Journeying North

In Bali we had come full loop, ending up in Kuta where the beer was cold and the waves were huge. A heat wave was on and Chris and I kept to the shaded parts of the streets as we walked back and forth from the beach to our hotel. This was one of the laziest parts of our trip. In fact, it's quite weird how time takes on another meaning when traveling for long periods. We spent eight days in Kuta, which is amazing, considering that we didn't do anything significant. Eight days meant nothing to us. We read books and hung out in the pool and watched the Olympics. Seen as how Kuta was much hotter this time around, we decided not to sweat it in our old hotel. We found an air-conditioned haven on one of the backstreets with cable. This was our chance to catch some of the Olympics which were being held in London. Unfortunately, I don't know if it was because of the time difference, but the only sport we seemed to catch regularly was table tennis. We also saw a bit of synchronized swimming, which was great for its entertainment value.

 

During the day we would read, nap, watch TV or hang out by the pool. In late afternoon we would walk down to the beach to watch the sunset. Kuta had been cloudy the first time through, so it was a real treat to experience not one, but several world-class sunsets over the course of our stay. The beach was crowded for these events, complete with guitar-players and young couples in love. There was a real hippie vibe going on. Chris and I sipped on bottled drinks and soaked up the setting.

 

We tried boogie boarding on several more occasions, but due to a super-tide or super-moon or super-something, the waves were fierce. Even the surfers were intimidated, and only a few were out past the break line. I took a few rides on some monster waves before I got knocked off my board and dragged across the sand. Reminded of my intense fear of the ocean, I retreated back to my towel and sat out the rest of the experience. Amazingly the massage lady who I had pissed off the first time through Kuta remembered me and came to visit my towel. I honored my promise and accepted a massage. Maybe I wasn't such bad luck after all.

 

Our experience with hawkers was much better this time through. Perhaps we had that knowing look in our eye. We were hardened travelers at this point; we knew all of their games. It was still funny to see them chase down someone green who had just arrived in town. We seemed to make our peace with them. Not only that, my faith in the Balinese was completely restored after I had accidentally left my wallet at an internet cafe. I didn't even realize it was missing until the next day. In a frantic search, we retraced our steps to the cafe where I asked if a wallet had been turned in. Not only did they hand over my wallet, but all my cards and my money had gone untouched. This completely undid the disillusionment which had come with the shady moneychangers on our first night in Kuta.

 

To wrap up our Bali whole experience: Bali is nothing short of phenomenal. The culture, the people, the food, the temples, the ceremonies, the volcanoes, the paradise-vibe—it's the whole package. It's the best of the best.

 

Singapore Revisited

 

We literally retraced our steps back to Bangkok. These were some long steps though, as the journey is a very long one, and this time we were going overland the whole way.

 

Singapore had been amazing, not to mention, too short, the first time through. This time was intended to be even shorter, as we went straight from the airport to the bus station, where we were to take a direct overnight bus to Georgetown in Malaysia. However, because of a misunderstanding of what a bus station was on the map, we ended up staying longer. Heading down a hot stretch of payment with the equatorial sun directly over us, we came to a large parking lot with buses. Though there were buses, there was no depot and nobody around to help us. We came to discover that the parking lot was just what it appeared to be—a place where buses came to park. This was one point in the trip where I thought I would crack. We had to walk back down that hot stretch of pavement with our heavy bags. Hot and frustrated, I threw off my pack and sat down in a patch of sun. At that point I really felt that I couldn't go on. Perhaps it was part of travel fatigue, the endless walking with our rucksacks in a hot climate. After some arguing, it was agreed that we would spend the night in Singapore and find a bus the next day.

 

Our first time through, we had stuck mostly to Chinatown and the Indian areas. This time we stayed in a more modern section. Though the hotels were outside of our budget, we found a lovely hostel where we had a room all to ourselves (no Filipino workers and no bedbugs). Also, there was a rooftop lounge (complete with a jacuzzi) where we could sit and look out over the city.

 

While we were checking in, we found out that an extra day stay in Singapore was the best thing that could have happened to us. The 47th anniversary of Singapore was on for the next day, with a whole range of activities scheduled. We had secured a ride on a bus for the next evening, so that left most of the day to partake in the celebration.

 

I wonder how we had missed Marina Bay the first time through. Marina Bay is the modern heart and financial district of Singapore, with world-class shopping centers innovative skyscrapers and sculptures. The downtown area surely rivals any city in the Asian world—Shanghai, Hong Kong, even Dubai, I was particularly impressed with the Marina Sands hotel. Made up of three separate buildings, which from the side resemble the Greek character pi, the roofs are as spectacular as the structures. Gardens, parks, even an infinity pool grace the tops of these buildings. For free, we could ride the escalators up and walk through the Sky Park. Looking around, we were reminded that Singapore is called the Garden City. Marina Bay is comprised of many parks, some of them traditional with flowers and trees and conservatories, and some of them completely artificial. A futuristic forest, reminiscent of Pandora, stretched behind Marina Sands. Solar-powered trees, some towering 160 feet overhead, provided a touch of whimsiness. Up above, people walked the catwalks between trees. This reinforced our idea of Singapore as some kind of city-wide Disney World. Everywhere we looked there was the wow-factor, but there were some really innovative, progressive ideas. If only American cities could take this approach.

Down by the water, the anniversary festivities were kicking off. Crowds gathered in a sea of red, the color of Singapore. Music played and flags waved. Chris and I found a seat on the ground where we blended in with the crowd. From there we had an excellent view of the air show. Unfortunately we felt the tug of time and the reminder that we had bus to catch. We had to weave our way through the crowds back to the metro station. As we were leaving, we heard an engine roar above us. Everyone on the sidewalk looked upward to find a plane heading directly towards a skyscraper. Bracing ourselves, just for a moment, 9/11 flashed through our minds. It wasn't only us; everyone on the street gasped. But we had misjudged the distance between the building and the plane, and it soared cleanly over. That got our hearts pounding.

