Hoping to discover something of the ‘real’ Bali, I left Kuta Beach on a rented motorcycle and pointed toward the interior of the island. Visions of mountains and jungles and rice terraces occupied my mind. Escaping the heavily populated southern region took some time, but north of Tabanan town the homes thinned out and fields of rice and vegetables emerged. The green of the countryside finally replaced the cluster of urban life.
The first sense of rural life that hit was the unmistakable aroma of chicken farms that filled the air. Some say the Dutch learned large-scale chicken farming in Indonesia and brought it to the west. Regardless, sizeable bamboo barns housing thousands of chickens on multiple levels lined the road.
My destination was the rice terraces of Jatiluwih near the base of Mount Baratou. Puttering along rural roads, slowing for animals and waving to children, there was an unmistakable distance from the crowded south. That was briefly erased near the village of Jatiluwih when I was stopped to pay an entrance fee to the area. Although it amounted to $1.25 it reminded me that the entire island lives on tourism.
The rice terraces are impressive. The steep terrain has been carved into steppes that cascade down the lower reaches of the mountain while the jungle portion rises above and behind. It looks so natural that it is easy to forget that every flat surface is the result of years of labour. Occasional day-trippers come to view the terraces, but they are few and far between. There is an impression of solitude here and by late afternoon I was the only foreigner.
The centuries old tradition of rice farming is labour intensive and the terrain prohibits any mechanization. Each terrace is a different size, depending upon the slope. In steep sections they are generally narrow, less than three meters wide, snaking along the natural contours. Where the incline permits they are larger but few exceed ten meters.
I came upon a man and his wife plowing a narrow paddy in preparation for planting. He gently guided a water buffalo following with a single bladed plow. Knee deep in water, the old man whistled to the animal urging it through the dense muck. His wife cleaned the row ends and other sections the plow was unable to reach. All three worked slowly but steadily as though time did not exist.
They both smiled in acknowledgement of my presence as I wandered nearby. Nearly stepping on a long snake I inquired in mime if it was dangerous. The woman laughed and indicated that I should simply “shoosh, shoosh” and it would move. Indeed, the snake was as languid as the environment and slowly slithered away.
The Kalang Kangin Inn, run by Mr. and Mrs. Wayan Miora, is the only accommodation in Jatiluwih. The simple accommodation is clean and the view from the front porch is a spectacular panorama of the valley with mountain peaks on the eastern horizon. I sipped a cold beer and watched the light change and dim as the sun set behind the mountain. Mrs. Miora offered to cook a “simple dinner” and I accepted the invitation. Two large traditional dishes and a desert of fresh papaya later and I was full. I thanked her for the meal and returned to my room. A chorus of insects and other sounds filled the night; sounds of rural Bali. I listened to the nocturnal orchestra before drifting off into a deep and peaceful sleep.
Sunrise brought a sensational spectrum of soft pinks and understated reds to the dawn sky. Over coffee, Mr. Miora asked what I hoped to find in Bali.
“The real Bali,” I responded, “if it still exists.”
He gazed across the valley as though an image filled his mind. “With a motorcycle,” he said, “you can find Bali. With a car you can only find the road.” He then directed me down a dirt path that skirted the terraces passed through the jungle and alongside a temple to the other side of the valley, a route inaccessible to cars.
The tranquility of the excursion reinforced Mr. Miora’s statement and I felt as though I had at last discovered a piece of Bali.
Copyright Tim Morch, 2006
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Climbing Boss?
The road from Kubutambahan village on the north coast of Bali winds up the backside of Mount Penulisan.Occasional pullouts look north-eastward to the sea revealing the surprisingly arid terrain below. The town of Penelokan is a highlight with tour groups for the panoramic views of Lake Batur and Mount Batur in the crater below. Large restaurants and a few hotels with names like “Volcano View” and “Lake View” cater to the busloads of tourists.
It is not possible to stop without being offered hotel rooms, trekking and everything else from woodcarving to women within a few minutes. The sales pitch is persistent and vendors often follow you about with offers of “special price, Boss.” I pre-empt the next statement by asking “for good luck?” “Yes, Boss,” I am undoubtedly assured, “for good luck.”
