lasted the 15 miles, especially as only 99% was downhill. My fingers did ache a little at the end from using the brakes. There were only two of us on the tour, myself and a Dutch guy, Mattai (probably miss-spelled, sorry). We were picked up from our hotels and driven north, stopping first at a coffee plantation where our guide, Nick, explained they grow Arabica and Robusta varieties.
I should digress at this point to say that Nick’s name Nick is actually his nickname (well, I suppose it would be, wouldn’t it?). Apparently Nick in Balinese means short, which he is. His real name is Wayan, but all first born children, whether male or female, are called Wayan, so getting on for half the population have the same name. There are specific names for the second, third and fourth born as well, but the fifth starts over again with Wayan, so you could have two children (or even more) called Wayan in the same family (and very possibly the parents as well). To add to the confusion the Balinese don’t have surnames. Everyone is given a second, personal name, but that is only used for official documents and the like, so to tell one Wayan from another Wayan everyone has a nickname. I hope that is all clear. It is actually an excellent system for people like me who keep forgetting names. I can just call everyone Wayan and have a good chance I am right.
Back at the coffee plantation and having digested both a coffee bean fresh from the tree and Nick’s naming nomenclature, we moved on to see coffee being roasted in a frying pan over a fire. Also on display were the turds from a Lemak or Asian palm Civet, a sort of monkey-cat creature that loves to eat coffee beans but does not digest them, the beans passing right through the beasts. For reasons that are hard to fathom, someone once had the bright idea of taking the beans out of the turds and using them to make coffee. You can just imagine them strolling through the jungle, treading in a Lemak turd and as they wipe it off their boot thinking, “Wow, I just have to take the beans out of this and brew up a cup of coffee; it’s going to taste great.” Bizarrely, this caught on and today Lemak coffee is one of the most expensive you can buy. Obviously, when given the chance to try it at a good price, I wasn’t going to poo-poo the idea (sorry).
Bali feels more prosperous than the Philippines, so I was surprised to find that wages are no higher here. The young lady who served us our coffee and tea samples works 8 to 11 hours a day, has 3 days off a month, and is paid a monthly salary of IDR 2,000,000, about £120. Nick only has daily guide work in the three peak season months. He also carves wood and farms. His extended family of 7 eat a daily 2 Kg of rice, which they grow themselves. In Ubud I have seen a couple of people begging, but generally people seem to manage well, with much income from the tourist trade. The country certainly caters to that market; there are any number of guest houses, resorts, restaurants, massage and ‘healing’ spas, along with numerous tours, cooking classes and shops selling clothes, bags, jewellery, paintings and carvings.
Not far from the plantation we started the cycling and very pleasant it was too, cruising gently downhill for mile after mile through little villages and countryside on quiet roads and through rice fields.
We stopped at a traditional family compound, consisting of three small enclosed buildings, one open structure and the family temple on the auspicious north east side. The open structure is used for ceremonial purposes, including birthdays and funerals. Traditionally the Balinese do not have months, but have a ‘year’ of 30 weeks, each one having a name, which means that you get a ‘birthday’ every 210 days. Quite straightforward really – compared to the naming conventions anyway.
I’m pleased to report that my body has so far not only survived the cycling (probably the easiest ride I ever had), but also shows no obvious signs of distress after the Luwak coffee. Early days though.
Another ‘must do’ in Ubud is the Campuhan Ridge walk. Unusually for me I woke at the ungodly hour of 7.00 am and was on my way by 8.00, which as it turned out was just as well because despite the early hour and the (mostly) gentle climb I was soon bathed in sweat. It was worth it. The path starts by crossing a hidden ravine next to a temple and then climbs the ridge which narrows off to just 10 feet wide at one point with deep jungle clad gorges on either side. Eventually the ridge widens out and the path turns into a road running through rice paddies and past warungs and art galleries. Some of the art was very good and I had to resist the temptation to fill a spot on our lounge wall. Buying directly from the artists here it was cheaper than down in the town, half the price in one case. There were a variety of styles on offer from detailed traditional Balinese scenes to rather beautiful portraits to colourful abstracts, but I came away empty handed.
