Whoa!!! I’m going to Bali
Say “Bali” to any westerner and images of a paradise with palm fringed white sand beaches are conjured up. Say “Bali” to a savvy traveler and initially you will get a look of terror. “Avoid Kuta,” she/he answers in a trembling voice. Then the nerves settle and once again they acquire that far away glazed look as memories of travels long past are transmitted through their brains. You see Bali, or more specifically Kuta Beach, which is just outside Denpasar is to Australian adolescents exactly the same as Benidorm or Ibiza is to the young British population. But more on that later.
Bali is a tropical nirvana with famed surfing, long sandy beaches and warm aqua-blue waters. The interior is so picturesque there is a painted backdrop around every corner. Terraced rice paddies trip up and down hillsides like some giant staircase. Still active volcanoes soar up through the clouds spurting hot jets of hissing steam and sometimes the odd lava flow, but this can be a bit more lethal.
The Garuda Indonesia flight from Singapore on Tuesday, August 29 touched down around 9pm. I had been discussing my plan for this visit to Indonesia with my neighbor seated next to me during the flight. My main concern was the diminishing possibility of getting public transport from the airport so late in the evening. I wanted to head straight to the cultural and culinary capital of Bali, Ubud. I particularly wanted to (1) avoid Kuta and (2) not be fleeced by the taxi drivers who famously quote overpriced rates. A fellow traveler seated directly behind us lent over and asked in a European accent if we could assist him as he had never been to Indonesia before and had no idea what to do or what to expect.
I made a snap decision. Ignoring my gut instinct, coupled with the fact that there was no other choice, I decided to share a taxi with my new European chum, Daniel from Sweden. I would find a place in Kuta to spend the night, only one night mind you. I would leave first thing in the morning for more respectable surroundings in Ubud.
The arrivals hall in the airport was teeming with newly arrived holidaymakers. The queue through immigration took forever. Just as well as it gave me a chance to to extract some information about suitable and reasonable lodgings in Kuta from my newly acquired Lonely Planet guide book. Clearing immigration and customs with our packs, we ignored all the hotel touts and taxi drivers vying for our attention. I had been told to leave the terminal building and make our way across the car park. I had heard about another taxi rank situated just outside the grounds with more reasonable rates. Well, we never did find the elusive taxi rank because in the car park itself we were approached by a young taxi driver willing to give us a ride for Rp25,000 (for the scholars amongst us, �1 = Rp13,500).
Leaving Denpasar’s Ngurah Rai airport (named after the leader of the Tentara Keamanan Rakyat – People’s Security Force – a resistance slain by the Dutch in 1946), you immediately enter the Kuta district, long before Denpasar itself. I had picked out two to three candidate guest houses which met our requirements, situated in the busy area between Poppies I and Poppies II Gangs (lanes).
I was assured by our driver that Kuta had seen many changes over the last three years. If that was the case the changes were not noticeable to me. Same impossibly small lanes lined with stalls selling tourist fare and overcrowded with loud, burly Australians. A kind of mini Balinese version of Rodeo Drive meets Surfers Paradise. In amongst the surfboard shops I spotted Armani, Versace and Quicksilver boutiques, as well as the Hard Rock and McDonald’s.
The first hotel we tried looked nice but was full. My second choice, Puri Ayodia Inn was in prime location in the center of everything. They had a double room that was exceptionally cheap when split between the two of us, a snip at Rp35,000, an indication on how much the downturn in world tourism is hitting everywhere. Bali has had a lot of recent sectarian trouble which has not helped matters.
Daniel and I no sooner dumped our backpacks when we headed back out in search of nourishment and refreshment. It was late, perhaps after 11pm, and many places were closing or already closed. Our search leads us to Mama’s on the main drag, Jalan Legian. This 24 hour bar-cum-restaurant serves Germanesque food. The Wiener Schnitzel I ordered was perfect but the chef had murdered the sauerkraut. Here we met up with a Belfast lad, Nigel, who was also on a first visit to Bali. With that I decided to take the lads off to the popular late night Sari Club, an institution in these parts. As expected it was full of Aussie surfer dudes chasing anything vaguely resembling the opposite sex. That’s if they weren’t propping up the bar in need of further alcoholic beverage.
The poison of choice in these parts is a local spirit called Arak, a distilled rice brandy. It is usually mixed with orange juice and served in a type of milk bottle. It is called Jungle Juice and it is lethal. Daniel the Swede soon succumbed and was borrowing money to partake in the Jungle Juice frenzy. After a couple of beers, Nigel and I grew tired of the mindless activity going on around us. We both decided to turn in for the night.