Mount Batur is an active volcano. The most recent eruption started in 1998 and finally subsided in 2002. A new crater on the western face of the mountain opened and the flowing lava covered a large area of land previously terraced with farms. This left hundreds of farmers without arable land or means to earn a living.
The road into the crater is steep and full of switchbacks. Groups rarely go into the crater, stopping only to snap a quick photo and continue on the prescribed circuit. The few visitors in the villages below create a strange state of affairs. Foreigners are aggressively hunted for hotel rooms and trekking guides. It is not permitted to climb Mount Batur without a guide. The local economy was decimated by the last eruption prompting the government to establish a trekking guide association to subsidize the loss. The result is that it is impossible to go anywhere in the villages without hearing “climbing Boss?” from virtually every male.
The women push massages and cheap trinkets relentlessly, holding your hand and putting a bracelet on your wrist while a second starts to massage your shoulders. Meanwhile, small children tell you to buy candy, chips or gum. The atmosphere becomes somewhat claustrophobic as you find yourself surrounded.
Visiting the hot springs in Toyabungkah where the local people bathe is a nightmare. It is almost impossible to get in due to repeated sales attempts. If you bother to try, the women follow and try to sell massage. No amount of “no, thank you” dissuades them and no amount of joking helps. It is advisable to spend a few dollars and visit the private baths and enjoy the quiet pools.
The climbing attraction is to see sunrise over the ocean and, if the weather is clear, views of Lombok Island. Treks commence at 4am and prices are surprisingly high. Although the climb is less than 1 ½ hours, with longer routes lasting up to 6 hours, prices start at $35 for the basic tour.
Choosing not to trek, I drove my motorcycle through the fields near the eastern base of Mount Batur early in the morning. The track winds steadily upward and is very easy to follow. I can clearly see where the guided groups have gone and it becomes clear that most of the lower section is done in the back of a truck. Walking starts a few hundred meters from the peak, explaining the short ascent time. Every time I see a person, I am greeted with “climbing Boss?” Even when I stop for a photo, someone appears as if by magic to offer guide services.
I make my way to the village of Songan at the end of the road. The village is famed for its temple, where a lychee tree mysteriously flourishes regardless of rainfall. It is surprisingly green in an arid terrain. The rim of the crater rises sharply behind the temple. The walk to the rim is steep but short and from the top I watch the sun making its daily ascent over of the ocean. Lombok is obscured by clouds but nearby Nusa Lembongan is visible. The view into the crater is clear with Mount Batur standing sentinel as fields of vegetables descend the southern and eastern slopes to the lake.
I descend to my motorcycle and return to Toyabungkah. Even at this early hour, I am accosted with sales pitches. Although I am sympathetic to the poverty, I find it difficult to be constantly fending off sales pitches. The relentless selling has worn thin and I decide to move on. Packing my bag, I let the family who owns the guesthouse know I am off and I am wished a good journey As I leave, to reinforce the point, a man standing on the roadside with his vegetables calls to me “climbing Boss?” I smile and drive on.
Copyright Tim Morch, 2006
It is not possible to stop without being offered hotel rooms, trekking and everything else from woodcarving to women within a few minutes. The sales pitch is persistent and vendors often follow you about with offers of “special price, Boss.” I pre-empt the next statement by asking “for good luck?” “Yes, Boss,” I am undoubtedly assured, “for good luck.”
Mount Batur is an active volcano. The most recent eruption started in 1998 and finally subsided in 2002. A new crater on the western face of the mountain opened and the flowing lava covered a large area of land previously terraced with farms. This left hundreds of farmers without arable land or means to earn a living.
The road into the crater is steep and full of switchbacks. Groups rarely go into the crater, stopping only to snap a quick photo and continue on the prescribed circuit. The few visitors in the villages below create a strange state of affairs. Foreigners are aggressively hunted for hotel rooms and trekking guides. It is not permitted to climb Mount Batur without a guide. The local economy was decimated by the last eruption prompting the government to establish a trekking guide association to subsidize the loss. The result is that it is impossible to go anywhere in the villages without hearing “climbing Boss?” from virtually every male.
The women push massages and cheap trinkets relentlessly, holding your hand and putting a bracelet on your wrist while a second starts to massage your shoulders. Meanwhile, small children tell you to buy candy, chips or gum. The atmosphere becomes somewhat claustrophobic as you find yourself surrounded.