I walked back through the town to the Mandala Suci Wenara Wana, the Sacred Monkey Forest Sanctuary, a name that begs the question: what is sacred, the monkeys, the forest or the sanctuary? I decided the area was sacred because of the 14th century temples it contains, rather than the 900-odd macaque monkeys or the many large and ancient trees in the forest. It was a pleasant place to walk, apart from the crowds of visitors; at nearly £5 a time it must be a good money-earner for the local community. There were plenty of monkeys around, very accustomed to humans, sometimes climbing onto people without causing distress to either party. Warning notices advised us not to carry food, scream or look a monkey in the eye, which is seen as a sign of aggression. I had a good look at several monkeys, but avoided eye contact and came away unscathed. Somehow I managed to walk round the entire forest and miss the main temples, but by this stage of the day I didn’t feel like going round again and headed back to my guest house for a rest before dinner.
There have been a couple of ongoing themes in this blog, but I realise that, while I have regularly come back to the uses of bamboo, I have recently neglected the important topic of lavatories. I will seek to remedy this lapse in future and begin by describing a Balinese lavatorial experience.
Toilets in Bali have been good so far. In fact, some of them are more sophisticated than any I have experienced, except for Japan, naturally. I noticed a little handle at the side of the pan of one or two toilets and decided to see what happened when I turned it. A little tube emerged from the back of the pan and, once extended, sprayed water in the air. With a posterior in the way this water would have had a cleansing effect. In this case, without the posterior in place, the water sprayed like a fountain over the pan and gathered in a puddle on the floor. Most impressive.
Mount Batur
After not being able to climb Mt Fuji in Japan I had another volcanic opportunity in Bali: Mt Batur, the most active volcano on the island. Within living memory one village has been inundated by lava and more recently another village has been abandoned as unsafe. The mountain rises above the lake of the same name, which sits in the 8 by 6 mile caldera left by gigantic explosions 10,000 and 23,000 years ago. Locals appear completely unconcerned about the prospect of fiery immolation and government measures ensure they can insure their properties, so life goes on here regardless. Indeed, the sunrise treks up the mountain are a major source of revenue.
When they are not guiding tourist treks (it appears to be mandatory to go with a guide) or providing accommodation, the locals farm fish in the lake and grow copious quantities of vegetables, notably onions. Walking around the village where I am staying I saw lots of people working in the fields. People here are very friendly; children call “Hello” as I walk by and men on motor bikes stop to talk – and not always because they want to sell me the services of a guide. As elsewhere in Asia you can see whole families on a motorbike, often without helmets. Women in the traditional long and close fitting sarongs sit side saddle behind their men. Something I have not seen elsewhere are children driving motor bikes; several times boys as young as 8 or 10 went past, apparently in full control.
I wanted to walk by the lake but it does not seem possible, in this area at least. I did manage to get to the lake edge, but only by going through a guest house. I think they are missing a trick: promenades by lakes are always popular with visitors, especially if created with care, lined with attractive cafes and restaurants and offering boat trips. There is a hot spring resort with swimming pools and restaurants offering water sports, but it is rather expensive just to get in. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, it seemed very popular with tour buses. I gave it a miss.
Wandering a quiet semi paved road in search of lake access I heard the sound of Balinese music. It got louder and louder so I had to investigate. Turning down a little side track I reached a temple where a speaker attached to a pole was attempting to deafen everyone in the general area with the high pitched and repetitive traditional music. Not having a sarong I could not enter the temple, but was invited to join a group of women who sat behind the temple preparing food. I was kindly given a cup of Balinese coffee (rather like Turkish coffee you have to let it settle and beware the grounds at the bottom), and later an orange which had been part of a small basket of offerings. They seem to be practical with their religion here: you make an offering to the relevant god and then eat it. Later a man on a motor bike stopped to ask me, like they all do, where I was going and where I was from and what my name was. He was holding the handlebars with one hand while the other grasped the legs of a live chicken. He was going to drive a few miles like this to another temple where the chicken’s throat would be cut and the bird offered to the gods. And then it would be chicken for dinner.