It was hard to break away from Singapore. It may have been my favorite city in Asia. Not only was it clean and modern, but the vibe was good. With the mix of cultures, the government was promoting acceptance and tolerance, setting up slogans and signs all over city. Perhaps there is a dark underside to Singapore with repression and conformity, but we never saw evidence of it.

It was dark by the time we boarded our overnight bus. We had missed the fireworks display, though we caught a glimpse of it on TV. Like everything else in Singapore, it was epic. As our bus slid through the streets onto a highway, we passed by Marina Bay for the last time. Lit up like a jewel, it shone beautifully in the night. It was bittersweet, leaving Singapore.

Jim's Place

Our bus was first-class with wide reclining seats. It was better than some of hotels we had stayed at. We slept pretty soundly as the road hummed. We passed through Kuala Lumpur without stopping. This was kind of nice, leaving the past behind us like that. By this time my eye was much better and my vision was steadily returning.

Our destination was Georgetown, or Penang, a city on an island on the western coast of Malaysia. Though we had visited many regions of Malaysia before, Georgetown was completely different. We could see that immediately as we stepped out of a taxi (the bus hadn't taken us all the way). For one thing, Georgetown looked really run down. Gone was the modernity we had seen in Singapore. It looked like a place lost in time—and that time was something like the 1960s. Indeed, there was that hippie backpacker feel to the place. I suppose it was only fitting that we stayed at Jim's Place, which was more of a love shack than it was a hotel.

Sir Jim—how can one describe such a character? Part philosopher, part egoist, part ladies' man, part pervert, part bullshitter. He was an older Indian guy, though he wore dreadlocks and walked around without a shirt on. For an older guy, he had a pretty good physique. I'm sure this was due to some regiment of yoga and bullshitting. Did I mention that this guy was a total bullshitter? At least he kept us entertained with his stories. Apparently, women could get pregnant just from sitting in a chair he had sat in. Needless to say, I made sure to keep clear of his chairs. Sir Jim, as we called him, was alright despite his overt sexuality. Perhaps he was creepy, but this seemed fitting in a town with a street famously called Love Lane. Still, there was something gross about sleeping in our bed for the night, wondering how many babies had been made in Jim's Place.

Our room was awful. One of the worst we had on our trip. Not that it was dirty, but it was spartan with just a bed crammed between two walls. There was no air conditioning, just two fans to fight the humidity, and get this—no windows. A true hell hole. There was no sleeping that night, as it was hard to even breathe. Besides that, the Indian food we had eaten earlier that day was not sitting right with me. I must have sat half a night in the shared bathroom. At least the bathroom had a window and there was some airflow. However there was some activity going on in the mosque behind Jim's Place and there was some guy reciting what I can only imagine to be the Koran over a loudspeaker. I must have heard the whole Koran being read while I sat on the toilet (such are the drawback for eating Indian food).

Georgetown, like much of Malaysia, is a mixture of cultures. Indian, Chinese, and Muslim, with a touch of colonialism. Walking through the streets was like walking through several countries at the same time. The streets were dingy, though not entirely dirty. There was nothing really touristy to be found. Even Love Lane didn't have any standout features. We did wander around Fort Cornwallis for awhile, which boasted canons and haunted-type prison cells to get our dose of Britishness. Other than that, we sat around in bars and watched the remaining events in the Olympics. Georgetown definitely had a laid-back vibe. An itinerary wasn't needed, though we did schedule a day-trip outside of town to visit a Buddhist temple.

Kek Lok Si is a Buddhist temple to end all Buddhist temples. Located in the misty mountains of Penang Island, it really is like a scene that could be painted on a fan. It was the full Buddhist experience with joss sticks and wishing ribbons and Buddha bellies to rub. Architecturally it was a photographer's dream with rounded doorways and pagodas and large Chinese script. We took a cable car to the top of the mountain where the Mother Goddess of Mercy sits, in all her 100-foot glory. My goodness, what a setting. The air was lovely, rising above the heavy, dusty Georgetown humidity. It was like being transported to heaven for a day.

Back at Jim's we got moved into another room. This one was in the front of the house and it had two large windows which opened. This was a vast improvement over our previous room. It was more of a bedroom than it was a hotel room, and again, the idea of Sir Jim and his seedy ways (pun intended) was on our mind.

As if we hadn't experienced enough culture in Georgetown, we came across a Hindu celebration on the last night as we wandered through the streets. There was a fire procession. Lots of music, lots of noise. We followed it to a temple where the fire was carried inside. By this time we were quite celebrationed-out, though I'm glad we got that last dose of culture before moving on.

Our travels were winding down. We were to continue north to Thailand, then looping through Cambodia, Vietnam and Laos. Though we still have several months left to go, it was starting to feel like the end. And in a way, this was nice as a return to American life was looming—an adventure in itself.

Cremation Ceremony

Returning to Ubud was like coming home. There was something so familiar and comfortable about the place, from the broken red tile sidewalks to the dong-dong-dong music that permeated the air. We returned to our bungalow on Monkey Forest Road, across from the green where kids played soccer. Starting to feel travel fatigued, we dragged ourselves out into the heat to observe the festivities, as the Cremation Ceremony was gearing to kick off. The main ceremony was to take place the next day; still the preparations were in full swing with music and crowds and a general feeling of festivity throughout the streets. Chris and I stopped at the main temple which was an open-air hut at the end of Monkey Forest Road. There paper-mache, life-size, anatomically correct bulls were lined up. We had read up a bit on the cremation ceremony so we knew that the remains of the dead were to be put inside these bulls, and then the bulls were to be set on fire. So much work had gone into making these bulls, it was hard to imagine that they were just going to go up in smoke, but cremation is a sacred element of the Hindu/animist religion of the Balinese. This ceremony is a huge part of their culture. Doing our best to be participants in this most holy celebration, Chris and I both bought batik sarongs. It was our way of honoring the occasion.