Visiting the hot springs in Toyabungkah where the local people bathe is a nightmare. It is almost impossible to get in due to repeated sales attempts. If you bother to try, the women follow and try to sell massage. No amount of “no, thank you” dissuades them and no amount of joking helps. It is advisable to spend a few dollars and visit the private baths and enjoy the quiet pools.
The climbing attraction is to see sunrise over the ocean and, if the weather is clear, views of Lombok Island. Treks commence at 4am and prices are surprisingly high. Although the climb is less than 1 ½ hours, with longer routes lasting up to 6 hours, prices start at $35 for the basic tour.
Choosing not to trek, I drove my motorcycle through the fields near the eastern base of Mount Batur early in the morning. The track winds steadily upward and is very easy to follow. I can clearly see where the guided groups have gone and it becomes clear that most of the lower section is done in the back of a truck. Walking starts a few hundred meters from the peak, explaining the short ascent time. Every time I see a person, I am greeted with “climbing Boss?” Even when I stop for a photo, someone appears as if by magic to offer guide services.
I make my way to the village of Songan at the end of the road. The village is famed for its temple, where a lychee tree mysteriously flourishes regardless of rainfall. It is surprisingly green in an arid terrain. The rim of the crater rises sharply behind the temple. The walk to the rim is steep but short and from the top I watch the sun making its daily ascent over of the ocean. Lombok is obscured by clouds but nearby Nusa Lembongan is visible. The view into the crater is clear with Mount Batur standing sentinel as fields of vegetables descend the southern and eastern slopes to the lake.
I descend to my motorcycle and return to Toyabungkah. Even at this early hour, I am accosted with sales pitches. Although I am sympathetic to the poverty, I find it difficult to be constantly fending off sales pitches. The relentless selling has worn thin and I decide to move on. Packing my bag, I let the family who owns the guesthouse know I am off and I am wished a good journey As I leave, to reinforce the point, a man standing on the roadside with his vegetables calls to me “climbing Boss?” I smile and drive on.
Copyright Tim Morch, 2006
Monday, October 16, 2006
Surf Heaven
One morning at breakfast, I overheard a 50-something Australian talking about Bali “back in the day.” Surf stories hold a startling similarity to fishing tales: the one “this long” (arms stretched to incredulous length) that got away or the “really big one” I landed on some distant vacation but didn’t have a camera. I eavesdropped but was inclined to file the tale as ‘unlikely’. Perhaps it was my snicker that prompted the guy next to me to speak up. He knew the storyteller and assured me he did indeed have bragging rights as one of the first to surf the now legendary break at Ulu Watu.
When Kuta Beach was still a maze of rice paddies and the beach break became boring, intrepid surfers were discovering breaks in unusual locations. The vantage points from the dusty footpath along the cliff tops of the Bukit Peninsula made it was easy to spot potential breaks. Descending the sheer cliffs, getting out across the jagged reef to the break and returning safely was and remains the challenge. Early pioneers were undoubtedly considered crazy as they climbed down ropes to the cave that opens to Ulu Watu, especially as the Balinese feared the sea. To do this, they employed a small army of board carriers, rope attendants and cliff-top monitors, creating a new tourism market as a result: surfing.
Surfers stayed with local families before there were any guest houses or hotels. Families cooked, cleaned and provided related services. Relationships were forged that helped shape the future of the local economy. Locals rented surf boards their friends left behind, learned to repair them and local board shapers and manufacturing developed. To serve the surge in surf tourists, an abundance of accommodation, restaurants and bars close to every major break emerged. A generation later, young Balinese surfers are gaining worldwide recognition amongst professional surfers.
Today, the surf industry is a major component of Bali’s tourism. Bali is loaded with surf breaks; some well-known, others secret locations whispered between friends and kindred spirits. Gone are the days of knowing everybody on the break. Modern Bali is one of the Holy Grail destinations for surfers from around the world and the most popular breaks are often crowded. The long beach break at Kuta is suited to the masses of beginners. Experienced surfers flock to the Bukit Peninsula and the legendary Ulu Watu, nearby Dreamland, Bingin or Impossibles. Even late in the season, the breaks have several people vying for waves.
