Blondes On A Bike- Tirta Ganga and Padang Bai
My time in Bali has all but come to an end- I’m writing this from Denpasar airport, using my time on standby effectively/trying to distract myself from the thought of the hours of waiting ahead. Mt Raung, a volcano on Java, the island next to Bali, has been erupting most of this week, and the ash cloud has brought many delays to flights until finally causing the closure of the entire airport yesterday. I'm flying on standby to Malaysia now- meaning I wait until everyone else has checked in and then if there is space I can fly. If not, I wait until the next flight and repeat the whole process! Many people are in the same boat, and with the flights returning to Aus all completely packed there are some pretty weary people slouched in chairs dotted around the place. It gives me a good excuse to rifle through my photos and update this baby though!
From days hiking through rice fields to being bed-bound for too many days, my last few weeks here have been quite the journey. After several more days relaxing and snorkelling in Tulamben, I headed into the hills and stopped by Tirta Ganga (Water of the Ganges), a famous water palace complex heading back towards the south of Bali, all cascading fountains and koi ponds. The only other occupant at the guesthouse I found just across the road from the water palace was a retired Marine Archaeologist, who speaks Bahasa fluently, has been coming to Bali for over 40 years and is considering not leaving this time around. He spends his days plotting the walks of the region- Tirta Ganga backs onto some of the most beautiful rice fields I’ve come across in Bali, and the undulating hills make for some fantastic hikes. I became his willing accomplice on walking missions- it was quite amazing to see how much more deeply he has engaged with the culture and people of Bali, with his years of experience and language skills. Here I was thinking that after two months I was actually getting to know this mystical island, but my time spent tailing along on these walks sure showed me differently. I followed faithfully, watched (completely uncomprehendingly) as he had conversations with everyone we passed (which often turned into an invitation to drink freshly tapped palm wine), and tried (in vain) to keep track of the myriad turning and twisting trails we wandered down. As we made our way through the tiny villages dotted across the countryside, the locals kept track of our movements with 'where are you coming from?' and 'where are you going?', slotting us into their mental matrix in which everyone has their place and everyone's movements are detailed. (Even the man washing his rooster took a minute to establish our start and end points for that particular 'jalan' (walk)). After a few days of sinking my feet into the mud of flooded rice terraces, fording streams that are crystal clear and oh-so-refreshing in Bali’s midday heat, it seems even more incomprehensible that I spent pretty much the entirety of the next week in bed.
Let me explain.
Immediately after these hilly explorations I found myself back in Canggu, with a wonderful friend from university days fresh from two weeks surfing in Lombok. After the austerity of the East Coast it was great in indulge in Canggu’s hipster cafes again, though not so great to indulge in their prices. And sadly super delicious breakfasts do not give one super-balance-powers, and I took quite the tumble off a 4 metre retaining wall by the beach. Luckily I managed to only bruise my heels, which means that while I was off my feet for the remainder of the week (only leaving my veranda perch to acquire sustenance at the corner cafe or ice for my regimented icing-program (thanks dad)) I was incredibly fortunate not to have any more serious injuries- El thought she would be scraping me off the boulders, and images of legs and ribs and all sorts of carnage were certainly dancing through my head immediately post-fall. If nothing else, I managed to catch up on every space cowboy-esque movie ever made, reread most of an epic fantasy series, take lots of naps and really learn to appreciate being able to merely walk with ease. My recovery was aided by the arrival of a dear Dutch friend from the summer season in Melbourne just gone- Soph has been transporting me around by scooter for a week now, with our sarongs wrapped around our faces gangsta-bandana style, and blonde hair whipping around in the breeze- we’ve been causing quite a stir in our travels. At one point we stopped for a break at a roadside cafe on our way up to Padang Bai, and before long it appeared the cafe owners had called all their friends- we had quite the audience as we ate an entire watermelon (to be fair it was quite a small watermelon) between us. In the midst of our non-stop talking (and watermelon devouring), we decided to set off in search of beach and adventures, and we certainly found both.
Chart-topping scooter adventure was certainly our mission to make it to Tanah Lot for sunset- the most photographed and visited temple in Bali, this sea temple is situated on a tower of rock just off the shore and not too far from Canggu. We missed sunset and a sighting of the Holy Snake (I kid you not), but enjoyed clambering around for half hour by ourselves in the dark anyway. With the crashing of waves and the dying sun silhouetting the temple against a darkening sky, we could certainly appreciate why this temple is so mystical and important to the Balinese- the place is practically buzzing with energy. On the way home we were riding the spiritual high, talking about the backpacker-hostel-type vibe and how it felt a bit been-there done-that, when, just as we were commenting on our mountains of travel experience, our scooter spluttered to a stop. In the middle of nowhere. In the dark. Not only had we ran out of fuel, but we had gleefully spent our last few Indonesian rupiah on a bundle of mangosteen near the temple. Armed only with a handful of Australian dollars, no credit cards, and not much Bahasa between us, the universe sure set about taking us back down a peg. Luckily we found a supermarket, in which one of the shoppers had a wallet full of rupiah (very unusual) who was happy to change some money for us, and then we found a lady packing up her petrol stand and managed to grab her last bottle before she shut up shop… phew! We were back on the road in ten minutes, shaking our heads at our "experience" selves.
