The Winding Roads of Bali

Arriving in the Denpasar International Airport gives you the first two indicators that you've arrived in Indonesia. Customs officials smoking clove-heavy kretek cigaret and the pleasant rhythm of gamelon music as they eye over your passport. (Only later do I realize that this was likely Javanese style gamelon, which is much softer than the rich clang! clang! clang! clang! Of Balinese-style gamelon.)

We already knew that Denpasar was nothing special – Malcolm had been here 4 years ago – so we made our way to Ubud, about one and a half hours north of Denpasar. Ubud is considered Bali's cultural epicentre and source of locally made handicrafts, and because of its draw, you can also find plenty of craftwork from other regions of Bali. Ubud is Bali's second largest tourist haven, although it is a far cry from Kuta which hosts an impressive beach and much of the alcohol fuelled party town atmosphere with the usual drugs and prostitution, clubs and glitzy Russian vodka bars.

Despite a fairly constant flow of tourists, Ubud attracts an older crowd, and those who have a few more bucks to spend. This means beautiful little boutique hotels alongside rice paddies, and pleasant hang outs for food and drink (fond memories of Casa Luna and the Jazz Cafe). I also found what is officially the best mango lassi I have found. My brother immediately scoped out the best place for good coffee, and it was a daily trip every time we found ourselves in Ubud.

It was time to ride. This was a week long meet-up, long planned with my brother – to ride around the island as a troupe, the route that he had done on his own on his last trip here. The mood was a bit melancholy as we were missing a key person, our father, whom at the last minute was unable to come. We headed eastward, aided by a locally bought travel map which turned out to be completely out of date. From Ubud we travelled through the towns of KlungKlung (one of many former kingdoms in Bali) to Padang Bai (the ferry terminal for travel to the islands of Lombok and beyond), then up along the coast, carving through the hills as we moto'd between gunung Agung and gunung Seraya, two ancient volcanoes.

By evening we made it to Tulamben, a well known scuba diving town, where the USAT Liberty is shipwrecked right off shore. Due to a nasty cut, Malcolm couldn't swim, so I snorkelled into the tepid waters above the wreck, watching parrot fish, needle fish, clown fish and so many more coloured fish that I cannot name (to be a marine biologist...). Apart from the coral covered wreck that sat 10 metres below me, the highlight was snorkeling with a lazy school of tuna (maybe 100) who eyed me nervously as swam a few feet away. A wall of tuna eyes.

(note: I ate many of their brethren over the next couple of weeks (in steak form), along with barracuda, a beautifully firm muscly fish similar in texture to tuna but even more delectable. Served best grilled, with garlic butter sauce. For about three bucks for a huge plate of fish, you really are in a sea-foodie paradise.)

We found ourselves in the outskirts of Singaraja, on the northern coast of Bali, in a pleasant oceanside hotel, where the sand was a salt and pepper in colour due to volcanic stone. Shared perfectly calm sea waters and big sky with a few fisherman, and skipped perfectly rounded stones, amusing the little kiddies with my prowess (and nursing a sore arm for days afterwards!) Our evening was interrupted by a four hour drunken domestic dispute between a Kiwi ex-special forces soldier (whom I previously overheard describing in detail when he shot a man in Afghanistan who “made the wrong move”), an obviously mortified Greek woman, and an extremely pickled Calgarian ex-pat.

We made a quick getaway in the early morning and climbed the long winding hill to the mountain town of Kintamani, overlooking gunung Batur, where we were accosted by suspect guides perpetually asking if we were interested in trekking, even driving alongside your moto at 50 km/h, shouting “trekking? Trekking?”. Seasoned persistence or desperation, I suppose it was low season after all. We made a quick getaway and travelled south, then east, taking the winding side roads through valleys, countless rice paddies, small towns, banyan trees and local temples).

Despite being one of Indonesia's premier tourist destinations, Bali remains very much true its religious traditions and ceremonies, arts and culture. The Balinese are primarily Hindu, and local animism mixed with Hindu traditions can be seen everywhere. Everywhere you go in Bali, there are temples great and small. Any house with sufficient space will have a family temple. The greatest temples use carved stone, which is a rich grey-black colour, telling its volcanic origins. They are chunky block forms, mixed with peaks and flowing arches, detailed with rich expressions of wide-eyed gods, guardians and local forms (Goa Lawah, for example, is a bat temple, nestled alongside a large cave where thousands of bats reside. The front face of the temple includes a very interesting gold painted bat carving.)

It is said that spirits reside everywhere, and must be respected and provided offerings. As with other parts of southeast asia, many houses offer small temples at their doorstep, where the spirits may reside instead of wandering, and possibly staying, in the house. Offerings are an everyday ritual, and are placed in front of houses, hostels, hotels, businesses, and just about anywhere than people may reside. Often you will see women and men with wet rice applied to their foreheads to symbolize that they have attended a religious ceremony or provided offerings to gods, or spirits. Immediately once the offering has been given it is no longer useful, so i didn't feel bad when I occasionally stepped on them – an inevitability because they are simply everywhere.

Spent many calm days lazing about in Padang Bai, gorging on fish dinners and jumbo grilled prawns, listening to the horns of the ferry, spending hours on its little white sand beach, where hawkers addressed you in funny ways (hello sarong! Hello cold drink! Hello coconut!) but even after a short while also wound their ways back to a shady spot under a palm The waters were warm and salty, bloodshot eyes an inevitable consequence of splashing around in the balmy brine.

Two weeks in Bali made me lose my initial feelings of hesitation about going to Bali in the first place. I was worried that this often described “paradise” (as I have heard from so many people over the years) would be a tourist trap but I realized quickly that maybe ninety percent of the tourism is localized and it was easy to find yourself in small villages, local warungs, swimming in coral reefs, with nary a tourist in site. Bali has the infrastructure to be whatever you want it to be, but I found myself exploring little roads winding through valleys and alongside volcanoes, hiking to hidden waterfalls, and meeting so many ever gracious, soft spoken and dignified Balinese people, warm embraces, and down to earth people. Often the tourist count for an entire day would be less than the fingers on one hand.

Leaving Bali meant a four hour bus journey westward, across the southwestern coast to the ferry port of Gilimanuk, fuelled by vegetable fritters complimented with spicy green peppers (nibbled strategically between mouthfuls, careful to bite with your teeth so as not to spill hot chili oil on tender lips) followed by sesame balls, packed with sweet bean paste. Across the shores lay the brooding, mist covered mountain peaks of Java, to be crossed in an aging, rusty hulk of a ferry, slowing cutting its way through the slate coloured waters of Selat Bali.