By chance, I discovered a ‘secret spot’ further up the east coast than one might expect the waves to be breaking. It was easy to spot from the cliff top to the north, but surfers rarely venture that far in search of a break. After winding through rice paddies and palm plantations, I emerged at a consistent point break. It was the personal playground of fewer than fifteen locals and three foreigners. This is what draws surfers to Bali repeatedly – known world class surf breaks and the chance for someone to whisper a secret spot in your ear.
Copyright Tim Morch, 2006
When Kuta Beach was still a maze of rice paddies and the beach break became boring, intrepid surfers were discovering breaks in unusual locations. The vantage points from the dusty footpath along the cliff tops of the Bukit Peninsula made it was easy to spot potential breaks. Descending the sheer cliffs, getting out across the jagged reef to the break and returning safely was and remains the challenge. Early pioneers were undoubtedly considered crazy as they climbed down ropes to the cave that opens to Ulu Watu, especially as the Balinese feared the sea. To do this, they employed a small army of board carriers, rope attendants and cliff-top monitors, creating a new tourism market as a result: surfing.
Surfers stayed with local families before there were any guest houses or hotels. Families cooked, cleaned and provided related services. Relationships were forged that helped shape the future of the local economy. Locals rented surf boards their friends left behind, learned to repair them and local board shapers and manufacturing developed. To serve the surge in surf tourists, an abundance of accommodation, restaurants and bars close to every major break emerged. A generation later, young Balinese surfers are gaining worldwide recognition amongst professional surfers.
Today, the surf industry is a major component of Bali’s tourism. Bali is loaded with surf breaks; some well-known, others secret locations whispered between friends and kindred spirits. Gone are the days of knowing everybody on the break. Modern Bali is one of the Holy Grail destinations for surfers from around the world and the most popular breaks are often crowded. The long beach break at Kuta is suited to the masses of beginners. Experienced surfers flock to the Bukit Peninsula and the legendary Ulu Watu, nearby Dreamland, Bingin or Impossibles. Even late in the season, the breaks have several people vying for waves.
By chance, I discovered a ‘secret spot’ further up the east coast than one might expect the waves to be breaking. It was easy to spot from the cliff top to the north, but surfers rarely venture that far in search of a break. After winding through rice paddies and palm plantations, I emerged at a consistent point break. It was the personal playground of fewer than fifteen locals and three foreigners. This is what draws surfers to Bali repeatedly – known world class surf breaks and the chance for someone to whisper a secret spot in your ear.
Copyright Tim Morch, 2006
Saturday, October 14, 2006
The North Coast
The quiet seaside town of Lovina lies on the north coast of Bali, just a few hours drive from Denpasar.The pace here is decidedly unhurried and regular visitors and ex-patriots often prefer this coast to the crowded beaches of the south.
Black volcanic sand is common to all beaches on the north coast. It varies from reasonably soft at Lovina, to course and even rocky to the east. Good coral formations are scattered along this coast and a number of snorkeling and scuba operators offer day trips to suit all levels. Dolphin sightings are frequent, viewing excursions equally common. A relatively calm ocean means there is no surfing on this coast.
Lovinas beach vendors may be fewer in number and their doggedness less than the south, but they remain eager. I barely had my motorcycle on its stand before I was surrounded by hawkers. From sarongs and jewelry to fruits and beverages, each offered a “special price” "for good luck" complaining business was slow. Tourism is obviously down since the bombs and I try to be sympathetic. Nonetheless, being a constant sales target also wears thin. Joking always lightens the moment.
“Who gets good luck? You? Or me?” I ask.
They are united that they get the good luck.
“What about me? No good luck for me?” I keep on.
We all enjoy some laughs, but no amount of humour gets away from the bottom line – making a sale. Made has sarongs and I spot one with nice colours. I nearly fell over at the asking price of $25. Recognizing my shock, she suggests I make a price. My $5 offer is taken as a sign I want to bargain and she counters quickly with “Buy two get better price.” I tell her I only want one. She starts to slowly lower her price hoping I will up my offer. I stick at $5 and a lengthy negotiation period that increasingly involves the other vendors ensues. Made encourages me to raise my offer but I hold.
“No, I go bankroopt,” she claims, but eventually agrees to sell for my price.