Next morning – after his all nighter, Daniel was comatose for most of the day – I went for a wander to reacquaint myself with Kuta. It dawned on me I was actually pleased to be back. Sure it is a shit hole but it’s alright when you come here, have a wild night out, do some shopping and quickly arrange some onward travel. The problem occurs if you linger in Kuta. I wandered down to the beach to watch the surfers then checked out the clothing and cheap DVD copies. I was also comparing the motorbike rental rates, eventually settling for a new looking Honda 125cc for Rp160,000 for five days. I wanted to leave early the next morning (two nights in Kuta?) and spend a few days seeing the rest of Bali.
A popular evening pastime for young holidaying Australians is to sit around outside K-Mart or Seven-Eleven drinking beer straight from the bottles bought from the supermarket. I joined a couple of these cool dudes for a few brews, shooting the breeze and ogling the talent as it strolled by. The rest of the evening’s program was likely to involve much the same as the previous evening. I turned in at the relatively early time of midnight.
Again Daniel was AWOL all night, I only saw him briefly when he returned at 9am and promptly passed out. To leave I needed to settle our room bill and he had neglected to repay the money he owed me. No amount of shouting and shaking would wake him up so I rummaged around and found his money belt whilst he was unconscious.
All bills settled, I set off on my hired motorbike. I had to adapt the straps on my rucksack so it fastened nicely onto the pillion behind me. I really had no idea which road to take out of Kuta so I just joined the busy flow of traffic. Soon getting the hang of riding again and the dubious Asian rules of the road.
Somehow I found my way through central Denpasar until the flow of traffic spat me out onto a large, busy dual carriageway which I presumed to be the arterial road around the city that is prominent on maps. Sure enough, in no time I was picking up road signs to Ubud and Gianyar confirming I was on the correct road.
It was time to make a decision. I could continue on a mere 20km to Ubud, a place I knew was nice and comfortable. Did I want to continue on in the nice, cozy travel world I had created? Or I could head into the east of Bali and do a three or four day loop of the island, quite an adventure. I don’t know how or when I made up my mind, maybe I just missed the turnoff to Ubud, but I found myself heading in the eastern road and boy, am I glad I did.
The road wound it’s way through many towns in Southern Bali, the traffic never letting up for a minute. I did need to make stops periodically to check my location on the very basic map in the guide book. I figured if I could match the place names from road signs then I would keep going in the right general direction.
Conveniently around lunch time I drove into the small eastern port of Padangbai. Many travelers arrive here to catch the regular ferries which depart for Lombok, the next island in the Indonesian chain. The town itself has a quaint fishing village vibe. Small outrigged fishing boats line the white sandy beach. Set back from the beach are streets lined with small restaurants and Warungs. To the right of the bay is a large jetty alongside which the large vehicle ferries tie up. I needed to get out of the hot sun as I was starting to get burnt so I stopped and had a bite to eat.
Continuing on after lunch the road became more rural and less busy. It made it’s way inland for awhile and started to climb a mountain pass. I was now briefly heading into the volcanic highlands of northern Bali. At the tiny village of Tirta Gangga (Water of the Ganges) I witnessed some of the most beautiful rice terraces in Bali, looking almost like a sea surrounding an island. They are sculptured into the landscape and sweep impressively up the mountainside.
Coming off the mountain pass the road made its way back to the northern coastline. The road is squeezed between the towering Gunung Agung and the sea with great views of rugged seascapes.
Bali’s tallest and most revered mountain is Gunung Agung. It is an imposing volcano seen from most of south and east Bali and even as far away as Lombok. It blew its top last in 1963. It was a time of considerable prophetic and political importance. It was around Eka Desa Rudra, Bali’s greatest sacrificial festival. There was dispute amongst the priests as to the correct date of the festival. The date set in late February was looking decidedly unpropitious but the government of the day had arranged an international conference of travel agents to witness the ceremony. The volcano contained itself until the visitors had flown home then she exploded, killing more than 1000 people and destroying hundreds of thousands of homes. Well, I’ll tell you, if Gunung Agung starts misbehaving then I was out of there.
Around 4pm I arrived at Tulamben, my final destination for the day. I quickly found a hotel along the beach and turned in for an early night.
The main attraction in Tulamben is the wreck of the US cargo ship USAT Liberty – the best known and most popular dive site on Bali. Built circa-WWI this ship was equipped with guns for WWII and torpedoed by the Japanese off Lombok. Despite attempts to tow the ship to Bali it was taking on too much water so it was semi-beached at Tulamben. In 1963, with the earth tremors from the eruption of Mount Agung, the wreck slid further down the slope where it still lies (as close to the beach as it can be and still be underwater!).