After navigating the chaotic traffic of Denpasar we made our way up to Padang Bai- the stepping-off point for most boats heading across to the Gili Islands. A local told us that the tourists coming through on boats number in the thousands per day, and observing the hoards at the ferry terminal I’d certainly believe it. There are some beautiful beaches around Padang Bai, with White Sand Beach truly living up to its name- unusual on a volcanic island like Bali. I was still hobbling though, so pretty much took the scooter everywhere we went. Following my group of friends ever-so-slowly (no point being in front when I have no idea where I’m going), the locals thought I was quite hilarious and obviously a complete beginner to be moving at such a glacial pace. I tried to explain I was basically using it as a motorised wheelchair but soon gave up on that and just laughed along with them.
I’m going to make the most of this airport wifi and fill up the photo gallery- I’ll leave this entry here and be back with adventures from Malaysia in the next few weeks!
From days hiking through rice fields to being bed-bound for too many days, my last few weeks here have been quite the journey. After several more days relaxing and snorkelling in Tulamben, I headed into the hills and stopped by Tirta Ganga (Water of the Ganges), a famous water palace complex heading back towards the south of Bali, all cascading fountains and koi ponds. The only other occupant at the guesthouse I found just across the road from the water palace was a retired Marine Archaeologist, who speaks Bahasa fluently, has been coming to Bali for over 40 years and is considering not leaving this time around. He spends his days plotting the walks of the region- Tirta Ganga backs onto some of the most beautiful rice fields I’ve come across in Bali, and the undulating hills make for some fantastic hikes. I became his willing accomplice on walking missions- it was quite amazing to see how much more deeply he has engaged with the culture and people of Bali, with his years of experience and language skills. Here I was thinking that after two months I was actually getting to know this mystical island, but my time spent tailing along on these walks sure showed me differently. I followed faithfully, watched (completely uncomprehendingly) as he had conversations with everyone we passed (which often turned into an invitation to drink freshly tapped palm wine), and tried (in vain) to keep track of the myriad turning and twisting trails we wandered down. As we made our way through the tiny villages dotted across the countryside, the locals kept track of our movements with 'where are you coming from?' and 'where are you going?', slotting us into their mental matrix in which everyone has their place and everyone's movements are detailed. (Even the man washing his rooster took a minute to establish our start and end points for that particular 'jalan' (walk)). After a few days of sinking my feet into the mud of flooded rice terraces, fording streams that are crystal clear and oh-so-refreshing in Bali’s midday heat, it seems even more incomprehensible that I spent pretty much the entirety of the next week in bed.
Let me explain.
Immediately after these hilly explorations I found myself back in Canggu, with a wonderful friend from university days fresh from two weeks surfing in Lombok. After the austerity of the East Coast it was great in indulge in Canggu’s hipster cafes again, though not so great to indulge in their prices. And sadly super delicious breakfasts do not give one super-balance-powers, and I took quite the tumble off a 4 metre retaining wall by the beach. Luckily I managed to only bruise my heels, which means that while I was off my feet for the remainder of the week (only leaving my veranda perch to acquire sustenance at the corner cafe or ice for my regimented icing-program (thanks dad)) I was incredibly fortunate not to have any more serious injuries- El thought she would be scraping me off the boulders, and images of legs and ribs and all sorts of carnage were certainly dancing through my head immediately post-fall. If nothing else, I managed to catch up on every space cowboy-esque movie ever made, reread most of an epic fantasy series, take lots of naps and really learn to appreciate being able to merely walk with ease. My recovery was aided by the arrival of a dear Dutch friend from the summer season in Melbourne just gone- Soph has been transporting me around by scooter for a week now, with our sarongs wrapped around our faces gangsta-bandana style, and blonde hair whipping around in the breeze- we’ve been causing quite a stir in our travels. At one point we stopped for a break at a roadside cafe on our way up to Padang Bai, and before long it appeared the cafe owners had called all their friends- we had quite the audience as we ate an entire watermelon (to be fair it was quite a small watermelon) between us. In the midst of our non-stop talking (and watermelon devouring), we decided to set off in search of beach and adventures, and we certainly found both.
Chart-topping scooter adventure was certainly our mission to make it to Tanah Lot for sunset- the most photographed and visited temple in Bali, this sea temple is situated on a tower of rock just off the shore and not too far from Canggu. We missed sunset and a sighting of the Holy Snake (I kid you not), but enjoyed clambering around for half hour by ourselves in the dark anyway. With the crashing of waves and the dying sun silhouetting the temple against a darkening sky, we could certainly appreciate why this temple is so mystical and important to the Balinese- the place is practically buzzing with energy. On the way home we were riding the spiritual high, talking about the backpacker-hostel-type vibe and how it felt a bit been-there done-that, when, just as we were commenting on our mountains of travel experience, our scooter spluttered to a stop. In the middle of nowhere. In the dark. Not only had we ran out of fuel, but we had gleefully spent our last few Indonesian rupiah on a bundle of mangosteen near the temple. Armed only with a handful of Australian dollars, no credit cards, and not much Bahasa between us, the universe sure set about taking us back down a peg. Luckily we found a supermarket, in which one of the shoppers had a wallet full of rupiah (very unusual) who was happy to change some money for us, and then we found a lady packing up her petrol stand and managed to grab her last bottle before she shut up shop… phew! We were back on the road in ten minutes, shaking our heads at our "experience" selves.
After navigating the chaotic traffic of Denpasar we made our way up to Padang Bai- the stepping-off point for most boats heading across to the Gili Islands. A local told us that the tourists coming through on boats number in the thousands per day, and observing the hoards at the ferry terminal I’d certainly believe it. There are some beautiful beaches around Padang Bai, with White Sand Beach truly living up to its name- unusual on a volcanic island like Bali. I was still hobbling though, so pretty much took the scooter everywhere we went. Following my group of friends ever-so-slowly (no point being in front when I have no idea where I’m going), the locals thought I was quite hilarious and obviously a complete beginner to be moving at such a glacial pace. I tried to explain I was basically using it as a motorised wheelchair but soon gave up on that and just laughed along with them.
