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--An American Living Abroad
Exchange rate: $1 = about 9,000 Rupiahs
March 3, 2003
If you’re up-to-date, then you’re with me in the central mountains of Bali, halfway through
my recent holiday there.
At the southern end of Danau Bratan (danau = lake) is Bedugal, a tiny town where Dave and I promptly checked into
basic, low-budget rooms in the Sari Artha for 25,000R each. After a quick cheap meal of rice and veggies (passing
on KFC – King’s Fried Chicken), we nosed around the market, noted the strong Muslim influence, and then walked
out of town to the Botanical Gardens, almost 120 hectares (about 320 acres) on the slopes of Gunung Pohon. We forked
over the 3,000R entrance fee and headed off on our walk through foliage that was typical of higher elevation (1150
meters) – with over 650 species of trees, many of them pine, clumps of giant ferns and nearly 500 varieties of
orchids. The dearth of signs and the fact that we hadn’t been provided with a map made finding our way extremely
confusing at times, but it was cool, shady and peaceful to wander around, and the view over the lake and surrounding
mountains was first-rate.
After this, we hiked down to the shore of Danau Bratan to check out the superbly situated Pura Ulun Danu, a 17th
century Hindu/Buddhist temple built on a small promontory and dedicated to Dewi Danu, the goddess of the waters.
There are classic Hindu thatched-roof merus (multi-roofed shrines) and stupas, lovely grounds, and a glorious panorama
of a vast expanse of water stretching out with the mountains looming beyond. Sunset was a perfect time to be there,
especially since the guard had made an early departure, allowing us to stroll in free of charge.
The next morning we hired an outrigger canoe (50,000R for the day) to paddle across the lake to where a trailhead
would lead us up to the summit of Gunung Catur (2096 meters). The lake surface was as smooth as glass and the setting
awe-inspiring, but we soon discovered that our boat was so unbelievably heavy that powering it was a far cry from
zipping around in the high-tech, lightweight craft I’d once owned and enjoyed back in Arizona. This vessel seemed
heavy enough that it could’ve effectively been utilized as a battering ram for knocking down medieval walls, and
it certainly looked old enough. But we plowed onwards, in search of some caves on the far shore that we’d been
told were used by the Japanese during WW2 – “easy to find” was what they’d said. Not even close!
Up and down the shore we searched, but to no avail. Finally, spotting a couple of local fishermen crouched down
on the bank, we yelled out, “Dimana goa?” (Where is the cave?). They paused, glanced at each other, and then one
of them pointed. Their hesitation should have been a dead tip-off to us that they had no clue whatsoever. In this
culture, as is true in much of Asia, it’s more polite (and common) to provide any answer at all rather than saying
nothing. A wild-ass guess is considered better manners than not fulfilling a request. At about the point that my
hands were starting to blister up and my patience was running low, we finally detected a few stone steps near the
water’s edge. We beached our miniature aircraft carrier and, with some doing, stumbled upon the desired path. We
saw no caves, but we were on our way up the mountain.
The trail zig-zagged its way through dense tropical forest, but as we ascended it thinned into shady deciduous
trees, the path sometimes on the brink of steep ravines. Occasionally we got tantalizing glimpses through the lush
foliage of the shimmering lake far below. At times our unrelenting climb necessitated grabbing vines or tree roots
to pull ourselves upwards, and we frequently needed to either climb over or crawl under sizable trees that’d fallen,
blocking our way. We loved it - this was a good time in precisely the kind of setting we both loved being in.
Eventually our hike brought us into the rapidly descending clouds, whereupon we could see nothing beyond a few
meters. There had been but a few people along the path, but we met a man and his young son ambling down towards
us, and we inquired as to how much farther it was to the top. The answer was not what I wanted to hear, “Another
30 minutes.” I was tiring, my water supply was running low, and I couldn’t see jack-shit through the gray marshmallow
we were enveloped in. So I quickly decided I’d gone far enough as there seemed little point in huffing and puffing
any farther with no panoramic payoff for my troubles. But whippet-lean and 20 years younger, Dave sped onwards
while I found a comfy spot to plop down on that was reasonably free of ants, and where I could lean up against
a tree, contemplate deep thoughts, and pick lint out of my belly button.