The Liberty lies approximately 30m offshore in depths of 9 to 30m, almost parallel to the
beach on the sand slope. It is 120m long, and although it’s pretty broken up you can still see the guns, toilets, boilers, anchor chain, etc.
Typically I overslept but conveniently there was a dive centre connected with my hotel where I stayed so I was still able to sign up for two dives before heading on my merry way. It was three years to the day when I first dived this wreck as a newly certified diving novice. It all seemed strangely familiar. The beach is not a beach at all but a rocky shoreline lined with fist-sized volcanic pebbles. I made my way through the surging waves behind which I descended to about 5m. The pebbles soon give way to fine and dark silty sand that drops away steeply. Through the murky waters the Liberty appears, it is a very eerie sight. The wreck is totally encrusted with coral and full of tropical marine life, an oasis in an aquatic desert.
For a second dive I chose to dive the Drop-off Wall. This site is an old lava flow from Mount Agung, and is at the opposite end of the bay from the Wreck along the stony beach.
That afternoon I continued on my trusty motorbike. The landscape in Northern Bali is very much more sparse than what you come to expect. Grass and a few scrub trees grow amongst the many black boulders that lie everywhere across cooled lava flows from the volcano. After a couple of hours I made it to Bali’s second largest city, Singaraja. This old Dutch capital has a lot of art deco architecture which can be spotted around the town. I pushed on through this busy town, totally mastering the traffic now.
About 10km west of Singaraja I came to Lovina where I would be stopping for the night. Lovina is famous for its dolphins and black sand beaches. It is a much more low-key beach resort and many budget backpackers come here. Lovina is actually the collective name for a string of coastal villages all containing hotels, shops, restaurants and a few bars. I found a pleasant, large room at Harri’s Homestay for a pricey Rp50,000 for one night.
That evening I was having a beer in a high rooftop bar. I had found time and was writing postcards home. As dusk moved in, painting the sky from pink to red, darkening to indigo and settling at black, bats came out and swooped across the darkening sky. It was a stunning sight. I was really enjoying the independence that having my own transport was giving me and to be able to freely move around the island. Sure, locals still chanced their arm by chanting “taxi?” “marijuana?” or “lady?” as I walked past, but a quick reply of “I have motorbike” and elaborately miming the opening of the throttle with my hand, they soon left me alone.
The next morning before heading on my way again I took a walk along beach with its unusual black sand. Again here was testament to how deeply and seriously the Balinese take their Hindu religion. Incense and flower offerings lay scattered along the water’s edge.
On my way back to Singaraja, police manning a roadblock stopped me. The words of the bike rental guy back in Kuta were ringing in my ears, “If you get stopped by the cops don’t pay them any more than Rp50,000.” I thought, here we go I am going to have hand over copious amounts of money. But my luck was in, the policeman asked me a couple of questions about my destination and when he saw that the bike’s registration papers were under the seat, on top of which my pack was strapped, he waved me on.
Once in the town I turned back south and immediately the road started ascending the mountains of central-northern Bali. Half way up the mountain pass I passed a village with the innocuous name of Git Git. The higher I got the air temperature dropped considerably. The road made many hairpin bends with cars coming down the mountain crossing blindly onto the wrong side of the road. I had to keep my driving wits about me. Eventually I passed over the summit ridge and the road dropped into the ancient volcano crater of the Danau Bratan area.
There are a number of lakes in this region and the place is geared towards domestic, not foreign, tourists. At the largest of these lakes I made a stop to visit Pura Ulan Danu Bratan. This is a important Hindu-Buddhist temple founded in the 17th century. It is dedicated to Dewi Danu, the goddess of the waters and built on small islands but for the low water level would be completely surrounded by the lake. I walked through the manicured gardens and Buddhist Stupas where locals had on display lizards, large fruit-bats, birds and snakes. For a price visitors can have their photos taken with these exotic animals. The temple itself has a scenic setting on the shoreline and is made up of a number of multi-tiered thatched towers.
The main roads in Central Bali head in a north-south direction running up the gentle mountain slope. However, I now wanted to head a little further over east to the Gunung Batur crater ridge. This meant travel on minor local roads through small villages and farms. I was well off the beaten track now and obviously an anomaly. Although the Balinese stared as I sped pass they did smile and wave and children making they way home after school became very excited.