I’m going to make the most of this airport wifi and fill up the photo gallery- I’ll leave this entry here and be back with adventures from Malaysia in the next few weeks!
Red Fish, Blue Fish- Tulamben and the Amed Coast
Today is unusually cool- I’m actually leaving my balcony doors open to encourage the salty breeze to rush through, leaving the curtains streaming in its wake and drying the sweat on my forehead (the humidity persists), unlike most other afternoons where I have to shut up shop to maintain some sort of sleep-able temperature for the night to come. Heady clouds blanket the sky, threatening but yet to deliver a downpour- in the six days I’ve been on Amed coast I’m yet to see a drop of rain- the dry season lives up to its name in Bali’s arid east.
Noticeably poorer than Bali’s heavily populated and touristed south, towns on the Amed coast exist on a thin sliver of land sandwiched between the ocean and the volcanic hills behind. Almost every other foreigner I’ve run into has been from France- I’m yet to meet another Australian and the locals here shout as you pass in French, though rest assured they can still pitch diving trips/scooter rental/arak in English just as skillfully. Protected by reef, there is no surf on this coast- the water is a calm and clear bluegreen, a stark contrast to the pounding surf I left behind in Balian. Amed Village, where I’ve been staying for most of this week, is about of a size of Balian, if not a little smaller. However, as I’ve found in every new place I’ve visited in Bali, the vibe is totally different from one place to the next- as I mentioned in my last post, Balian is only on the map to the surfing few, and as such the locals there haven’t given over their way of life or means of income to the tourist trade. As a visitor, you simply slot in amongst their everyday life. In contrast, the fishing villages strung along the Amed coast, starting at Tulamben in the north, have seen such diving traffic as to cause many of the entrepreneurial locals to open guesthouses, warungs, diving schools- inevitably saturating the market and overstepping the actual need for such services. Walking along the narrow main road in Amed can be quite the heart-wrenching and frustrating experience, passing many an empty warung with owners sitting on the entrance steps, calling out to you in hope you want lunch or dinner or a fruit juice. When you do sit down, munching on complimentary popcorn, you will also be offered massages, snorkel trips, transport- friendly conversation here is never just that. In the true Balinese way though there is no hostility when you politely decline- you’ll still have a friendly smile to see you on your way.
I started my Amed Coast exploration in Tulamben- a cluster of dive shops and warungs that sprung up to accommodate divers exploring the wreck of the US Liberty, which the 1963 eruption of looming Gunung Agung split in half and deposited about 50m from the shore, providing a perfect home for coral and brilliantly coloured tropical fish. An easy snorkel from the rocky beach (I try to think of it as free reflexology), I was amazed by the visibility and abundance of marine life. Angel fish chased each other through the gaping holes in the hull, parrot fish chipped away at coral and I just happily floated above it all, luxuriating in the sun on my back and the vibrant scene below. And that has pretty much been my modus operandi for the time I’ve been scootering around Bali’s east- find a dive site, don fins, push off from the shore and chase me down a ray or two, or admire the absolute stillness of a stone fish as it camouflages itself on a bump of coral, almost (/actually) get run over by a traditional fishing boat because I’m too entranced… which was certainly more amusing for the locals than for much-surprised me (swallowed half the ocean after the hull donged me on the head). The strange outrigger-canoe-esque boats (called 'jukungs') are jammed like sardines on the black shore of many a village, with impromptu fish markets springing up along the roadside of a morning, wares traded from big black buckets and the sun glinting on freshly caught scales. Once a wizened old woman, dressed only in a sarong wrapped around her tiny waist, shook a huge swordfish at me as I passed- I’m not sure if she wanted to sell it to me or show off the size of the catch, but I was most impressed she was wielding a fish that must have weighed at least a good half of her. I’ve also watched a similarly aged woman filling bag after bag after bag of salt, as she crouched by the road near the warung I was eating lunch in. Salt production is almost as big as fishing on this stretch of coast, a time consuming and physically exhausting task, though a good source of income- the flavour of Amed salt is a matter of pride for the locals and in demand by culinary enthusiasts everywhere. Apart from fishing and salt producing, there is also great enthusiasm for cock fighting- there are roosters everywhere. Everywhere. Strutting across the street in front of your scooter (and you thought kangaroos were hazardous on roads), preening under the devoted eye of their owners, being lovingly cradled as they are transported on the back of a motorbike, or crowing at literally every hour- 4am, noon, 7:43pm (someone needs to explain the idea of only-crowing-to-welcome-the-day-not-the-middle-of-the-night to these birds... with their pampered treatment they are clearly too big for their boots).