I was booked to be picked up at 3.00 am for my sunrise on the volcano. I set the alarm for 2.40, woke up at 2.00 and had just gone back to sleep when the alarm went off. I waited outside from just before 3.00; 3.15 came and went and by 3.30 I was becoming concerned. Was there a muddle-up over the booking? Eventually, at 3.50, the car arrived; already on board were a Spanish couple, Alexandra and Marjo. We drove a couple of miles and parked with scores of other vehicles. Hand held torches were distributed but I already had a head torch. We were introduced to our young guide, Arya, and set off up the road before turning off onto a track.
Gently rising at first, it became progressively steeper, narrower and rockier. There were hundreds of climbers ahead and behind us, a line of lights winding up the mountain; we frequently had to queue, particularly where the way was particularly steep.
After 2 hours of this we reached our destination, still in the dark, and sat down to await sunrise while Arya went to prepare breakfast: slices of unbuttered bread and a freshly boiled hard boiled egg. Despite the relative cool of the night air, the humidity and still air meant I had been running with sweat on the climb, but now there was a breeze and I was glad to put on extra layers. Gradually it became lighter and we could see clouds briskly blowing past. Occasionally a view of the lake and mountain opposite opened up, only to be quickly obscured again.
Our sunrise was a glow in the clouds followed by the red disk rising into more clouds above. It was as good to see the sun as it always is, but spectacular it wasn’t.
Feeling somewhat disappointed we started our journey down, taking a different, sandy path and finally reaching the car park. Our driver decided to drop Marjo and Alexandra off first. Their hotel was built at the end of a winding, uphill road. I say road, but that probably gives the wrong impression; while parts had been tarmacked at one time, the surface had long since degenerated into large potholes, and other parts were just bare and extremely bumpy rock. The one mile took us 15 minutes and I felt sorry for the car. Quite why you would build a decent hotel in such an out of the way place I don’t know, and then to expect guests to travel back and forth over such a road is bizarre. Still, it was an entertaining experience for me. I only had to travel the road once in each direction, unlike the poor guests.
Back at my guest house before 9.30 am I had a shower, ate another breakfast and slept for an hour or so. I awoke feeling dissatisfied with my morning’s experience. Queuing to walk up a mountain in the dark and then having the view obscured by clouds was not my idea of a good mountain walk; I had not even seen the crater. I felt ready for more; there were tracks directly from my guest house to the volcano so I decided to walk in that direction and see how I got on. As I had already been up and down getting on for 700 metres that morning I wasn’t sure how far I would want to go, and the only map I had was an app (MAPS.ME) which didn’t show many of the smaller tracks and certainly was not designed for hiking.
I walked for a while and felt good so kept going. And then walked some more. And then thought, I’ve come this far, it would be a waste to turn back, so I climbed still further. Eventually the summit was in sight and I was definitely going to make it. I am so glad I did. The skies were clear and the mountain was almost deserted, just three or four other hikers without guides. I could see the crater and views across the lake uninterrupted by clouds. It was wonderful.
I walked halfway round the edge of the crater and sat on a bench with the only other person there, a very interesting guy called Adrian, an Iranian who has lived in Canada and South Korea and now China. We watched a troop of monkeys in the crater below, admired the marvellous view and exchanged travel stories. I don’t know how long I sat there, but it must have been at least an hour; a magical time.
Adrian was going on around the crater, but, although it looked tempting, I decided to take the shorter and easier way back; I had done a lot already and still had to find my way safely back down the mountain before my legs gave out. I had carefully noted the twists and turns on the way up and managed to take the right paths on my return, arriving back at my room just after 5.00 pm. It had been a long and, in the end, very fulfilling day. I was asleep by 9.30 and slept for over 10 hours.