Walking away from the hubbub, we came to a lovely valley where we ate dinner out on a patio overlooking the river and the jungle. I don't remember much from this dinner other than there was a rich American guy eating at the table next to us, and his conversation was a source of irritance. I think he was slamming liberals or something like that, which had gotten Chris' hackles up. It had been such a long time since we had to hear the whole liberal-conservative debate, it was a jolt to the system. It was a reminder that these things exist. Despite the conversation, the food was very good as we ate upon pillows with candles softly glowing. It's hard to feel completely irritated when one is surrounded by paradise.

The Main Event

The dong-dong-dong music had taken on a new life. The town was alive. Chris and I tried to gear ourselves up for the culmination of our Bali adventure. The only thing was—neither of us were feeling great. Still, we struggled with our sarongs and resupplied the batteries in our cameras. On our way to the celebration, we ran into Nana in the driveway, and she was giggling at our get-up. Apparently there was a proper way to tie the sarong, and we had sorely missed the mark. Nana took it upon herself to unwrap us, unembarrassed to see us in our underwear, and rewrap us in the correct manner. It was a lovely gesture and we thanked her for her thoughtfulness.

Crowds had already gathered on Monkey Forest Road, thickening as we headed towards the noise at the end of the street. We figured that the temple would be the epicenter of the celebration. The crowds were so dense that we had to elbow our way through. We thought we'd be lucky to catch a glimpse of any activity. Climbing onto a patio, I attempted to rise above the crowds. Somehow, perhaps through inertia, Chris and I found ourselves on the street, right into the very heart of the celebration.

The celebration was on the move. We found ourselves in a flow of human traffic, suddenly part of a procession. A bull, about ten times the size of the regular bulls we had seen the day before, was erected on a platform. A group of men carried this bull on a bamboo platform. Dressed in ceremonial garb with sarongs and bandanas, they would run with this bull, hollering and shouting as the music played all around, only to come to a dead stop. A young boy rode on the back of the bull. We couldn't help noticing that the makers of this bull spared no detail, down to the bull's butthole.

It was hard to understand what was going on; Chris and I were swept up in the whole thing. We walked with the procession. Most of the people on the street were Balinese, but tourists with their cameras perched on rooftops and terraces, and a few, like us, were walking with the procession.

With all the noise and commotion, it took us awhile to figure out what was going on. The bulls were on parade from the temple to the ceremonial site. Behind us, towering into the sky like an antenna, was what could only be perceived as a phallic symbol. Along with the bull, it was carried on a platform by men who were whooping and hollering and sweating under the weight of dead remains and a burning sun.

Down the street we moved, anxious to keep enough room between us and the looming phallic symbol. With the blowing of a whistle, the men would start up at a full run, threatening to mow down anyone or anything in their path. It was kind of exciting, these sudden bursts of activity. The whistle would blow and we were off, reminiscent of the running of the bulls in Spain.

We must have walked for miles in this stop-and-go procession. Finally there was a change of energy as the bull ahead of us turned a corner. A wall separated us from further activity. We wondered if only locals were allowed into the ceremony site. The tourists responded to this challenge by climbing a tree, and then onto the wall. Chris and I followed suit, frantically clawing at branches, scrambling to get over the wall.

We dropped down into a serene scene. The giant bull had come to rest in a large open area. I can only guess that we were in a cemetery. Tourists continued to climb like deranged zombies over the stone wall, dropping down on the grass around us. The scene had become more subdued than it had been out on the street. Crowds massed together, hushed in reverence, seeking out spots of shade. The sun was brutal. Chris and I were both feeling nauseous. We wondered how long we should stay before dehydration kicked in.

We must have stayed in that cemetery for over an hour, shifting our place on the grass to match the path of shade. The tourists gathered together, armed with cameras. It was hard to know exactly what to capture, as the activity had come to stand-still. Then the time came to erect the bull onto another platform, the altar. The crowds cheered them on as this was obviously an arduous task for the men lifting the statue. There were times where the bull teetered, threatening to topple over, and then a lot of shouting broke out as the bull was righted. Finally the bull was erected and an enormous cheer arose. Glued to my spot, I felt I was watching some ancient rite: the erection of the Golden Calf.

Our energy waning, we watched as some guy climbed the giant phallus. Once again the crowds cheered. It was hard to know when this whole thing was going to end. We had walked for miles and were now swooning in the sun. With enough pictures to sustain our quota for adventure, we left the ceremony and headed back out onto the streets of Ubud.

It was a long slog back to our bungalow. We had taken the backstreets, and we were sure that with each step we were slowly dying. Chris said he was coming down with something serious. His heart was palpitating and I was thirsting for water like a dying man.

I can't remember if we caught a cab the rest of the way; the memories start to blur after a certain point.

Sickness, Again

While a bull burned in the night, with crowds cheering and celebrating, I was busy puking and shivering in our bungalow. Sickness had come on hard, just as it had in the Perhentians. There was something to this sickness though that really concerned me. The body aches were unlike anything I had experienced before, and I was shaking so hard that I had trouble turning the pages of my Bali travel guide, trying to determine my diagnosis.

As it turned out, Chris was fine, though he had declared sickness earlier that day. He was slightly irritated that I was sick again, as if I had a choice over the matter. My teeth were chattering and I couldn't sleep.

"This is serious," I told him.

"No more hospital stays," was his reply.

My concern was the bites I had received in Lovina. Though Bali is supposedly mosquito-free, there always existed the possibility of malaria in Southeast Asia. Searching through numerous guides, I found that Lovina wasn't in the safe zone. Wonderful, maybe this time I really had caught it.

Besides malaria, there was the risk of dengue fever, also transmitted by mosquitoes. From what I read, dengue fever is nasty stuff, with a high fever and terrible body aches. It was the pain that concerned me the most. I was in terrible pain, as if my bones and joints had turned against me.

Though Chris didn't seem concerned, Nana was insistent that I see a doctor, as she put her hand to my head. She summoned her husband with his van, and with that, Chris and I were off to a clinic.