Not sharing the enthusiasm for such violent sport, my entertainments have been of a much more pacifist nature. As well as snorkelling myself silly and dodging roosters on the road, I’ve also appointed myself as Watcher Of The Sunsets- inspired by Thoreau, ‘self-appointed inspector of snow-storms and rain-storms’ (Walden), I’ve taken up the mantle of the daily inspection of the setting of the sun, often joined on the beach by a gang of local children (who parade back and forth, yelling and laughing), older men preparing their boats for the night’s fishing, and the other foreign visitors wielding cameras. The near-perfect cone of Gunung Agung provides a stunning backdrop, and the clouds that normally wreath the middle of the volcano a canvas for the light to bounce through and dowse the sky in brilliant reds and oranges and pinks. When the sun has barely dipped his head below the horizon the first stars bravely pop out, soon followed by a riot of stellar companions (and to the soothing soundtrack of... roosters. Seriously). My bungalow is directly on the beach- easily the nicest place I’ve stayed so far (and for a mere $10 a night), all white tiles and wooden roof, with glass doors sliding open onto a balcony perfectly sized for my yoga mat or enjoying a Bali coffee to welcome the day (Bali coffee is made similarly to Turkish coffee- you wait for the grounds to settle at the bottom of the mug before drinking it. Turns out continually stirring it while contemplating the day to come is a bad idea, a lesson I learnt the very grainy way). The owners (a wonderfully plump woman and her rail-thin husband) speak practically zero English, so we mostly get by on nods and smiles, and occasional charades (trying to ask for a coconut the first day I was here was particularly hilarious and a complete fail, but totally worth it for the entertainment value for all of us). The scooter they’ve been lending me has a broken fuel gauge and speedo, which means I’ve ran out of fuel twice now and never have any idea how fast I’m going, though on these windy roads there is little worry I’d break any non-existent speed limit, and there is always a little roadside stall with the requisite petrol-in-Absolut-vodka-bottles just around the corner (fuel is subsidised here and costs 80 cents a litre) though I tell you, pushing a scooter up a hill is one hell of a workout- hopefully between that and the snorkelling I can counter the fried banana that accompanies coffee for my complimentary breakfast… though I’m not sure it can do much about the ridiculous amount of tempe satay I’ve been shovelling in my face left right and centre.
Might have to step up the snorkelling a notch.
With only three weeks left I am already over half way through my time exploring this island of volcanoes and reef and jungle. I’m looking forward to spending some time exploring with a few cherished friends that are dropping by, and also to catching up with new friends I’ve made since being here. There is more exploring to be done in the central mountain district, and more surf to be found down the Bukit Peninsula (the home of Ulu Watu, a famed but gnarly break… may be more watching than surfing for me perhaps (don’t worry Dad)), and undoubtedly unplanned but exciting adventures along the way (though hopefully not involving my head and more traditional boats).
With love and the most ridiculous tan lines,
Lucy
Noticeably poorer than Bali’s heavily populated and touristed south, towns on the Amed coast exist on a thin sliver of land sandwiched between the ocean and the volcanic hills behind. Almost every other foreigner I’ve run into has been from France- I’m yet to meet another Australian and the locals here shout as you pass in French, though rest assured they can still pitch diving trips/scooter rental/arak in English just as skillfully. Protected by reef, there is no surf on this coast- the water is a calm and clear bluegreen, a stark contrast to the pounding surf I left behind in Balian. Amed Village, where I’ve been staying for most of this week, is about of a size of Balian, if not a little smaller. However, as I’ve found in every new place I’ve visited in Bali, the vibe is totally different from one place to the next- as I mentioned in my last post, Balian is only on the map to the surfing few, and as such the locals there haven’t given over their way of life or means of income to the tourist trade. As a visitor, you simply slot in amongst their everyday life. In contrast, the fishing villages strung along the Amed coast, starting at Tulamben in the north, have seen such diving traffic as to cause many of the entrepreneurial locals to open guesthouses, warungs, diving schools- inevitably saturating the market and overstepping the actual need for such services. Walking along the narrow main road in Amed can be quite the heart-wrenching and frustrating experience, passing many an empty warung with owners sitting on the entrance steps, calling out to you in hope you want lunch or dinner or a fruit juice. When you do sit down, munching on complimentary popcorn, you will also be offered massages, snorkel trips, transport- friendly conversation here is never just that. In the true Balinese way though there is no hostility when you politely decline- you’ll still have a friendly smile to see you on your way.
I started my Amed Coast exploration in Tulamben- a cluster of dive shops and warungs that sprung up to accommodate divers exploring the wreck of the US Liberty, which the 1963 eruption of looming Gunung Agung split in half and deposited about 50m from the shore, providing a perfect home for coral and brilliantly coloured tropical fish. An easy snorkel from the rocky beach (I try to think of it as free reflexology), I was amazed by the visibility and abundance of marine life. Angel fish chased each other through the gaping holes in the hull, parrot fish chipped away at coral and I just happily floated above it all, luxuriating in the sun on my back and the vibrant scene below. And that has pretty much been my modus operandi for the time I’ve been scootering around Bali’s east- find a dive site, don fins, push off from the shore and chase me down a ray or two, or admire the absolute stillness of a stone fish as it camouflages itself on a bump of coral, almost (/actually) get run over by a traditional fishing boat because I’m too entranced… which was certainly more amusing for the locals than for much-surprised me (swallowed half the ocean after the hull donged me on the head). The strange outrigger-canoe-esque boats (called 'jukungs') are jammed like sardines on the black shore of many a village, with impromptu fish markets springing up along the roadside of a morning, wares traded from big black buckets and the sun glinting on freshly caught scales. Once a wizened old woman, dressed only in a sarong wrapped around her tiny waist, shook a huge swordfish at me as I passed- I’m not sure if she wanted to sell it to me or show off the size of the catch, but I was most impressed she was wielding a fish that must have weighed at least a good half of her. I’ve also watched a similarly aged woman filling bag after bag after bag of salt, as she crouched by the road near the warung I was eating lunch in. Salt production is almost as big as fishing on this stretch of coast, a time consuming and physically exhausting task, though a good source of income- the flavour of Amed salt is a matter of pride for the locals and in demand by culinary enthusiasts everywhere. Apart from fishing and salt producing, there is also great enthusiasm for cock fighting- there are roosters everywhere. Everywhere. Strutting across the street in front of your scooter (and you thought kangaroos were hazardous on roads), preening under the devoted eye of their owners, being lovingly cradled as they are transported on the back of a motorbike, or crowing at literally every hour- 4am, noon, 7:43pm (someone needs to explain the idea of only-crowing-to-welcome-the-day-not-the-middle-of-the-night to these birds... with their pampered treatment they are clearly too big for their boots).