Sekumpul
There being no bus service in this part of Bali, I took a taxi to my next destination, Sekumpul, 2 hours drive away. It was a scenic and scary journey. Scenic because the countryside was thickly forested mountains, and scary because my driver careered at high speed through villages, drove in the middle of the road when he wasn’t on the wrong side of it and pulled out straight into the path of oncoming traffic. I lost count of the number of times I closed my eyes and resigned myself to my fate. Strangely and unaccountably I arrived in one piece.
This part of Bali does not feel as prosperous as the south or the area araound Mt Batur. The waterfalls here attract visitors but not in the numbers that throng the beach resorts or Ubud. The guest houses and restaurants are not as beautified as those I have seen elsewhere. The waterfalls are, however, worth the visit. Both beautiful and spectacular, they are reached by paths leading down steep steps and winding through dense foliage. The Sekumpul falls are the highest, but the triple Figi falls are also very attractive. It is possible to bathe in the pools at their base, but I had forgotten that and did not have my swimming trunks, so contented myself with a shower in the spray that blew out from the falls. My shirt soon dried out, but by the time I had climbed back up the steps on my return the shirt was again wet, this time with sweat.
At dinner the night before and again at breakfast I talked with a very charming and friendly couple from Chile, Joao and his extraordinarily beautiful wife Mimi (that’s her nickname; not sure the spelling is correct). We met again on the path between the falls and I felt flattered that they wanted a photo with me. They are both high flyers in their own way: Joao is helicopter pilot with the Chilean army and Mimi is a psychologist working for a human resources agency, helping select candidates for jobs.
On my second morning I was asking myself why I had booked three nights here; apart from the waterfalls, which are certainly worth visiting, there is not a lot else here. I decided the time had come to rent a motor bike and take a tour. ‘Motor bike’ here usually means a scooter; they are automatic and therefore easy to drive, but I had never learned in the UK, where I have always driven a car. Help was at hand in the form of some friendly Dutch people with whom I had spent the previous afternoon and evening along with our host, Sugi Gede, who had been passing around the local arak moonshine. Jasper is taking a holiday in Bali from his holiday in Australia, touring the island on a motor bike. Jonathan and Cleo are also touring, along with all their luggage, on a motor bike. Between them they told me all I needed to know and Jonathan kindly let me try his bike around the yard and up and down the road. Easy peasy.
Of course, the real challenge here is to cope with the local road conditions and driving habits, which do not follow the rules we are used to in Europe. Generally speaking, anything that happens in front of you is your responsibility; people turn onto your road without warning and expect you to make way for them. A good road may suddenly be half blocked by a pile of building sand, or degenerate into potholes. I had seen, heard and read enough to be ready.
Unfortunately, my motor cycle trip was not to be. Unlike the towns, where bikes are for rent everywhere, out here there were few for rent and nothing was available. My host had one that was already rented out and another that was not taxed. I was out of luck and had to content myself with a walk around the local villages. Maybe it was just as well. When I checked my international driving permits both had a rather obvious blank space where the stamp entitling me to drive motor cycles would have been.
The previous day Jonathan and Cleo had had a close escape when their brakes failed going down a hill. Luckily there had been a side turn before their speed made turning impossible and they had managed to stop safely. The brakes worked again after cooling down, but required a repair to improve them. Jasper reported that a friend of his had suffered minor damage to his bike when someone ran into him, and that there are 1500 motor bike deaths a year on Bali. I subsequently read that there are ‘only’ 1200, with an extrapolated figure of 6000 seriously injured. Perhaps I was lucky not to find a bike after all.
That evening I again spent in the enjoyable company of Jonathan and Cleo. It had been good to spend the evenings sociably rather than on my own for a change.