After some time immersed in this state of idle pleasure, I heard some raucous laughing and the thundering of feet,
and for the next 15 minutes or so I said hello to about 75 boisterous teenagers on their way down the mountain.
I dazzled them with my proficiency of all the limited Bahasa Indonesian I could flash at them. Calm soon returned,
and then so did Dave, informing me that at the summit there’d been a small temple, a motley troop of monkeys, and
trash scattered everywhere - that, plus a view of absolutely zilch. It turned out that he was glad he’d gone up
and I was thrilled that I hadn’t.
We started down and soon encountered a light refreshing sprinkle, so we stripped off our shirts and savored the
cool drops falling down upon us. But in time the rain intensified, and as it did, the already tortuous trail degenerated
into a slippery and treacherous quagmire of mud. I had my heavy, lug-soled, waterproof boots from REI and it was
tough enough for me. Dave, in his bargain-basement tennies, was constantly on the brink of taking a header. On
one slope he began sliding like a spastic skier directly towards a tree and I thought, “Oh NO! This’ll be Sonny
Bono all over again!”
But the crafty and resourceful lad had a plan: grab the tree to break his out-of-control descent... and he did...
sort of. What did actually happen was that he temporarily wrapped his arms around it, spun off and then did a complete
backward somersault, scratching up his back a bit. But he did score an impressive 9.8 from the sole judge - me.
I tried not to laugh, but did, and true to his nature he shrugged it all off and marched onwards.
Finally reaching the bottom, muddy and soaked through but content nonetheless, we scampered back into our beast
of a boat (still not seeing any damn caves!) to make our return across the lake. The trip up and down had taken
four-and-a-quarter hours. While crossing we observed that, despite the inclement weather, jet skis were zooming
around us. On our left was a marina with a loud speaker blaring out something we certainly couldn’t make head or
tail of. Then we became aware of how the skiers seemed to be going back and forth from the marina in straight lines
and that we apparently were smack dab in the middle of a race! We chuckled about what the guy on the loudspeaker
was probably yelling, “Will you two morons in that pathetic excuse for a canoe get the hell off the race course!”
After another night in Bedugal, Dave and I got an early start in the morning with a guy we’d hired to drive us
to the southeast coast of the island. At this point it’d become quite obvious to us that being in the mountains
during the rainy season was not exactly the brightest idea. We didn’t mind the rain so much, it was just that by
noon the clouds entirely obscured what we were there to see – the mountains! We had previously thought that we
might go to Gunung Agung (at 3142 meters the highest peak in Bali) and nearby Pura Besakih, reportedly Bali’s most
important temple. But starting what promised to be a gruelling hike up Agung at something like one am in the morning,
and paying through the nose for an obligatory guide, didn’t really appeal to us - especially since I’d read that
Besakih was over-rated and highly commercialized. So it was a no-brainer: head for the coast baby - post haste!
But first we wanted to check out the other major lake area: Danau Batur. So with our private chauffeur Kading,
we headed east through some magnificent country, much of it farmland. We stopped for a few minutes at a small plantation
growing vanilla, which sells for a hefty 1,000,000 Rupiahs/kilo (over $50/pound). Continuing on, we gawked out
of the windows as our little minivan hugged narrow serpentine roads so steep that sometimes we felt like we were
on a Disneyland ride. Then Batur, where we hopped out to have a look around Pura Ulun Danu, a temple that was reconstructed
in 1927 after an eruption by Gunung Batur killed thousands of villagers and destroyed more than 60,000 homes and
2,000 temples, wiping out virtually everything in the area.
Climbing to the summit of Batur (1717m) must be something special, but the dry season (April to October) is the
time to do it, and take note that Batur still flares up from time to time, having cut loose in 1963, 1971, 1974
and 1994.