Not sharing the enthusiasm for such violent sport, my entertainments have been of a much more pacifist nature. As well as snorkelling myself silly and dodging roosters on the road, I’ve also appointed myself as Watcher Of The Sunsets- inspired by Thoreau, ‘self-appointed inspector of snow-storms and rain-storms’ (Walden), I’ve taken up the mantle of the daily inspection of the setting of the sun, often joined on the beach by a gang of local children (who parade back and forth, yelling and laughing), older men preparing their boats for the night’s fishing, and the other foreign visitors wielding cameras. The near-perfect cone of Gunung Agung provides a stunning backdrop, and the clouds that normally wreath the middle of the volcano a canvas for the light to bounce through and dowse the sky in brilliant reds and oranges and pinks. When the sun has barely dipped his head below the horizon the first stars bravely pop out, soon followed by a riot of stellar companions (and to the soothing soundtrack of... roosters. Seriously). My bungalow is directly on the beach- easily the nicest place I’ve stayed so far (and for a mere $10 a night), all white tiles and wooden roof, with glass doors sliding open onto a balcony perfectly sized for my yoga mat or enjoying a Bali coffee to welcome the day (Bali coffee is made similarly to Turkish coffee- you wait for the grounds to settle at the bottom of the mug before drinking it. Turns out continually stirring it while contemplating the day to come is a bad idea, a lesson I learnt the very grainy way). The owners (a wonderfully plump woman and her rail-thin husband) speak practically zero English, so we mostly get by on nods and smiles, and occasional charades (trying to ask for a coconut the first day I was here was particularly hilarious and a complete fail, but totally worth it for the entertainment value for all of us). The scooter they’ve been lending me has a broken fuel gauge and speedo, which means I’ve ran out of fuel twice now and never have any idea how fast I’m going, though on these windy roads there is little worry I’d break any non-existent speed limit, and there is always a little roadside stall with the requisite petrol-in-Absolut-vodka-bottles just around the corner (fuel is subsidised here and costs 80 cents a litre) though I tell you, pushing a scooter up a hill is one hell of a workout- hopefully between that and the snorkelling I can counter the fried banana that accompanies coffee for my complimentary breakfast… though I’m not sure it can do much about the ridiculous amount of tempe satay I’ve been shovelling in my face left right and centre.
Might have to step up the snorkelling a notch.
With only three weeks left I am already over half way through my time exploring this island of volcanoes and reef and jungle. I’m looking forward to spending some time exploring with a few cherished friends that are dropping by, and also to catching up with new friends I’ve made since being here. There is more exploring to be done in the central mountain district, and more surf to be found down the Bukit Peninsula (the home of Ulu Watu, a famed but gnarly break… may be more watching than surfing for me perhaps (don’t worry Dad)), and undoubtedly unplanned but exciting adventures along the way (though hopefully not involving my head and more traditional boats).
With love and the most ridiculous tan lines,
Lucy
Life's Better in a Bikini- Kuta, Canggu, Balian.
Nature is noisy here. As I write this I can see lightening flashing ever closer across the ocean, but the thunder has to compete with crashing smashing waves, dogs and frogs and their related cacophony, the unbelievably loud geckos chasing each other across the roof- what hope does mere thunder have?
Blissfully though, there is no man made noises attempting to join in on the fun, except maybe the harmless tapping of my keyboard. No calls of ‘transport, transport darling?’, or ‘come have look one, no need to buy’ or touting of any sort. No cars trundling past with scooters zipping in between like the feeder fish accompanying a comparatively-cumbersome shark, no over-laden trucks with over-bearing horns as those that clog the road from Denpaser to Java, the road I joined the clog of in order to find my current haunt. Having ran the full gauntlet of the development of Bali in the last week, it is a breath of fresh air both figuratively and literally to be hunkered down in Balian, a surfie hamlet somewhere on the south west coast. I’m staying in a simple concrete bungalow, with intermittent power and cold water, but ample room for both surfboard and the early-morning-spreading of a yoga mat, and a soundtrack as described above- I’m on a bluff overlooking the super-fine black volcanic sand of the beach. I may be the only guest but as the oddball only girl and absolutely-the-only-beginner-I-mean-can-she-even-paddle-oh-man-I-can’t-look at Balian I’ve made the acquaintance of many a grizzled surfer to sit with and watch the sets roll in or to give me that little push of hey-the-current-isn’t-even-that-bad-today and those-sets-aren’t-really-too-big that I sometimes need to get my butt in the water. Today turned into a well-needed rest day though, as the weather was stormy-grey-rainy and not only do I not need to get hammered by water from above as well as from below but stormy-grey-rainy here means bull sharks aplenty- and while I’ve been assured there has been no recent fatalities but only some moderate-to-severe maulings, even to a gentle love-bite mauling by a shark Lucy says no. Instead I spotted sharks from the shore as they twisted and jumped around the schools of fish that hang at end of the rip current that streams from the river along the shore- which the surfers use to get out back but if your paddling fitness isn’t up to it (hint- mine isn’t (yet)) you’ll be ‘on a freight train to Java’ (and also shark city which I find slightly more concerning). An old surfer with white white hair, a years-in-the-making tan fake tan can’t even come close to and ripped shoulders has assured me the swell will drop over the next few days though, and so I’m warming up my not-so-ripped shoulders in anticipation.