The clinic in Ubud was of a very high standard. You could tell that it catered to rich foreigners. Indeed, the price we were charged there was on par with Western health care services. After taking a blood test and sussing out my symptoms, the doctor informed me that I simply had the flu. It was both a relief and an annoyance. I knew that Chris wouldn't allow me to get sick again after crying wolf so many times.

 

Actually, upon reflection, Chris had his fair share of sickness. Though he claims I got sick a lot on our travels, I only got really sick twice, and then I had my eye problem. But Chris was sick numerous times as well, even if he didn’t end up in a hospital or clinic. He suffered food poisoning in Kuala Lumpur, and experienced malaise in the Perhentians and in other locations. So to say I was constantly sick is untrue. I’ve set him straight on that many times. Anyway, side note over.

Still, the flu is the flu, and I had a nasty strand of it. Thank goodness we were hunkered down in Ubud for several nights in a very nice bungalow. I got the rest I needed and within several days I was back at it.

Our last night in Ubud we hit the town, with drinks at a nightclub. It was great to feel tipsy again, running across the yawning green in the dark. Hopefully all my injuries and sickness were now behind me. 

Volcanoes and Dolphins

I’m the ultimate procrastinator. But I do eventually get things done. It’s been about two years since the end of our world travels, and here I am, picking up where I left off. In Bali. In retrospect, this was my favorite part of the trip. Why I stopped here, I have no idea. It doesn’t matter—my memory is good, and I can check my husband’s past blogs for any details I may have missed. So even though I’m sitting in an apartment in downtown Juneau, Alaska, I return to central Bali.

 

Climbing a Volcano

 

Although we had been present on the Volcano Tour, we’d been far from actually experiencing a volcano. We had seen both the giant Agung and its brother Batur from a distance, but that wasn’t good enough. From Ubud, we scheduled a departure to Kintimani, into the volcanic heart of Bali.

There are no buses in Bali, which is a rather good thing considering the size of the streets. Minivans are the mode of transportation for tourists. We shared a minivan with a young French couple. It was the stuff of adventure, as the van bounced through lush jungle to an unknown destination. The guide book had been somewhat vague on how exactly to get to Toya Bungka, in the shadow of Ganung Batur. If we were to journey into Kintimani, the rest would come together somehow. Sure enough, after getting dropped off in the village of Penelokan, a taxi agreed to drive us the rest of the way. Unfortunately that taxi was actually a closed-bed truck, which we and the French couple shared with a horde of flies.

We couldn’t observe much of the scenery from the back of the truck, but we got the impression that this part of the journey was very different from the previous one. Penelokan had been located high up, with a sweeping view of the double caldera with the lake. We were now heading steadily down into that first caldera, the big one which had been blown into existence unknown ages ago. It wasn’t an easy journey, considering the pesky flies and the roughness of the dirt road. It’s one of those experiences you dread in advance, that this is the part of the trip where motion sickness rears its beastly head. I was relieved to make it to the bottom of the caldera, to the edge of the lake—Toya Bungkah.

We had read up as much as we could about the climb to the top of Batur. What we found left us little hope of making the climb on our own. It could be done without the help of a guide, but it would be done at our own risk. Back in 2000, a German couple had done the climb on their own, only to wander off the trail and find themselves on top of an explosive vent which promptly killed them. Although it wasn’t likely that Chris and I would be going out this world in such a fashion, we weren’t confident that we could navigate the volcano on our own. So we were somewhat relieved to be handed a tour upon sitting down at the only restaurant in Toya Bungkah. It was a pretty straight forward deal. An operator approached us and told us what we would be doing. No negotiating, no haggling, no BS. $35 each for a Sunrise Trek.

Toya Bungkah isn’t what you would call a party town. It is a simple village made up of fishermen. There is a tourist industry there, but it seems pretty minimal and little known to the Western World. The only tourists we ran across were French, and they kept to themselves, retiring to their huts at an early hour. Seen as how we were rise as 3:30 the next morning, we set in for an early night ourselves.

The climate in Toya Bungka is mild, and the nights can be quite cool. There was no need for a fan, temperature-wise, which was unfortunate, for a fan might have kept the flies at bay, or at least covered up the sound of their buzzing. It was horrific night for sleep. The quiet was so deep that any little sound reverberated throughout the valley, whether it was the barking of dogs or the cocking of a crow. Sounds haunted us throughout the night, and between the sounds, the absence of sound was just as jolting. Neither of us received a satisfactory amount of sleep, but we were up and ready to go by departure time.

Armed with flashlights and bottled water, our group of five headed into the darkness. Besides me and Chris, there was a French couple, and our guide Edwin. It was hard to know where we were going. With our flashlights it was basically one foot in front of the other. The trail was easy-going at the beginning and I had great hope that this trek wouldn’t be overly strenuous. Breaks were taken, but I felt them unnecessary. To me they were opportunities for vendors to sell us stuff. There was one particular vendor who tried to sell us soda. I told him that bottled water was just fine for me, but maybe at the top of the volcano I would need further refreshment. Chris cursed my words, but I was already tasting that victory Sprite.

At some point the trail changed. The trees were left behind and we began a pretty steady ascent. Chris was perturbed as Edwin took his hand and helped him with each step upward. The soda vendor took it upon himself to help me upward, and as the elevation grew, I began to be more and more appreciative. No aid was offered to the French couple who seemed to be struggling.

At some point I looked behind us and realized the height we had come. Far below were the lights in the valley. Above us the constellations were glowing brightly. It was the first time I had clearly viewed the night sky beneath the equator. How odd it was not to pick out anything familiar—no Big Dipper, no North Star. There were no patterns that jumped out at me. I was viewing an entirely different corner of space. How spectacular to have this experience on a volcano, even though I was out of breath and soaked with sweat.