The temple was nothing to jump up and down and shout about, but the view from behind it was astonishing: the mountain,
lake, and valleys... a big-time WOW! Both Batur and the adjacent village of Kintamani rest on the rim of this massive
crater. After taking in the vista of this seven-mile-wide caldera, we descended to the lake itself, the switch-back
road twisting through lava fields until we reached Toya Bungkah, a scruffy little community where hawkers lay waiting
to pounce on us. Shaking them off, we followed Kading to a hot springs at the lake’s edge that was so squalid and
disgusting I wouldn’t have plunged into to it even if it’d been filled with a bevy of Playboy centerfolds skinny-dipping
and evocatively calling out my name. And can you believe there was a guy in there actually brushing his teeth!
From Danau Batur we continued south, at times through a heavy downpour that flooded the highway and severely impaired
visibility, but we arrived mid-afternoon in Padangbai. We paid our driver 125,000R each and checked into the Topi
Inn (25,000R, with breakfast).
Padangbai is situated on a perfect little bay, so perfect that it’s a major port for ferries to both Lombok and
Nusa Penida islands. Virtually the entire village exists on a narrow sandy road that runs along the beach with
shops, restaurants, and other tourist-related businesses all facing the Indian Ocean. It’s so small, in fact, that
it doesn’t even have a bank (despite what the guide books say!), which I quickly discovered to my consternation.
Since I was getting low on cash, I asked around about where to go and found out I needed to head back to a town
going by the twin names of Semarapura and Klungkung which we’d passed through on the way to Pandangbai. I was told
I could reach it in a half-hour by bemo (sometimes known as a microlet), the little mini-buses that are everywhere
in Indonesia.
And just like that, a bemo pulls up and the driver tells me he’s going to Semarapura. He quoted me 10,000R, which
I suspected was a bit steep, but I was in no mood to haggle. What I was to find out, after all the other passengers
had disembarked, was that Semarapura was not on his route and that he had something up his sleeve. He asked me
if I was returning quickly back to Pandangbai, and when I nodded yes, he told me he would transport me both ways
for 40,000R. I laughed in his face! Then I asked him if he thought I was totally stupid, and said firmly that we
would stick with the pre-arranged deal... thank you very much! All this was done in a combination of basic English
and my crappy Indonesian.
He pulled the van off the road and stopped, and what ensued was a classic case of extortion – Indonesian style:
either I was going to pay 40,000R for both ways or we weren’t going any farther. I remained completely calm and
patient, and acted as though I was in no hurry whatsoever and could and would either sit there indefinitely or
walk. This wasn’t so easy as the guy was pissing me off royally! But it was imperative that I do so. I subsequently
took the approach of reminding him that with tourism already hurting so badly he was shooting himself in the foot,
as I would certainly share my unhappiness about his naughty behavior to other potential tourists. But he was not
impressed or affected by this sudden burst of logic, and the standoff continued. Finally he tired of my intransigence,
flagged down another bemo and paid the driver enough to get me out of his van and take me onwards. As I departed
I gave him the best “You’re a scum-sucking weasel!” glare I could muster up.
The following morning Dave and I quickly agreed over breakfast that The Topi Inn sucked. Though it had a funky
bamboo ambiance that was appealing, and was at the end of the road which suggested it would be quiet, there was
a noisy bar across the street, it was mosquito-infested, and my primitive bathroom had a rat and a few cockroaches
in residence. He was so unimpressed with it, and Padangbai in general, that he’d opted to high-tail it out of there.
(It’d been understood all along that we might not do the entire holiday together.) I checked into the Padangbai
Beach Inn 1, where I found infinitely superior accommodation for 35,000R, with breakfast. I stayed there three
nights.