Getting to Balian was quite the kaleidoscope of experiences, with time spent in both Kuta and Canggu along the way. Canggu was where I said goodbye to Glenn and Asha, who are now off seeking awesome times working in Sri Lanka and learning woodcarving back in Ubud respectively. It was really fantastic to spend time as a team- Team Party and Dance Times, Team Three-Kite-Board-Instructors-Teach-Themselves-To-Surf, Team Man-I’m-Hungry-Again, Team Breakfast Buffet… the list goes on as do the memories that accompany them. I am certain I wouldn’t have enjoyed Kuta half as much without this dynamic duo to rave to reggaeton with and then sleep it all off in the sun the next day. And in general, enjoy Kuta I did. Sure, it is loud and brash and (especially in the heat of the midday) wearisome, but amidst the warren of side streets there is avocado-pineapple juice to be found, artwork to admire, shops seemingly devoted to hello kitty and, of course, tasty and cheap food to be (lovingly) devoured. The entertainment that is watching Korean group surfing lessons runs all day everyday and is free, as is entry to SkyGarden Super Club (think several levels of dance floors) and drinks from 9pm-10pm if your entertainment needs are more that way inclined. Yes, AFL blares from most venues and there are many Australians pottering around drunkly in Bintang singlets (top overheard moment- I was photographing some graffiti when a Aussie lad behind me says to a group of mates, ‘Oh yeah, this is where I got tasered once!’), but the sunsets are wicked and man, that avo-pineapple juice can sooth all ills.
There is an interesting undercurrent of tension around the bustling hub of Kuta/Legian/Seminyak though, which has filtered down from the increasing coolness of relations between the Indonesian and Australian governments. With the hubbub surrounding the recent executions of Australian drug smugglers on Indonesian soil, there have been calls in Australia to boycott Indo- a fact which many Balinese traders bemoaned to me at one point or another. Others have asked why I’m here if my government has triple warned us all not to come, and while it may be low season anyway my reckoning is that it is lower than usual. Some seasoned travelers to Bali I’ve spoken too have wondered at how much more expensive Bali has become- putting it close to on par with other South East Asian countries. I’ve had more than one taxi driver offer a ridiculous price to travel a short distance, and then when I’ve refused has looked at me from the corner of an eye and said, but it’s only x amount of dollars for you (when if we had traveled on the meter it would have been about a 1/10th of the demanded price if that). Being now away from Kuta and the mass-touristed areas this tension has completely disappeared, but it was certainly interesting to watch both the behavior of Australians and the attitudes of the Balinese during my time doing my typical Aussie-goes-to-Bali thang.
Canggu is a good example of the rampageous development still expanding out from Kuta- where once was the simplest of surfer accommodation and one café (according my Dad from his surfie days) now stands a plush outer suburb that feels more like being in Australia than anywhere else I’ve been. Expats zip by on scooters with their hair streaming behind, almost every surfer in the water is Caucasian and cafes abound that offer a maca-flax-soy smoothie to go with your tofu-on-wholemeal breakfast. With such development the prices too have increased, and I soon had to flee in search of a humbler abode that (hopefully) time and development had forgotten.
And so I find myself in Balian. Me, a soundtrack of waves, zillions of frogs and a mere handful of other surfers (can I even call myself a surfer when I still end every session looking like I’ve been machine-washed and sand-blasted?) are all there is to this Balinese village, which is still, as my guesthouse owner from Canggu said- ‘very in the jungle’...
...I think I’ll stop here a while.
Lucy, novice surf-goddess.
Blissfully though, there is no man made noises attempting to join in on the fun, except maybe the harmless tapping of my keyboard. No calls of ‘transport, transport darling?’, or ‘come have look one, no need to buy’ or touting of any sort. No cars trundling past with scooters zipping in between like the feeder fish accompanying a comparatively-cumbersome shark, no over-laden trucks with over-bearing horns as those that clog the road from Denpaser to Java, the road I joined the clog of in order to find my current haunt. Having ran the full gauntlet of the development of Bali in the last week, it is a breath of fresh air both figuratively and literally to be hunkered down in Balian, a surfie hamlet somewhere on the south west coast. I’m staying in a simple concrete bungalow, with intermittent power and cold water, but ample room for both surfboard and the early-morning-spreading of a yoga mat, and a soundtrack as described above- I’m on a bluff overlooking the super-fine black volcanic sand of the beach. I may be the only guest but as the oddball only girl and absolutely-the-only-beginner-I-mean-can-she-even-paddle-oh-man-I-can’t-look at Balian I’ve made the acquaintance of many a grizzled surfer to sit with and watch the sets roll in or to give me that little push of hey-the-current-isn’t-even-that-bad-today and those-sets-aren’t-really-too-big that I sometimes need to get my butt in the water. Today turned into a well-needed rest day though, as the weather was stormy-grey-rainy and not only do I not need to get hammered by water from above as well as from below but stormy-grey-rainy here means bull sharks aplenty- and while I’ve been assured there has been no recent fatalities but only some moderate-to-severe maulings, even to a gentle love-bite mauling by a shark Lucy says no. Instead I spotted sharks from the shore as they twisted and jumped around the schools of fish that hang at end of the rip current that streams from the river along the shore- which the surfers use to get out back but if your paddling fitness isn’t up to it (hint- mine isn’t (yet)) you’ll be ‘on a freight train to Java’ (and also shark city which I find slightly more concerning). An old surfer with white white hair, a years-in-the-making tan fake tan can’t even come close to and ripped shoulders has assured me the swell will drop over the next few days though, and so I’m warming up my not-so-ripped shoulders in anticipation.
