Bali-hai Diaries

Saturday, 4.2
It sounds trivial to talk about how annoying those old women are: their quavering voices rising in broken, disrespectful English to hawk expensive Bintangs and Cokes. I mean no disrespect of my own to my elders, but these women are relentless. And trivial though it is, its constant ingratiating clamour has worn my patience thin.

Visions of Ubud: Two teenage boys in the field with shakers and bottles, practicing to trade flip flops and shorts for black shoes and white collared: to become bartenders for skinny caterers to giggling tourists. A girl in a gallery with big, brown eyes: eager to practice her English and exchange email addresses with a foreign peer. Banana pancakes: topped with shredded coconut, accompanied by the groaty, sludgy black water that is “kopi Bali.” And always, always: pale-skinned tourists in sunglasses at hats and loose-fitting pants, and the dark-skinned locals harping “Tax? Transport? Where you go?!” up and down the street.

A tour of the two-story Ubud market—scoring, among others, a Haruman shirt for Boy and a cool dragon kite for Dad—with small alcoves piled high in sarangs and T-shirts of myriad colors and patterns: overpriced “silver” and watches and wooden penis key chains and masks…oh, the masks and wooden carvings that collect dust until some intrepid and culture-probing backpacker must have it for his dusty museum back at mom’s house, where he goes once a year to wash his face and eat a hearty, home-cooked American meal at the kitchen table while mother cooks more food, washes linens, sits and stands then sits again, and listens to his tales of adventure and of sitting with Buddhist monks as they teach him in the ways of Prajñā and he talks of the sunsets on Batanbang and the séances on Kuta and the temple in and the crater on Buta but he doesn’t speak of the girls and the dirt and the travel-weary loneliness, because then she’d say, come home, come home.

Babi guling for lunch, sitting cross-legged on the floor, side by side, the locals and tourists mingling, the breeze reaching even the darkened back corners of the restaurant from the wide-open front, where slaughtered pig and mounds of rice are slapped on banana-leaf plates and served with cold drinks and straw-pierced coconuts.

Visions of Bali:
Standing in the street, arguing with drivers in the heat of the day, who are eager to work, eager to talk, eager to wile away the afternoon in heated, incredulous deal-making.

Gazing at the rice terraces, our awe only slightly diminished by the hoards of carefully herded tourists c/o courteous, eager-to-please chauffeurs.

Temples, temples, and more temples: worshipping Hindus, grotesque statues, dark caves and piles of offerings, the scent of incense lingering over everything, the rushing waters and healthy palms, the giant spiders and downing sun. Sarangs, cameras, and steps, always. Wooden carvings: buffalo skulls, coconut masks, wooden instruments.

A coffee plantation: possibly the highlight of this leg of the trip. Quet, with no tourists, and coffee that grows in trees (not ground-level bushes, apparently my memories of Costa Rica plantations are shaky?!) vanilla beans, passion fruit, and other wild growing things, and cages of weasels or "Luwaks." Sampling exotic coffee ("kopi luwak") after coffee after tea after tea, and chilling long beneath wooden shelters in the middle of the jungle, being plucked and presented with a giant passion fruit and the best of Balinese smiles.

A reflective chat on religion on the walk back up the hill, and waiting for banana-honey shakes in the deepening dusk overlooking more rice fields and hidden temples. The shy wife, happy that we enjoyed the fruit of her labors, the naked baby chased by his elder sister, the humble father, an artist prouder of his father's work than of his own, the modest home with lizards on the wall eating dragonflies and the TV playing traditional music and dance, the driver in search of his riders who had long disappeared.

A long drive back, the windshield wipers swap-swap, swap-swapping away the annual weekend Bali rain, our driver comfortable enough to harangue his way back to Kuta; back to the madness that is mud, Australians, motorists, drinking, the weekend.

A late night at a hole-in-the-wall bar, sipping frozen margaritas and chatting with a British Air flight attendant, a Texan bartender, a Dutch engineer, and other random stop-ins until...

Sunday, 4.3
“They say what goes up must come down but don’t let me fall…”

I awoke to the rain, and it barely ceased all day. I felt hungover, which was weird, but I braved it to find coffee and internet anyway, then came back and read Harry Potter, then napped and watched Parks and Recreation. Around 3pm I went down to find food and ran into Zach, so we had Mexican together and tried to find Ty’s wallet. We brought him back some Gatorade and a burger, and I crashed again while attempting to get through a few more pages of Harry Potter. The Mexican was ok but gave me a queasy stomach afterword. It’s been so long since I’ve eaten Mexican, that I guess my stomach can’t handle it! After waking and reading more, I went down and roused the boys around 8:45. We walked around and finally found a cheapish place to eat: I had chop chay which is basically stir-fry vegetables like carrots, baby carrots, green beans, etc . in a thin, tangy broth somewhat like sweet-n-sour soup. The boys and I had good conversation even though we were all a bit tired and Ty was still hungover. Talked about Bali highlights and war stories from our families (grandfathers etc). After that we stopped for a 90 minute massage, my first experience with hot stones. It felt marvelous and the massues was good: easily could have been in my Top5 if she hadn’t been so stop-n-go and spent too much time on my legs as opposed to my back (as usual). But I feel good and smooth now =) Time for bed but I’m not tired…wish I had internet up in here. B.o.B’s “Don’t let me Fall” is stuck in my head…weird because I woke up with Black Eyed Peas’ “Gone Going” stuck in my head. Dunno why… very lazy but good day.