MARCH 22 - 29, 2002: Thanks to the Star Alliance, we fly over Bali twice. First on our way from Sydney to transfer in Singapore, and then backtrack: a full five flying hours later we begin our descent.  Touching down in Denpasar the humidity presses down on us like a slowly collapsing wall.  We are met at the airport and driven to Mick’s Place, recommended by Megan Bee.  Some forty-five minutes later, the last fifteen of them on a bumpy dirt road, we are there.  It is wonderful.  In the darkness the grounds are lit up by torches: four round bungalows with thatch roofs, three-fourths of the structure open to the air, no hot water or electricity so candles everywhere.  There is a main eating area overlooking Bingin beach below, high rocky cliffs curving out to either side as the surf rolls on below.  The entire compound is rock, wood and string – no metal anywhere, and in little corners bowls with water and a few flower blossoms and an occasional offering to the Hindu Gods.   

Sure enough, less than 20 hours later I sit with my feet in the pool watching a dozen surfers, wearing a sarong (yes, just a sarong) and drinking a Bintang beer (about $0.80 each).  It is early evening and a Balinese woman goes about the grounds lighting torches that glow in the fading light.   Answering these are the light dots of fishing boats putting out to sea, spreading themselves out like the tail of a large comet.  The heat and sun are intense, and we do very little; one quick walk along the clifftops and along the beach, but mostly we sit, read, swim, and try out Bintang beers with a variety of Balinese food, chat with a friendly Kiwi couple.  At night we take a quick cold shower before bed, then lie under the canopy of mosquito netting in a small, slightly sweaty bliss.  We stay for three days.

Bali is often mistaken for it’s own country, and one can see why.  Part of Indonesia, which has the largest Muslim population in the world, it is about 80% Hindu, and has it’s own set of customs and practices.   The people are remarkably gentle and soft spoken, and amazingly friendly.  It is a close to the equator as we will get, and is lush and tropical, with tremendous beaches.

From Bingin we head to Ubud, in the interior.  A vivacious town, more touristy but not overwhelmingly so.  We again have a splendid place to stay: a guesthouse for a restaurant where Heather has signed up for a cooking class; this time with hot water and a ceiling fan, and the same combination of stone and dark wood.  Heather’s cooking class the next morning is pretty good; they start by examining and tasting the local ingredients: five kinds of ginger, four different basil leafs, and a variety of chilis – all in an open air kitchen with parrots and cycads chirping merrily in the background.  In the afternoon we go to a spa for a traditional Balinese massage.  This includes a rubdown, exfoliate, yogurt treatment, and a flower bath.  The first two are pretty normal; for the third one stands, naked, while the masseuse rubs you with an odd yogurt mixture, then rinses you off with bowls of lightly-scented water poured over your body.  It is the first time in my life I have felt like a lower-east-side, avant-garde performance artist, if a bit reluctantly.  The flower bath finishes it off well – a warm tub filled with hundreds of small flower blossoms.  

That evening we have a meal at a good restaurant in town; at its culmination, while we are waiting for the bill the waitress asks us if we would fill out a evaluation form.  We do, gladly, giving the equivalent of 2As, 2Bs and a C (okay, it’s grade inflation, but not as bad as Harvard).  The waitress thanks us, walks about 10 feet away, and quickly returns, asking us what the problem was with the C course (coconut ice cream with a touch of freezer burn), then the B courses.  It was a very odd sensation watching sleepy-town Bali suddenly hit capitalism overdrive -- nothing like real-time feedback. 

Our final day we rent a car and driver and head to the countryside, first to Gunung Kawi (sarcophagi) and Penelokan (a mountain and lake).  The country is probably more interesting than either: tiered rice paddies amongst the rolling hills, then suddenly an overhead canopy of tree leaves and vines with the jungle pulsing below.  The sarcophagi is interesting but not exceptional, and the mountain and lake very pretty but, alas, a little at a distance.  The small villages we pass through, however, are oddly charming; preparing for a festival in a few days the streets are decorated with long poles of bamboo, slightly weighted with decorative paper weights that cause them to gently bend over the street.  It is quite stunning.

Heading to the airport we are a little delayed; we need gas, then air for a tire, then we get stuck behind a slow truck.  Running a little late, we get close to the airport in Denpasar when we get pulled over by two motorcycle policemen.  We are expecting a tourist sting of some sort, and worried about making our flight, yet Heather is stifling a laugh.  Our driver goes out, presents his papers.  We look for a bribe but don’t see anything.  Heather is almost bursting out in laughter.  Finally we are on our way again, in plenty of time.  I ask Heather what was so funny.  “Did you see those guys?”  she says.  “Two of them on a bike the size of a moped.”  She’s right: the two cops get back on the single motorcycle, which looks like it is about 400cc.  The one in the back has his ticket book out as they drive.  Imagine CHIPS, but just one bike.  It’s hysterical.  Still chuckling, we leave Bali.

on to thailand...