Getting to Balian was quite the kaleidoscope of experiences, with time spent in both Kuta and Canggu along the way. Canggu was where I said goodbye to Glenn and Asha, who are now off seeking awesome times working in Sri Lanka and learning woodcarving back in Ubud respectively. It was really fantastic to spend time as a team- Team Party and Dance Times, Team Three-Kite-Board-Instructors-Teach-Themselves-To-Surf, Team Man-I’m-Hungry-Again, Team Breakfast Buffet… the list goes on as do the memories that accompany them. I am certain I wouldn’t have enjoyed Kuta half as much without this dynamic duo to rave to reggaeton with and then sleep it all off in the sun the next day. And in general, enjoy Kuta I did. Sure, it is loud and brash and (especially in the heat of the midday) wearisome, but amidst the warren of side streets there is avocado-pineapple juice to be found, artwork to admire, shops seemingly devoted to hello kitty and, of course, tasty and cheap food to be (lovingly) devoured. The entertainment that is watching Korean group surfing lessons runs all day everyday and is free, as is entry to SkyGarden Super Club (think several levels of dance floors) and drinks from 9pm-10pm if your entertainment needs are more that way inclined. Yes, AFL blares from most venues and there are many Australians pottering around drunkly in Bintang singlets (top overheard moment- I was photographing some graffiti when a Aussie lad behind me says to a group of mates, ‘Oh yeah, this is where I got tasered once!’), but the sunsets are wicked and man, that avo-pineapple juice can sooth all ills.
There is an interesting undercurrent of tension around the bustling hub of Kuta/Legian/Seminyak though, which has filtered down from the increasing coolness of relations between the Indonesian and Australian governments. With the hubbub surrounding the recent executions of Australian drug smugglers on Indonesian soil, there have been calls in Australia to boycott Indo- a fact which many Balinese traders bemoaned to me at one point or another. Others have asked why I’m here if my government has triple warned us all not to come, and while it may be low season anyway my reckoning is that it is lower than usual. Some seasoned travelers to Bali I’ve spoken too have wondered at how much more expensive Bali has become- putting it close to on par with other South East Asian countries. I’ve had more than one taxi driver offer a ridiculous price to travel a short distance, and then when I’ve refused has looked at me from the corner of an eye and said, but it’s only x amount of dollars for you (when if we had traveled on the meter it would have been about a 1/10th of the demanded price if that). Being now away from Kuta and the mass-touristed areas this tension has completely disappeared, but it was certainly interesting to watch both the behavior of Australians and the attitudes of the Balinese during my time doing my typical Aussie-goes-to-Bali thang.
Canggu is a good example of the rampageous development still expanding out from Kuta- where once was the simplest of surfer accommodation and one café (according my Dad from his surfie days) now stands a plush outer suburb that feels more like being in Australia than anywhere else I’ve been. Expats zip by on scooters with their hair streaming behind, almost every surfer in the water is Caucasian and cafes abound that offer a maca-flax-soy smoothie to go with your tofu-on-wholemeal breakfast. With such development the prices too have increased, and I soon had to flee in search of a humbler abode that (hopefully) time and development had forgotten.
And so I find myself in Balian. Me, a soundtrack of waves, zillions of frogs and a mere handful of other surfers (can I even call myself a surfer when I still end every session looking like I’ve been machine-washed and sand-blasted?) are all there is to this Balinese village, which is still, as my guesthouse owner from Canggu said- ‘very in the jungle’...
...I think I’ll stop here a while.
Lucy, novice surf-goddess.
Monkey See, Monkey Do -Ubud, Bali
Concentrating on writing this post has been quite the monumental battle, as I am distracted in turn by the foot-bopping eighties pop anthems powering from the hostel speakers and the gamelan soundtrack to a Balinese dance extravaganza drifting over the neighbouring rice paddies. This conflict of modern Western and traditional Balinese sums up my time in Ubud quite neatly- for every Balinese farmer hand-tilling his rice paddie there is a youth decked out in full Western garb lounging on a street corner tapping away on a smartphone.
Ubud has the reputation as the artistic heart of Bali- dreadlocked expats zipping around on scooters and lululemon-wearing yogis grace the streets, every second storefront touts meditation classes or green smoothies. Luckily the local culture persists under the veneer of Western gloss- all you need to do is wander down a back street or venture out into the surrounding villages to get an actual taste of Balinese life. Taste can be taken both figuratively and literally- while I've enjoyed the myriad vegan/raw cafes to be found here, coming to grips with the local fare has been even more fun- being vegan in Bali is almost too easy. From gado gado to tempe curry, to spicy tempe, fried tempe, sweet-and-crunchy candy-like tempe... Probably going to turn into tempe before too long, and I'm totally ok with this.
One of the main touristy sites in Ubud is the Monkey Temple- a lush patch of forest on the southern edge of the village, full to bursting with cheeky grey monkeys. As you enter, signs warn you to remove sunglasses, jewelry, hats, to secure bags and any valuables with care- and god forbid you have any food on you at all because hot dang, those monkeys will know and they will stop at nothing to steal it. The trees provide welcome shade from the 30-odd degree heat, though as you can see from the photos below, resting under said trees is an invitation for monkeys to use you as a climbing gym. Having never really seen monkeys up close before, I was amazed by their intelligence and jealous of their dexterity- here a monkey hangs by one leg from a vine, there another uses a rock to break a sweet potato into more manageable chunks. You can purchase bunches of bananas to lure monkeys onto shoulders etc for photo opportunities, and it was hilarious to watch how many people would throw the entire bunch at the incoming horde in a panic, much to the mockery of mates waiting with cameras.