This has given the jewelry vendor hope and he moves in with all kinds of shell trinkets. I tell him I am not interested but this does not discourage the true salesman. He starts to pull out a variety of pieces; for my girlfriend (“I do not have one”), for my niece (“at least I have one”), for my mother (“yes, she is still alive”) and so on. After a while he understands I am not buying and packs up. The drink vendor remains undeterred and does not stop holding his pricelist in front of me until I climb on my motorcycle and drive off.
Toward the island center is Git Git (Twin) Waterfall, a perennial favourite with tour groups. Arriving before the buses is essential to have any chance of enjoying the peace and nature of Git Git. The area is lush green and a number of falls and pools are only a short walk. The cascades down a variety of levels and there are a number of places along the road to park and explore. Plenty of vendors offer sodas, water and snacks along the paths. When the buses arrive, it is time to leave.
East of Lovina is the sleepy town of Amed, popular with scuba divers. The waters are clear, the coral colourful and fish life abundant. The World War II supply ship USS Liberty, torpedoed in 1942 and beached near Amed, is a famous wreck dive.
This area is arid, the mountains rising sharply from the ocean. Any moisture that collects is showered on the southern side. Large volcanic rocks dominate the landscape while an occasional acacia tree delivers a shade of pale green to palette of browns. The road rises and plunges, connecting cliffside fishing communities and farming villages where cows and goats wander freely.
Turning south, I catch sight of a surf break. I mark the area relative to a tower and work my way in that direction. In the town of Ujung, I stop at the water palace to admire the views to the mountains and the sea.
Focused on the surf break, I crisscross rice paddies and backtrack through coconut palm plantations until I break out the coast to come upon a dozen surfers enjoying a point break. With only two foreigners in the crowd I realize I have discovered one of Bali’s legendary secret spots.
Kuwi, a local boy, asks how I found this place. Explaining that it was unmistakable from the cliffs northward he smiled and said: “Good, no surfers ever come from there – no surfing in the north.” I asked the name of the place and when he told me, he requested I keep it to myself.
“It will be difficult to keep this a secret,” I observed.
“I know,” he said, “that is why I have a guest house nearby and rent surf boards!”
Tim Morch, Copyright 2006
Black volcanic sand is common to all beaches on the north coast. It varies from reasonably soft at Lovina, to course and even rocky to the east. Good coral formations are scattered along this coast and a number of snorkeling and scuba operators offer day trips to suit all levels. Dolphin sightings are frequent, viewing excursions equally common. A relatively calm ocean means there is no surfing on this coast.
Lovinas beach vendors may be fewer in number and their doggedness less than the south, but they remain eager. I barely had my motorcycle on its stand before I was surrounded by hawkers. From sarongs and jewelry to fruits and beverages, each offered a “special price” "for good luck" complaining business was slow. Tourism is obviously down since the bombs and I try to be sympathetic. Nonetheless, being a constant sales target also wears thin. Joking always lightens the moment.
“Who gets good luck? You? Or me?” I ask.
They are united that they get the good luck.
“What about me? No good luck for me?” I keep on.
We all enjoy some laughs, but no amount of humour gets away from the bottom line – making a sale. Made has sarongs and I spot one with nice colours. I nearly fell over at the asking price of $25. Recognizing my shock, she suggests I make a price. My $5 offer is taken as a sign I want to bargain and she counters quickly with “Buy two get better price.” I tell her I only want one. She starts to slowly lower her price hoping I will up my offer. I stick at $5 and a lengthy negotiation period that increasingly involves the other vendors ensues. Made encourages me to raise my offer but I hold.
“No, I go bankroopt,” she claims, but eventually agrees to sell for my price.
This has given the jewelry vendor hope and he moves in with all kinds of shell trinkets. I tell him I am not interested but this does not discourage the true salesman. He starts to pull out a variety of pieces; for my girlfriend (“I do not have one”), for my niece (“at least I have one”), for my mother (“yes, she is still alive”) and so on. After a while he understands I am not buying and packs up. The drink vendor remains undeterred and does not stop holding his pricelist in front of me until I climb on my motorcycle and drive off.
Toward the island center is Git Git (Twin) Waterfall, a perennial favourite with tour groups. Arriving before the buses is essential to have any chance of enjoying the peace and nature of Git Git. The area is lush green and a number of falls and pools are only a short walk. The cascades down a variety of levels and there are a number of places along the road to park and explore. Plenty of vendors offer sodas, water and snacks along the paths. When the buses arrive, it is time to leave.