Bedugul
The journey to my next destination was again scenic but much less scary, my driver this time negotiating the narrow and twisting mountain roads with care and appropriate speed. My guest house is about 8 miles south of Bedugul, which is in the centre of Bali at a height of 1200 m and by general agreement is the coldest town on the island. It had been a little cooler at my previous two stops than in the south, and this one was definitely cooler again, needing multiple layers in the evenings. Elsewhere in Bali I had sweated in a tee shirt when the locals wore jackets; here it was the other way around. Having said that, it could still get quite warm through the middle of the day, as I found when I took a walk.
I had not intended to go particularly far, but ended up walking over 7 miles, the first half mostly downhill and the second half almost entirely uphill in the hottest part of the day. I passed through rice fields, villages and market gardens, climbing a ridge running parallel to the main north-south road that is near my guest house. I was glad to relax that evening in the enjoyable company of a young French couple from Lyons and a group of Spaniards from Barcelona. They had been out on motor bikes, been caught in the late afternoon rain and got quite cold. Travelling light, they were not equipped with warm clothes. I was grateful for my cosy fleece jacket.
The next day I wanted to visit places that were too far to walk and rather expensive to tour in a taxi. There being no public transport (it is rare to find it out of the crowded south), I turned again to the scooter option. This time there was one available, so I donned the helmet, rehearsed the earlier lesson in my mind and set off up the narrow path that led to the road. I reached the Bali Botanical Gardens in Bedugul without incident – and with increased confidence – and spent 3 hours walking around the extensive and quiet grounds.
Not far away (by motor bike) in the centre of the town by Lake Beratan is the very attractive and very popular temple Ulun Danu Beratan. Built on little islands just feet off shore, with pagoda-like structures, it is both unusual and beautiful, despite the crowds paying £3 a time to see it. On shore the grounds were bedecked with flower beds, adding to the well maintained and attractive atmosphere. Elsewhere, along the main road, I had been shocked at the rubbish lining the verges and the bags of trash dumped into the drainage ditches, so it was good to visit somewhere that cared about the environment.
My final stop for the day was the Jatiluwih rice terraces, not a huge distance away, but navigating the country roads on my own on two wheels necessitated regular stops to check the route on my phone and even then I am not sure I took the most direct route. Consequently it was getting late in the afternoon when I arrived and, wanting to get back before dark, I did not stay to walk around. Had I realised beforehand how beautiful it was going to be I would have made sure to arrive earlier. As it was, I drove up and down and stopped to take some photos before heading for home.
It was at Jatiluwih that I was almost run off the narrow road by a car coming round a bend on the wrong side. My worst scare of the day, but I was also to experience some bad roads on the way back, especially when I took a wrong turn and drove miles out of the way on roads that were full of potholes big enough to throw you off the bike. I am glad, however, that I took the bike that day; somehow it is part of the Bali, and indeed the Asian experience; I would have regretted a missed opportunity if I had not done it. Still, I have to say that driving on those roads, with the way local drivers behave, was definitely not a relaxing experience. And with no protective clothing other than the helmet I felt very vulnerable. Give me a comfortable car on British roads any day. I was relieved when I finally arrived back at my guest house in one piece.
Pondok Nyoman, where I stayed, is a beautiful collection of buildings. The owner, Nyoman, is an inspirational figure. The seventh child of a poor family who could not afford to send his siblings to school, he was determined to get an education, and supported himself through high school selling items to tourists in Denpasar. He worked at a large hotel for 30 years and is the head of the Balinese housekeepers association, representing hoteliers around the island. When his brother was sick and unable to work, Nyoman bought a small plot of land and built him a house. Subsequently he was able to buy more land and each year has built more, adding a house for himself, a family temple, a ceremony building and now 8 guest rooms spreading down the hillside with wonderful views across the valley to the mountains in the distance. He also has a warung in the village, a house in Denpasar and a good car. Not bad for the penniless seventh child, but Nyoman is humble and grateful to god for his blessings; he believes in sharing and caring for others in practical ways such as providing bedding to the blind.