 

With much hand-pulling and crumbling ground under our feet, we made it to the top. We were well above the clouds. There was just enough dawn to the east to make out the silhouette of Agung, the largest volcano on the island. It was time for that celebratory Sprite, and I had no problem urging Chris to fork over the money. Yes it was expensive, the equivalent of $2.50. It wasn’t even Big Gulp style. It was a single can, but oh my was it good. Sometimes when your energy is drained, and you’re craving liquid refreshment, water just doesn’t cut it. I appreciated the cold carbonation. Chris, on the other hand, grumbled his way through his sips. Then the soda vendor made a comment that perhaps our guide would appreciate a drink as well. Chris forked over another $2.50 with much curmudgeondry. Edwin partook heartily in his cold beverage, unknowing that this would be his only tip.

We walked along a ridge and came to a camp. Bedraggled backpackers crawled out of tents to usher in the dawn. It seemed as there had been a party on the volcano the night before. Everyone seemed hungover, or maybe it was just the altitude. There was no official heralding in of the sun, rather we rambled about. Behind our backs a cloud rose from the caldera. At first we thought it was steam, but it eventually overtook us and the view. Edwin informed us that we were now engulfed in clouds, and we had been fortunate to enjoy the view across the valley, as now it was gone.

We went on to a hut where Edwin made us a half-assed breakfast of eggs and bananas. He then told us the story of the volcano while we ate. What made an impression on me is that the Balinese believe that their god lives in the volcano. Sure, it may be a cute story, these people who have held to their traditions and beliefs. But not so cute is the fact that they still make sacrifices to this god, tossing goats, chickens and even dogs into the caldera. Edwin informed us that they kill the animals before tossing them in, but that hardly makes it better. I asked if he participated in this event, and yes, every full moon the villagers go up and make a sacrifice to this volcano god. This was horrific to me. All those poor animals. At least human sacrifice isn’t practiced.

As the sun burned behind the clouds, we walked along the ridge of the caldera. We came to an altar which was guarded by an ornery monkey with a beard and giant teeth. I tempted fate by approaching this monkey, but he hopped around on his rock, exposing his teeth. We backed away, leaving the monkey of the volcano to guard his god.

Edwin made it awkward for us. At the beginning of the trek he had lavished attention upon Chris, holding his hand and helping him upward. They had been buds at the summit, smacking high-fives and posing for photos. At breakfast, while the French couple shivered in the morning air, Edwin had draped his jacket over Chris’ legs. I wondered if there was any hint of homosexuality there. But for the decent, Edwin turned his attention onto me. He hadn’t said as much as two words to the French couple. It was actually kind of funny. The way down had some rough spots, where the footing was precarious and the scree was loose. I didn’t mind so much having Edwin’s hand to hold, but the price was having to put up with his conversation. I got an earful about the poor condition of Edwin’s shoes and how he didn’t have enough time to spend with his children. It was a story of woe, and I knew exactly what he was going for, why he hadn’t even bothered with the French. I was American, therefore I must be loaded. And Americans traditionally give outstanding tips. Chris and I had formed an aversion to tipping, especially for ventures such as this. $35 may be a fair price in the Western world for trek, a real steal in fact, but in Bali where a sit-down meal costs a mere dollar, it is an exorbitant amount. Though we realized that the majority of this would go to the operator and not to Edwin, he would still be doing well off it. We weren’t planning on a leaving him any type of monetary tip, though we had no way in communicating this to him, so we had to put up with his stories and special treatment.

The descent went slower than planned. At some point, Edwin bolted ahead, leaving us to fend for ourselves. He could barely be seen in the trees ahead of us. This would have suited us fine, if he hadn’t reappeared towards the end as we entered into the village. Then we couldn’t shake him off.

 

It was pure awkwardness as we reached the end of our trek. There was no expectation from the French couple. They had not been doted upon in anticipation of a tip. But Chris and I, hadn’t we been given special attention? As the French fled into their hut, Edwin hung out by our front door. I finally suggested to Chris that we should offer him the stuffed animals that we had received from our fast-food meals at the airport in Singapore. If his family was really as poor as he had made out, then wouldn’t his children be pleased with such gifts? Apparently not, as Edwin rejected these gifts with a shake of his head. Tired of this game, I turned to Chris and said, “Ok, let’s eat breakfast.”vAnd thus we were able to get rid of Edwin for good.
 

It had been a draining experience, this trek up the volcano. We lazed around the rest of the day, attempting to ease our muscles out of a state of shock. A good way to do this was to visit one of the hot springs in the area. It’s hard to believe it now just how thrifty we were in our travels, but we choose the cheapest of the three, which was pretty much a cement pool that reeked of sulfur. At least we shared it with the locals. We even got to talk with an older man who claimed to be in his 70s but had the body of a 20-year-old, thanks to visiting the spring on a daily basis. He drank the water, but we weren’t willing to go to that extent to regain our health.

The rest of our time was uneventful in Toya Bungkah. We made arrangements to journey on to Lovina to the North. It was time to head back to the ocean.

 

Where the Dolphins Come to Play

We got a private ride for the three-hour journey to Lovina. I would like to say this was glamorous, but it was riddled with diesel fumes and horrific hairpin turns. I braced myself up against the seat and tried not to puke.

 

It was a bit of a shame that we got dropped off before Lovina proper. The taxi driver knew a place (don’t they always?) and we trusted that we had made it into town. Where we ended up was a tourist string of bungalows and restaurants on the outskirts of Lovina. But whatever—the restaurants boasted fantastic menus and the ocean was right at our doorstep. Our bungalow was something out of Paradise Magazine (if there’s such a magazine in circulation). It came with a canopy bed with crisp white sheets and scattered rose petals. We had come to the relaxation part of our trip once more.

As darkness descended, we went in search of an ATM. Being dropped in the outskirts of the town, we had far to go to reach real civilization. We walked a stretch of sidewalk along the main road, and with the distance involved, we realized just how far out of town we were. Somewhere along the way, I made a wrong step off a curb and heard my ankle go pop as I went down. Yup, I had done it. Sprained my pesky ankle. For the third time. Damned ankle.