At one village the narrow road was almost blocked by trucks, cars and bikes parked along the roadside. People from surrounding areas had crammed themselves into a village temple to watch the local cockfights. These fights are unquestionably cruel but are a regular feature of Temple ceremonies – a combination of sacrifice, sport and gambling (which is actually illegal in Bali). Men keep their fighting birds as prized pets, carefully groomed and cared for, lovingly prepared for a brief moment of glory or defeat.
When pitted against each other a lethal metal spur is strapped to the birds’ one leg, there is a crescendo of shouting and betting then the birds are pushed against each other. Once stirred up the birds are released and feathers fly. Mercifully the fight is over quickly and gamblers collect their pay-offs. The winning bird’s owner takes home the dead opponent rooster for his family’s cooking pot.
By late afternoon I made it to Gunung Batur. This area is like a giant volcanic dish with the bottom half covered with water and a set of active volcano cones “growing” in the middle. The road I was travelling on around the southwest rim offered spectacular vistas. The main village is Kintamani where the sacred shrine is kept in the Pura Ulan Danu temple. This lofty shrine is a survivor of a previous volcano eruption whose lava flow covered the entire village when it was located further inside the crater.
I headed down the hairpin bend road that winds its way down from the ridge to the Danau Batur. Most overnight visitors stay at villages along this lake to make an early start to climb the volcano. As you drive across the rugged terrain you have to gasp as you gaze up at the smoking cones and the old lava flows are “frozen” against the landscape.
I wasn’t here to climb volcanoes. The trekking guides here have banded together and overcharge would-be hikers; I was here to look up an old friend. I drove into the village of Toya Bungkah which has hot springs bubbling out in a couple of spots. There is a touristy hot springs and pool complex here, which I noted was now closed and defunct. It seems that us foreigners aren’t prepared to pay the US$5 for the use of this luxury.
I got a cheap room at the Under the Volcano I hotel and went for a wander down to the lakeside where women wash clothes and fishermen can be seen casting their nets for the local delicacy, a small bony fish called a mujair. Almost immediately I was approached to purchase some local Balinese art. Young men carrying satchels who strike up friendly conversation with tourists tout these paintings. Three years previously I fell for this tactic when I bought a painting, and made friends with a young 13-year old boy, Nyoman. The picture has been framed and hangs proudly on my lounge wall back in Cape Town.
“But I don’t want to buy a painting,” I told this latest approach, “I already own one of these pictures, I bought it here three years ago.”
“Who did you buy it from?” asks the seller, and reels off a list of local artist names until he mentions one I recognise.
“A Bagong, you own a Bagong,” the young man looks impressed.
I own a Bagong. With this I walked off to find my young chum from all those years ago.
I went to the Mountain View Caf� a little way along the lakeshore. It was here we had drank Coke and chatted. I remembered him saying he lived close by. I was the only customer that afternoon and a sleepy young man came over to take my order. I had obviously woken him up.
But he did look familiar. It was my mate, Nyoman. Wow, he had grown some, now almost 17 years old. He didn’t straight away remember me, too many tourists he claimed. But we chatted and eventually he went over and dug out his exercise book that he got all his customers to write greetings in. He soon found the best wishes I had written to him and his family back in 1999. It was great to catch up with him. He told me he was soon finishing school and hoped, money permitting, to go on to university. He had no intention on moving away from this isolated part of Bali to seek his fortune in the big cities. In fact, he wanted to continue the family tradition and become a painter himself. Good on him.
The evenings up here in the mountains are very cool. I spent it eating local Indonesian food in one of the hotel’s restaurants. The occasional power cut all adding to the atmosphere.
Back on the road the next day I made my way again up and over the crater’s ridge and down the gentle southern slope. Gradually the damp mountain country transforms back to the more familiar rice terraces. At the bottom of the mountain slopes is the town of Ubud, the centre of cultural tourism. Ubud started life as your typical Balinese craft village but its growth caused by the influx of visitors has caused it to engulf several surrounding villages. I headed straight to the familiar Rice Paddy Bungalows and got an expensive (Rp80,000 per night) room with views of the rice paddies at the rear.
I was so enjoying my Bali tour that I phoned my bike rental guy to arrange two extra days hire of my motorbike. The would give me the opportunity to stay in Ubud for three days, take in some cultural activities, eat at some excellent restaurants and explore the unspoiled countryside.
My first excursion was to Goa Gajah, two clicks southeast of Ubud. The name means elephant cave, but there have never been elephants on Bali. It probably gets its name from the nearby Sungai Petanu, which was once known as the Elephant River – where it got its name from I have no idea. I made my way down the path along the perimeter into the courtyard containing two huge, square bathing pools complete with waterspouts gushing from six female figures. Although Dutch archaeologists discovered the cave in 1923 these pools where not unearthed until 1954.