Padangbai is a good place to just chill out. I spent a lot of time sitting in cafes reading, writing, chatting
with either locals or other travelers, or merely gazing out over the serene seascape. Outrigger canoes with small
motors were moored in the bay or pulled up on to the beach waiting to take out tourists for either diving or snorkeling,
and I’m told the reefs are excellent for either pursuit. You can get a fine seafood dinner or fresh fruit juice
at a great price. The best place to swim is in the nearby Blue Lagoon, accessed via a leisurely ten-minute walk,
and although the name implies but doesn’t deliver on a romantic liaison with Brooke Shields, it’s peaceful and
perfect for a quiet swim. I never did fancy her anyway!
My second full day there I rented a motorbike for the day for a ridiculously low price of 30,000R (including insurance
and helmet) and left at 8:30 to do some exploring. I had my reservations about this, since 1) it’d been almost
15 years since I’d driven one (on Cozumel in Mexico), 2) I’d only driven on the “British side of the road” once
a few years ago in the Bahamas, and 3) as I’ve alluded to in past writings, Indonesian traffic is manic! But I
figured, “What the hell!” I started out a bit unsteadily, trying to get my hands and feet smoothly coordinated,
going very tentatively and watching all the other drivers with nervous paranoia. But I got the hang of it in no
time at all and soon arrived at my first destination: Goa Lawah (The Bat Cave Temple).
Used for almost 1,000 years as a temple, it’s about 50 meters deep and has an estimated 1,000,000 bats living in
it. My young guide (“donation” - 10,000R) did a great job explaining it all and appeared surprised when I didn’t
display disappointment upon hearing that I couldn’t venture within - even after he’d informed me that pythons were
also inside. Despite his insistence that these large snakes were there I’m still not totally convinced, even though
I’ve also read it in my guidebook. You’ll discover that the more you read and hear about Goa Lawah, the more myth
and reality become indistinguishable. But never mind the pythons; who in their right mind would want to endure
a slimy hail of bat droppings?
The face of the cave is absolutely loaded with bats, squirming around and squawking away. As creepy as they might
be to many people, they’re perceived in local custom as sacred guardians. There are small shrines in front with
detailed carvings where a cremation ceremony had ended just before I’d gotten there. I should point out, if it
isn’t obvious, that appropriate clothing must be worn at all temples and other holy sites, so packing a sarong
to cover your legs is a sound idea.
After reaching Semarapura, the next part of my exploration was spectacular as I dashed up a narrow back road, glad
to be free of the heavy traffic, motoring along through stunning countryside, stopping from time to time along
the side of the road to take in the picturesque terraced rice fields, simple isolated houses and dense tropical
vegetation. This was a splendid way to see Bali off the beaten track, cruising along hilly winding roads, reveling
in the exquisite beauty, as well as the tranquility and freedom. Twice, on a whim, I zipped up tiny side roads
and penetrated even more deeply into areas where locals seemed both shocked and amused at my sudden and unlikely
appearance.
After a few hours of this, stopping a couple of times to wait out downpours, I reached Tirtagangga, where the rice
terraces are reputed to be some of the most gorgeous in all of Bali, often depicted on postcards and in photo books.
In addition there’s an elegant water palace built by a past rajah that has a well-maintained garden filled with
fountains, water channels, statues and ornamental ponds, some of which you can take a dip in. Framing it all is
a striking backdrop of rolling mountains. Definitely walk up the steps for a drink (at the very least) in the restaurant
that overlooks it all.
Later I visited a unique village called Tenganan, which is occupied by the Aga people, descendents of the original
settlers of Bali. Tenganan consists of parallel rows of connected dwellings, mostly of stone, and surrounded by
a wall. There is also a temple, and roaming around the cobbled walkways are plenty of cows, pigs and dogs. Tenganan
is famous for its geringsing cloth, made by using what’s called a “double ikat” technique, a time-consuming method
of weaving and dyeing that results in productions that are both beautiful and very expensive (by Indonesian standards).
The Bali Aga also specialize in a classic form of calligraphy with script gracefully inscribed on palm leaves,
apparently the way ancient Balinese books were produced.