I was hurting pretty bad, so I stayed put while Chris walked on to find the ATM. I attempted to walk it off. Hopefully it wasn’t a bad sprain. In the past I’ve had horrendous sprains which last a month or two before healing. We had signed up to go on a boat at dawn to view dolphins, and I was fearing how I would accomplish any such activity. It seems silly now—how much activity goes into crawling into a boat? Still, I was worried that such an injury would hinder us. So far on this trip I had endured some pretty heavy stuff. It’s hard to say what an injury will bring. All these things played on my mind as I walked around in circles, shaking my ankle in disgust, waiting for Chris to return.

Several people stopped and ask if I needed help. The Balinese are so friendly, even when they aren’t out to make a profit. I was okay, though, just waiting for my husband. Town must have been far, it took Chris a long time to get some cash. When he returned, we continued back to our tourist strip where we stopped at a restaurant to receive the local offering of seafood and traditional dancing. I propped my foot up on a chair and the waiter brought some ice. Breezes came off the sea as Chris and I sipped on booze and watched the night’s entertainment. It was our first experience with Balinese dancing. Sure we had heard the dong-dong-dong music across the road from our bungalow in Ubud, and yes, Balinese dancing is ubiquitous all over the island, but it was our first opportunity to partake in such activity. Well, Chris partook. I sat and laughed. Chris didn’t hold back. It made some proper shapes on the dancefloor. Thank goodness only a few tables were occupied. There wouldn’t be any major embarrassment that night.

It was another early night, as we were rising before dawn. Fortunately our departure was happening just outside of our hotel complex. The boats were lined up in the early grey of dawn. Long and low to the ground, they resembled Polynesian boats. Upon research I can properly call them outrigger canoes, with support riggers to the side. We sat very low, four of us in a row from front to back. We shared our ride with a French couple who enthusiastically slapped at the water. This dawn excursion proved to be quite popular. One by one the boats took off from the shore, an engine propelling each one into open water. When we reached a certain point, the engine was killed and we floated in the still water waiting for something to happen. And then—something did.

I had asked what the chances were of seeing dolphins. I was told 90%, which sounded promising. In reading about this bizarre occurrence, where dolphins wake at dawn to swim with the boats, it sounded like they swim around in the vicinity of the boats. Cool enough, but I wasn’t prepared for the extent of dolphinicity. As the sun broke above the horizon and cracked like an egg yoke over the surface of the water, the water came to life. We could hear it in the shouting from other boats and suddenly the engines were running. Dolphins! They were everywhere! They were over here and they were over here and they were underneath us and to the side of us. During the quiet moments, the guides would blow whistles. They believed this attracted the dolphins. And maybe they did, for there would suddenly be a spotting of them. We would rev the engine and chase them, though it didn’t feel so much like chasing as the dolphins would swim alongside us. One of them surfaced so close to our boat they were within touching distance. There were a few that jumped completely out of the water, performing tricks. We were lucky, according to our guide. They didn’t always come out to play.

I was focused on recording what I could. I caught some action, but I also missed a lot. It was one of those spiritual-like experiences, communing with nature. Nobody understands why the dolphins come to that spot every day at dawn. They certainly don’t have to, and they don’t have to play and swim with the boats, but there must be some kind of enjoyment in it for them. There were many times in Asia where I felt we were taking part in the exploitation of animals, but this was not one of those times. Those dolphins were partaking willingly in this activity. They had come out to play, and for us it was a rich experience. Well worth waking up early for.

Our stay in Lovina mostly centered on dolphins, though we did spend a fair amount of time in the resort’s pool and on the porch of our bungalow. The only downfall to our stay, besides my sprained ankle, was the cat which passionately yowled day and night in the plastic water bottle pile on the edge of our bungalow property. It sounded like an adolescent kitty, and it sounded like he was in a terrible state. I tried to rescue him several times but he always ran away. So we had to endure his yowlings. Also, the mosquitoes in Lovina were from a different universe. I had never had bites which oozed in such a nasty fashion. And the itching! I hobbled on my sprained ankle and scratched at monster bites. As much as I loved the laidbackness of Lovina, something was eating at me and I couldn’t figure it out, for the mosquitoes seemed to come into our room at night. In the morning I felt like I had been feasted upon. It wasn’t until I noticed the tell-tale brown streaks on our crisp white sheets that I realized that indeed something had been feasting upon us. Bedbugs, again!

Time to move on.

A Town Called Ubud

If you've ever read “Eat, Pray, Love,” you know exactly what to expect in Ubud. The book (and the movie, really) depict it perfectly. Ubud is green. Ubud is culture. I confess, if it weren't for “Eat, Pray, Love” I don't know if we would have ventured to this far-off land.

Chris and I had gotten into a pretty serious fight in Kuta (these things are bound to happen on long travels). Because of this we weren't talking on the minibus to Ubud. I had to pee in a way I've never had to pee before. I couldn't communicate this to anybody. I dearly wanted to lean over to Chris and tell him I was dying, but I stubbornly sat upright, too proud to announce to anyone that my bladder was in the throes of exploding. Instead I hopped out when the van stopped for some gas. Bladder drained, I continued my speachless stoicism, all the way to Ubud.

Even on the outskirts, you can tell that Ubud is a cut above the regular tourist town. Workshops abound. Stone statues, of the Easter Island quality, stare down at you while you're gawking. This is the land of weirdness. But the weirdness is culture, and you want a part of it. Strange demon faces used to scare me while staying at my grandma's (she was a traveler not unlike myself). In Ubud, strange demon faces are the thing. Stock up while you can. No scariness; it's all cultural.

What Money Can Buy

Our bungalow only cost £12 a night. What in the Western world can get you £12 a night? In Ubud it got us our own private world, complete with koi pond and altar. Our bungalow was decorated like a temple, with scary masks on the wall. Chris and I couldn't believe our luck. More than that, we were situated across from some community center which presented daily performances of Balinese music and dancing. Every morning we'd hear a few poundings from a drum, then in the evening we were serenaded with music, much of the dong-dong-dong variety. We were in Ubud. There was never any doubt.