Not one to be left out of any sort of novelty activity, yesterday saw me (somewhat trepidatiously) procuring my very own scooter so that I too could scoot around, park deftly, remove my helmet and shake my luscious locks free as I shoulder my bag and lope away, helmet casually tucked under one arm... Ok so yeah the reality was a little different to that, and was more oh-my-stars-what-the-hell-is-happening-ah-ok-not-in-control-here and the luscious locks were more sweaty dreads plastered to my head. But once I got used to the traffic rules (aka there are none) and embraced the each-man-for-himself mindset, I had a great time following Glenn and Asia (I instructed with Glenn over summer for Kite Republic) as we sped off through villages and rice paddies for Gunung Kawi, an 11th-century temple complex north east of Ubud. One of the largest and most important temple complexes in Bali, Gunung Kawi is at the bottom of 273 steps in a green green valley, straddling the Pakerisan river. The 8m high funeral monuments are thought to be dedicated to King Anak Wungsu, though there is still speculation about whether that is the case or not- no one knows for sure, which adds to the mystery and ancient majesty of the surrounds. The scooter excursion to and from was as fun as exploring the temple itself, with a snake spotting (a huge snake. Writhing on the road. Great for maintaining scooter-balance) and snack stops keeping us all happy and our stomachs full. My scooter adventure ended with only some minor bruising from going off-road into a ditch and a small burn from the exhaust pipe. Winner winner!
Tomorrow I'll be striking off for the ocean- for surf sweet surf. Glenn and Asha are already in Kuta and I'm planning on joining them for a few days of party before they take off and I'm left to my own devices. I'm intrigued by Kuta- every man and his dog has a different opinion on the tourist-packed, night-club heavy beach town. A particularly obnoxious Danish lad who disturbed my pool-zen yesterday loudly proclaimed it to contain nothing but 'the very worst of Australia' so I'm about to join those hallowed ranks, don my Bintang singlet and get down.
Peace and sun salutations,
Lussy (Balinese coffeeman's reckoning of my name)
Ubud has the reputation as the artistic heart of Bali- dreadlocked expats zipping around on scooters and lululemon-wearing yogis grace the streets, every second storefront touts meditation classes or green smoothies. Luckily the local culture persists under the veneer of Western gloss- all you need to do is wander down a back street or venture out into the surrounding villages to get an actual taste of Balinese life. Taste can be taken both figuratively and literally- while I've enjoyed the myriad vegan/raw cafes to be found here, coming to grips with the local fare has been even more fun- being vegan in Bali is almost too easy. From gado gado to tempe curry, to spicy tempe, fried tempe, sweet-and-crunchy candy-like tempe... Probably going to turn into tempe before too long, and I'm totally ok with this.
One of the main touristy sites in Ubud is the Monkey Temple- a lush patch of forest on the southern edge of the village, full to bursting with cheeky grey monkeys. As you enter, signs warn you to remove sunglasses, jewelry, hats, to secure bags and any valuables with care- and god forbid you have any food on you at all because hot dang, those monkeys will know and they will stop at nothing to steal it. The trees provide welcome shade from the 30-odd degree heat, though as you can see from the photos below, resting under said trees is an invitation for monkeys to use you as a climbing gym. Having never really seen monkeys up close before, I was amazed by their intelligence and jealous of their dexterity- here a monkey hangs by one leg from a vine, there another uses a rock to break a sweet potato into more manageable chunks. You can purchase bunches of bananas to lure monkeys onto shoulders etc for photo opportunities, and it was hilarious to watch how many people would throw the entire bunch at the incoming horde in a panic, much to the mockery of mates waiting with cameras.
Not one to be left out of any sort of novelty activity, yesterday saw me (somewhat trepidatiously) procuring my very own scooter so that I too could scoot around, park deftly, remove my helmet and shake my luscious locks free as I shoulder my bag and lope away, helmet casually tucked under one arm... Ok so yeah the reality was a little different to that, and was more oh-my-stars-what-the-hell-is-happening-ah-ok-not-in-control-here and the luscious locks were more sweaty dreads plastered to my head. But once I got used to the traffic rules (aka there are none) and embraced the each-man-for-himself mindset, I had a great time following Glenn and Asia (I instructed with Glenn over summer for Kite Republic) as we sped off through villages and rice paddies for Gunung Kawi, an 11th-century temple complex north east of Ubud. One of the largest and most important temple complexes in Bali, Gunung Kawi is at the bottom of 273 steps in a green green valley, straddling the Pakerisan river. The 8m high funeral monuments are thought to be dedicated to King Anak Wungsu, though there is still speculation about whether that is the case or not- no one knows for sure, which adds to the mystery and ancient majesty of the surrounds. The scooter excursion to and from was as fun as exploring the temple itself, with a snake spotting (a huge snake. Writhing on the road. Great for maintaining scooter-balance) and snack stops keeping us all happy and our stomachs full. My scooter adventure ended with only some minor bruising from going off-road into a ditch and a small burn from the exhaust pipe. Winner winner!
Tomorrow I'll be striking off for the ocean- for surf sweet surf. Glenn and Asha are already in Kuta and I'm planning on joining them for a few days of party before they take off and I'm left to my own devices. I'm intrigued by Kuta- every man and his dog has a different opinion on the tourist-packed, night-club heavy beach town. A particularly obnoxious Danish lad who disturbed my pool-zen yesterday loudly proclaimed it to contain nothing but 'the very worst of Australia' so I'm about to join those hallowed ranks, don my Bintang singlet and get down.
Peace and sun salutations,
Lussy (Balinese coffeeman's reckoning of my name)