Just before dark, I returned to Pandangbai without mishap and subsequently enjoyed a heavenly hour-long massage
with coconut oil (only 30,000R) on a pondok, a wall-less hut, directly on the beach - the rolling waves providing
an added element of relaxation. It was outstanding, so much so that I indulged eagerly again the following day.
I celebrated New Year’s Eve in Padangbai. I joined a few other Westerners, and we meandered around town where revelers
danced, sang and zoomed around on their motorbikes, the passengers sometimes standing up on the bikes. The simple
bars and restaurants had been spiffed up with decorations, and a makeshift bandstand erected on the beach held
a few musicians churning out reggae tunes. New Year’s Eve parties generally bore me to tears, but I managed to
hang in there long enough to ring in 2003, before slipping away for a good night’s sleep, far from the ruckus.
With New Year’s Day being a national holiday, I thought it might be a challenge getting back to Kuta in order to
catch my flight home on January 2, but I was lucky enough to flag down a travel van hired by an elderly and well-to-do
Dutch couple. The husband was born in Malang in 1930 and had resided there through the time of Japanese occupation
before leaving for Holland during the chaos of post-war independence. He was a precious wealth of both historical
information and wonderful stories about a time here that was altogether quite different from the one I’m now living
in. The two-hour ride went all too quickly.
Walking around Kuta I bumped into Dave, typically strolling around, half humming, half singing to whatever cassette’s
been loaded into his Walkman. Since I’d last seen him he’d been spending most of his time in Sanur, a quieter,
more upscale version of neighboring Kuta. After sharing lunch and bringing each other up-to-date, I decided to
push my luck once again and rent another motorbike; this time to check out the best-known and most photographed
temple in Bali: Tanah Lot. It lies up the coast northwest of Kuta, and was easy to find with signs to it at every
crossroad and turn, an unusual phenomenon in Indonesia, to be sure. I was there in less than an hour.
Tanah Lot is highly venerated by the Balinese and heavily visited by tourists. It’s perched on a rocky islet separated
from land during high tide and is quite impressive, especially at sunset. Huge waves smash on to the rocks, creating
a compelling blend of calm and calamity. It’s lovely. It’s also an appalling tourist trap! To get to it from the
entrance (3,500R), you’re subjected to an onslaught of garish shops, including designer clothes outlets such as
Polo, Versace and Tommy Hilfilger. That aspect of it is incongruent and just plain hideous! Plus it was the only
place I was at in Bali that was unpleasantly crowded. Despite the post-bombing lull in tourism, Tanah Lot was jam-packed
and I had to walk down the beach quite a distance to experience any semblance of peace and quiet.
The drive back was intense. It was now dark, raining relentlessly, and traffic was fast and furious. Whereas there’d
been ample signs on the way to Tanah Lot, coming back I needed to stop continually and ask for directions. Twice
I sought shelter under roadside awnings, waiting with hope that the downpour would abate, or at least ease up somewhat.
But I needed to return my rented bike by 8 pm, so was thus forced to push onwards, sometimes through flooded streets.
With a massive sigh of relief, I finally (!) reached the edge of Kuta, just as the deluge was ending. JL Legian
was backed up with traffic, so I did what all bikers do in Indonesia - I wove my way around and between the long
line of vehicles, until I could dart down the maze of narrow alleys towards my hotel.
In one alley I met a taxi coming my way. The situation required that I hoist up my Honda and press both it and
myself againstthe concrete wall to try and create enough space for him to pass by. But as he crept by his car bumped
the bike a couple of times, nearly knocking off its mirror in the process. But... no scratches or other damage,
so we both had a good laugh about it and pressed onwards.
The next day was my regrettable, but unavoidable, flight back to Java, and as the plane lifted off this magical
island I thought about the message I’d seen written on signs and silk-screened on t-shirts all over Bali, “Don’t
let the terrorists win. Come back to Bali!” Sure, why not!
In peace,
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Salamat tinggal,