The food—oh the food. There was hardly any Western fare in Ubud. Restaurants abounded, usually the kind where you sit on mats with your legs curled to the side. There was a laid-back quality to everything. Everywhere you went were fountains and koi ponds and dong-dong-dong music (seriously, the only TV we found in Ubud played Balinese dancing with the ubiquitous dong music; no Olympic coverage here). Back to the food—fish was the specialty. Pepes. Marinated fish steamed in banana leaves, served with a salsa and rice. It was like an orgy in my mouth. Fifty Shades of Grey has nothing on Balinese food (and I use that as a reference because I was reading the first book while in Bali). I nearly went through the roof with pleasure. Did I mention that most meals cost about £1 each? Add the local drink, a mix of lemonade and rice whiskey, you come to a meal that cost £1.75. Seriously, I could live here for a very long time.

Monkey Business

Just down the street from our bungalow was the Sacred Monkey Forest. I'm not being funny; this is the actual name. After side-stepping the daily offerings (every business has an offering put infront of its door, consisting of rice, flowers, and sometimes, Snickers bars) and trying not to sprain an ankle on the sidewalk tiles, we made our way down to this forest, just on the edge of town. The entrance fee was something like $2, a pitiance considering what was being offered. It was Indiana Jones. The moss-covered demon statues, the bridges connecting banyan trees, temples guarded by angry monkeys. It was too perfect. I can't make this stuff up. You just have to go.

The monkeys were bearded and looked like wise old men. In fact, some of them, the elders among them, looked pretty wise. They minded their own business, tolerating the tourists, but not messing with them for food. The young ones were a different story. They were cheeky. We ran into a few of them in the temple harassing pretty tourist ladies. They'd climb onto a tourist's head, making them squeal, getting a kick out of their own antics. I could tell the adolescents were trouble, just like in any community really. I steered clear of the pesky youth. Just minding my own business, though, walking along the path, I felt something hard hit my shoulder. Instinctively I yelped and jumped to the side. Chris saw the monkey before I did. He was perched up on a branch above, with the smuggest of faces. Beside me rolled a half-eaten potato. It dawned on me soon enough that this little bugger had chucked a potato at my shoulder. Perhaps he had been aiming at my head. Perhaps he had been out to crack my skull. His little joke over, he made his way across the branch and disappeared. I stood in mild shock. If I had been on my game, I would have gone after that little monkey tail and flung him through the trees. I would have swung a monkey. I really would have.

The “Volcano” Tour

It would be a crime to come to Ubud and not sign up for a tour. There are so many things to see in the area, and renting a bike wouldn't get you very far. Chris' birthday was coming up. He wanted to see a volcano. Batur and Augung are the giants in the region. Ideally we wanted to climb a volcano, but we were sold on a tour out of our hotel. Dubbed “The Volcano Tour,” it sounded just like what we were looking for. A few temple stops, then a drive through volcano land. We charged up our cameras and aimed for an early start.

On the minibus we were joined by a pair of Brits and a Danish/Korean guy. We instantly gelled as a group. We didn't really have a guide, just a driver who barely spoke English. He dropped us off at the sights and we were left to explore them on our own.

The first stop was a temple just down the road from where we were staying. We were made to put on the obligatory sarong and sash, males and females alike. It was interesting, having been to different religious sights through Asia, finding each religion to have its own dress code. For mosques it's shoes off, legs and arms (and for women—heads) covered. For Buddhist temples it's the same—shoes off and arms and legs covered. For Hindu places of worship, it's perfectly okay to keep shoes on, and really it seems that anything goes. For Balinese Hinduism, a sarong and a sash are required. They're provided at the temple entrance for a small fee.

The temple complexes are huge. To be honest I don't know what to make of them. They look very similar to a Balinese family compound. There are really no statues to behold or kneel before. There are lots of tables, and you get the sense that this is a place for the community to come and participate in celebrations. The temples are really just really big arts and crafts workshops. As Chris and I were wandering around, one of the keepers drew us in and showed us a few of the buildings. One of them housed a gong, another held a mosiac of a god. “One god,” the toothless man told us, pointing upward. “Only one god.” This fit into my understanding of Hinduism, as they believe in a whole pantheon of gods and goddesses, yet they're merely symbolic. It's really not very different from Catholicism, considering the trinity and in extension to that, angels and saints. Christianity as well has a whole family of beings up in heaven. Same with Islam. One god maybe, but lots of other stuff going on as well. Perhaps Hindus just take that stuff into consideration a bit more.

Our second stop was Elephant Cave. The cave wasn't as spectacular as the walk to the cave. The flowers were in full bloom in the garden, and there was a stream and a waterfall. It was Eden, right in the middle of Bali. In fact, I would like to say a word about paradise and chosen lands and such. If there was a universal god, and I'm talking a completely wise all-knowing god that is in control of everything—why, according to a particular religious book, why would he pick a people to represent him, promising them one of the crappiest scraps of land in the world? And for this crappy scrap of land there would be wars and problems galore. If I were god, well to be honest with you I wouldn't pick a people to represent me in the first place, but if I did, I'd pick the Balinese. I'd say, you guys are the happiest people in all the world. I've put you in one of the most gorgeous settings. Share your joy with the world, show them my goodness. I don't even need to send a prophet. You guys already have it made.

Moving on, we came to a place I would rate as one of the best sites in Bali. Its name is Gunung Kawi, and it's full of mammoth-sized stone carvings. It's an ancient Hindu site, and indeed you can feel the age of it as you walk along. The setting is fantastic, down in a valley surrounded by rice terraces. It's a great place for wandering, as one temple leads to another, to another. It had the grandeur of Machu Picchu, or what I'd imagine it would be (I've never been to Machu Picchu, so I'm not sure how I made the connection, but I definitely did). We watched a priest prepare an offering on one of the long tables. Incense filled the air. This was religion at its best, this mixture of ancient beliefs and architecture. You could tell the priests have been making offerings in this setting for centuries. It was a place stuck in time, though you don't have to go far in Bali to encounter that same feeling.