Interestingly, Nyoman has been impressed by westerners who do not believe in god but live an ethical life with consideration for others. He contrasted this to the attitude of some of his countrymen who follow the local religious rites and ceremonies but are jealous of the success of others. It seems that Hinduism, like any other religion, is no guarantee of virtue, and that people everywhere are susceptible to the same pettiness and weakness.
Kuta
My last two days on Bali have been spent at Kuta, back in the south. I chose a hotel 30 minutes walk from the airport as I fly out to Darwin at 1.20am and it semed sensible to make the journey to the airport as short as possible while still being in the town. And what a town it is: crawling with tourists, many from Australia, lit with bright neon lights (the town, not the tourists, well, not most of them anyway), home to bass-thumping discos, and permanently traffic jammed, Kuta caters to western tastes with branches of McDonalds, KFC, Starbucks and Hard Rock Cafe. So what brought all that here? The beach. Miles of golden sand with gentle waves breaking uniformly along its length, it must have been paradise once. Now it is home to thousands of sun worshippers, swimmers and surfers slurping beers and coconut juice as they relax in the chairs thoughtfully provided (at a price) by the locals. Not my idea of heaven I must confess.
First impressions of the town were not favourable. My hotel is some way from the centre and to find a restaurant for a late lunch after arrival my MAPS.ME app took me through some rather shabby back alleys in a poor district before delivering me at an Italian restaurant that had closed down. Never mind, there was another place not far away. After a club sandwich I took a look at the beach and decided it wasn’t that great, but then realised this was Tuban beach, not Kuta beach, which is a little to the north. Behind the beaches are upmarket resort hotels that are in marked contrast to the areas I walked through to get there.
This was evident again the next day when I explored Kuta beach. The southern end was packed with people; I hastened north and it got a little quieter, so I sat down for a while and had a coconut juice.
After a while Kuta morphed into Legian beach, which was more tranquil with tasteful hotels beyond an unusually quiet road. Walking back through the traffic in the town I couldn’t go more than a few steps without someone trying to sell me dinner or a massage or rent me a scooter. Not very relaxing, but there are plenty of restaurants to choose from, and that made a welcome change from the standard Indonesian fare of rice or noodles.
I extended the checkout on my last day to 7pm and was glad I did. My plan had originally been to have breakfast at 9.00 and do some washing in the hotel washing machine and dryer at 10.00, ready for checkout at 12.00. Waking up at 9.40 was not the best start, but the real problem was the dryer; I did the washing in a top loader and then transferred (after waiting for someone else) into the washer/dryer; it was almost completely useless. After an hour clothes that normally dry quickly were still wet. I put some on an airer outside my room and more on the lounger next to mine by the pool and spent the whole afternoon in the only item of clothing I had not washed – my swimming shorts – trying to get things dry enough to wear and pack. Fortunately everything was just about dry in time for me to check out and make my way into the town centre to meet up with Jonathan and Cleo, my Dutch friends from Sekumpul.
Jonathan introduced me to his favourite warung, where we ate some pretty good food, as Indonesian food goes, and then looked for somewhere to have a beer, ending up in a rather fancy hotel listening to Andy Williams and John Denver songs played on traditional instruments; weirdly, it was very effective.
Once again it was good to have company. Travelling alone has its upsides (no arguments about where to go, for one), but can get lonely. I am glad that Corriene is planning to join me for 2 months in the middle of my phase 2 travels, when we will visit Thailand and New Zealand together.
We parted ways again at the end of the evening and I walked back to my hotel, where the taxi to the airport was already waiting to start my journey to Darwin.
I have enjoyed my stay in Bali; although nowhere has been perfect, there is probably something for everyone here. If you like beaches, want nightlife, a good choice of western food, and don’t mind crowds, head to Kuta. If you want a more laid back beach resort, go to Sanur. For a slightly more cultural experience, Ubud is the place, and to get away from the crowds go north to the mountains – but not at sunrise.
Goodbye Bali.
Rob's Roads 