The cave is carved into a rock face where you enter through an ornately carved mouth of a demon. The gigantic fingertips pressed beside the face of the demon push back the riotous jungle of surrounding stone carvings. Inside the dark, T-shaped cave the fragmented remains of the lingam can be seen. This is the phallic symbol of the Hindu god Shiva and his female counterpart Yoni. There is also a statue of Shiva’s elephant headed son, Ganesha.
Another trip I did was up and down other roads that climb the mountain slopes. I photographed rice paddies, stopped and had a great lunch at the Blue Yogi Caf�. I drove through many villages, each one specialising in its particular craft, kites, painted bedspreads, masks, bamboo wind chimes and hanging mobiles to name but a few. I got myself a cool Hindu Barong mask to add to my growing number of souvenirs that are winging their way back home.
One evening I took in some traditional Balinese dance performances. The best known of the many dances is the Kecek. It is unusual in that it does not have any musical accompaniment. Instead the background is provided by a melodious chanting of close to 100 men sitting cross-legged around the perimeter in black and white checked sarongs. This male choir provide the chak-a-chak-a-chak noise from which the dance gets its name. The dance dramatises the eternal conflict between good and evil. It involves the Prince Rama and his Princess Sita. Rama is lured by a golden deer, which allows the evil king Rawana to kidnap Sita. A white monkey god appears before Sita and tells her of Rama’s attempts to rescue her. Finally with the assistance of a half-man half-bird mythical creature and Sugriwa, the monkey king and his army (the bare-chested male choir) a great battle ensues and Rama is victorious. Throughout the performance the circle of men provide a non-stop, superbly synchronised accompaniment that rises to a crescendo as the war is fought.
Every evening, thousands of big white Javan pond herons fly into a village nearby Ubud to roost. During the day they feed in the rice fields all over the island only to return to this exact spot at dusk. The herons started their visits around 1965 and nobody knows why they chose to settle here as all around there are just as suitable trees where they can roost. When they settle into the trees beside the road there is much scabbling over prime perching places. The villagers believe they bring good luck – and many tourists – so they have become a minor attraction, despite the smell of bird droppings and the mess at the base of the trees. Local villages have even set up a few warung in the adjoining rice paddies where visitors can relax and watch the evening spectacle.
One evening, around 5:50pm, I parked my motorbike and walked quickly under the trees through copious amounts of bird shit to join a dozen plus other package holidaymakers. We eagerly waited for the birds to arrive. Over the next 30 minutes two or three flocks of herons arrived and took up their perches. With that the impatient package tourists upped and left. Why did they do that? Pretty soon I was the only one left and still the birds kept coming. So relaxing was the whole scene that I stayed well after sunset, chatting to the villagers until it was dark.
Late evenings in Ubud town were spent at the nearby Putra Bar, chatting to both travellers and tourists alike. It was nice because you never felt that there was any ulterior motive for the Ubudians except just wanting to be sociable.
Eventually the time came when I had to leave Ubud and return my hired motorbike. On my way back to Kuta I headed southwest to the southern coast of Bali. I wanted to visit Tanah Lot, possibly Bali’s most photographed temple. To the Balinese this is one venerated chain of sea temples associated with the priest Nirartha and the 15th century Majapahit dynasty.
I arrived at the site to find a very commercialised tourist trap. After paying my parking entrance fees I walked down a “sideshow” alley with dozens of souvenir shops. The temple itself is quaintly perched on top of a rocky islet and would look superb if it wasn’t half covered by scaffolding. It was low tide and I was able to walk over to the base of the outcrop but I didn’t venture up to the temple for fear of being fleeced again for another entrance fee. I walked a path up the cliff on the main headland where many restaurants with tables and chairs overlook the temple. In the evenings Tanah Lot becomes a stark outline whilst the sun sets delicately behind. I suppose this is when the bulk of tourists arrive, as it was 1pm and I was the only person there. I ordered an expensive Coke, got my photographs and left (after being charged again to use the toilet).
Finally I made it back to Kuta and found a room in the friendly and large Suka Beach Inn. I had one last errand to run. I rode in heavy traffic to Denpasar’s Benoa Harbour to purchase my boat ticket off Bali for early the next morning.
I returned my bike to Nyoman (a common name in Bali it seems). He was genuinely pleased to see me and enquired about my trip around the island. I paid up the money I owed him for keeping the bike the extra days and bade him farewell. When visiting Bali, touring around on a bike is a must. It gave me the freedom and independence to move around as I pleased.