As we rolled up to the next place, we started to get the impression that we were on a “temple” tour instead of the “volcano” tour we had signed up for. But the variety in temples had kept us interested. We had come to “Holy Springs,” a pilgrimage site for the religious to wash themselves clean. There were two main pools. Devotees took up one of the pools, lining themselves up under the spouts. The second pool was empty, so Chris and I took turns dipping our heads under a free-flowing tap. It felt magnificent, cooling ourselves off in that manner. A lady came by to lay down an offering. Everywhere you went there were offerings. Whether these offerings were being presented to a universal force or to ancestors, it was never quite clear. The Balinese are very animistic in their beliefs. They believe that there are spirits everywhere. Some good, some bad. The spirits must be appeased in order to have peace and prosperity. It's not disimiliar in the rest of Asia. Most houses in Buddhist households have an altar dedicated to their ancestors. Well, I'd like to think that my ancestors are watching over me, fluttering around my house, but I just can't picture it.

Our next stop was a nice treat. We had come to a coffee plantation. We got to learn how coffee was grown, roasted and ground. The most interesting aspect to this plantation was the little creature scampering around in a metal cage. It was a luwak, better known as a weasel who fancies feasting on coffee cherries. This is how the process works: The beans inside break down in the weasel's stomach, the acid playing a special role in the procedure, then the weasel poops the beans out whole, and then those beans are washed (thoroughly, I hope) and roasted, then made into the most expensive coffee known to man. Luwak coffee. A cup cost around £3, which isn't bad considering. We had all kinds of coffees and teas placed before us for tasting. It didn't cost anything to taste, and we would have been quite happy just sitting there in the beautiful setting sipping away at ginger or vanilla or chili flavoured coffees. But it was Chris' birthday. This occassion called for something special, so we ordered Chris a cup of Luwak Coffee. A deep smooth brown, it had a peculiar smell. Everyone in the group was apprehensive about tasting it, but Chris loved it. I had a small sip, and dare I say, it carried the subtle flavor of, well, something different. One sip was enough for me. Chris was hooked. He now craves the taste of weasel shit which is unfortunate as it's very hard to come by.

Finally we came to the volcano part of the tour. Our minivan climbed some steep winding roads. Suddenly we found ourselves in a completely different landscape. We were in the region of Kintimani, the land of volcanos. Agung was half-hidden behind clouds, but Batur stood out in all its glory, its giant bulk dominated the landscape. Down below was a lake. From what I could understand, Batur was a double-caldera volcano. The first crater included the lake (which made it a very big caldera). The second caldera was the one that stood tall in the sky, a perfect cone. Our group was very excited, finally getting a glimpse of these beasts. We asked the driver to pull over so we could get some shots, but he told us we'd stop further down the road. This was a cause for agitation, as we were driving further away from the scenic viewpoints we wanted. The driver did stop, but at the destination of his choice. This was a restaurant. Granted, the restaurant offered fantastic views of the valley, but it also offered up overpriced buffet-style meals. We found ourselves trapped. It was obvious that we were expected to buy something. I read later in Lonely Planet that drivers were notorious for doing this. The restaurants charged double the regular price, only for the driver to recieve 50% commission. We were well onto this game, and none of us wanted to play. The whole group decided to get up and leave. The disappointment was obvious on our driver's face. Not only was he not getting his commission, he was also not getting a tip from his grumbling passengers. Such is the game.

We were taken to another temple, but by this time we were all templed-out. The group went in search of street food. Chris and I settled for some instant noodles from a nearby shop. It was a perfect lunch. At that, we left Kintimani. The volcano portion of our “volcano” tour was over. At least it gave us a taster. The region was beautiful, particularly that lake. Chris and I agreed that we'd have to go back, this time on our terms. Maybe we'd even get to climb one of those volcanoes.

The tour ended with a rice-terrace stop. This was more like it. The scenery was outstanding; post card perfect. Curved around us, like an ampitheatre, were the greenest rice paddies I've ever seen. It's impossible not to come across rice paddies in Asia, but hillside ones like this have to be seen to be believed. They are gorgeous. Too bad for the pile of dog shit I stepped in while trying to get that perfect shot. I wiped it off the best I could then climbed back into the minivan. Our tour was now complete.

A Place Like Home

We stayed in Ubud a good five days. Staying in the same bungalow, we enjoyed a little patch of heaven. The people running the place were so accommodating. The old lady was a little senile, but we loved her just the same. We named her Nana (we had had Mama in Samui). As we were paying up at the end of our stay, Nana informed us that a ceremony was taking place in about ten days time. It was the cremation ceremony, performed once every three years. We had seen them preparing for something down at the community center. Life-sized bulls were being lined up side by side. We hadn't understood the significance of these bulls, but now it made sense. Bodies that had been preserved over the past three years were now to be placed inside these bulls to be burned. Highly religious stuff. We couldn't turn down Nana's invitation to return to Ubud for the festival. I was very happy at the prospect of returning. Ubud is one of the most cultural places I've ever visited. It's absolutely overflowing with color and customs. The culture isn't even on display for the tourist, rather it's on display because the Balinese love their traditions and do all they can to keep them alive. We caught Nana and other members of her family watching TV one night. What were they watching? Balinese dancing with that dong-dong-dong music. They love the stuff. They can't get enough. That's what's so special about Bali. Ancient traditions aren't practiced for the sake of tourists and bringing in dollars. The Balinese practice their traditions because it's who they are. And you have to respect that.

Upon leaving our bungalow, I skirted around the koi pond. As I turned back to talk to Chris I noticed a giant spider dangling from a tree branch. I'm talking the biggest spider I've ever seen. I had noticed that there were spider webs covering the tops of several of the koi ponds along the path. I had thought to myself, those must be some big-ass spiders trying to catch fish. Well, yes, I was looking at a big-ass spider that was as big as my face. I'm really surprised I hadn't freaked out, considering I had walked right past it, probably even brushed up against it unknowingly.

With that, we left Ubud.