East of Lovina is the sleepy town of Amed, popular with scuba divers. The waters are clear, the coral colourful and fish life abundant. The World War II supply ship USS Liberty, torpedoed in 1942 and beached near Amed, is a famous wreck dive.
This area is arid, the mountains rising sharply from the ocean. Any moisture that collects is showered on the southern side. Large volcanic rocks dominate the landscape while an occasional acacia tree delivers a shade of pale green to palette of browns. The road rises and plunges, connecting cliffside fishing communities and farming villages where cows and goats wander freely.
Turning south, I catch sight of a surf break. I mark the area relative to a tower and work my way in that direction. In the town of Ujung, I stop at the water palace to admire the views to the mountains and the sea.
Focused on the surf break, I crisscross rice paddies and backtrack through coconut palm plantations until I break out the coast to come upon a dozen surfers enjoying a point break. With only two foreigners in the crowd I realize I have discovered one of Bali’s legendary secret spots.
Kuwi, a local boy, asks how I found this place. Explaining that it was unmistakable from the cliffs northward he smiled and said: “Good, no surfers ever come from there – no surfing in the north.” I asked the name of the place and when he told me, he requested I keep it to myself.
“It will be difficult to keep this a secret,” I observed.
“I know,” he said, “that is why I have a guest house nearby and rent surf boards!”
Tim Morch, Copyright 2006
Thursday, October 12, 2006
On the Tourist Trail
Kuta Beach, Bali, is a tourist trap. Each passing hour reminded me of every other tourist hot spot - Mexico, Dominican Republic or Jamaica. Visitors are not here to discover a culture, they come to eat western food, drink day and night, sleep late and lie on the beach. Every second step is met with “Hello Boss” followed by a “special price” offer. Given the behaviour of most visitors it is no surprise the local people cater to these habits.
Bali, however, is reputed to be an island of artisan villages, each specializing in a particular art or craft. I rented a motorcycle and decided to follow a typical one day route and see for myself. Passing the seaside resorts of Sanur, I stopped to consult the map. A Balinese man stopped and asked where I was going. Detailing my proposed route, he made some suggestions and offered directions. Then he said “My name is Agung. I have full tank, follow me.” I agreed and we were off.
Entering the silver making village of Celuk, I was struck by a sense of emptiness. Most homes advertise silver-making but there is little evidence of commerce. “No tourists, no business,” Agung observed as we drove through.
The predominantly Hindu population of Bali means there are temples everywhere and Batuan is very popular in the south. Visitors are provided the required sarong, asked to sign the guestbook and invited to make a donation. The sculptures and altars are typical but I find temples become the same and I suffer from “temple-overdose” easily. One is usually enough.
Nearby, Tegenungan Waterfall is pleasant but not exceptional. Agung said the water was unclean and not good for swimming. The dramatic fall in tourism arrivals has lead to the closure of the luxury resort overlooking the falls and the Air Terjun Bungee Jump appeared closed as well. Over a soda, Agung told me he has a wife and two children. The car rental company he worked for went bankrupt after the second bomb, leaving him unemployed. His wife sells vegetables in the market to support the family.
“The local people are not the problem,” he told me, “it is the outsiders that make the problems. I hope that tourism comes back and we can all make a better living.”
At a typical family-run wood carving business near Bedulu village, I am greeted by Ketut, the traditional name given the fourth child. While carvers work on the porch, Ketut explains the various woods what part of Indonesia each is from. Aromatic sandalwood, mahogany, teak, hibiscus and crocodile wood are the most common. I wander through the large shop admiring the variety of carving. From intricate masks and boxes of all sizes to large sculptures, the craftsmanship is impressive. Checking the price on a small box, Ketut says everything is at 50% discount. A small group of Spanish tourists arrives and I realize this is the first place I have seen another foreigner today.
Ubud is considered the cultural heart of Bali. It is popular with vacationers and has a large resident ex-patriot community. The shaded streets are lined with shops selling products from the nearby villages and other knick-knacks. The atmosphere is pleasant with a definite feel of a west meets east artists community. Cafes, art galleries and restaurants compete for the tourist dollar in a more understated fashion than Kuta.
I ask Agung to break for lunch. We stop at a charming restaurant and as we are about to enter Agung says he will wait for me. Refusing repeated invitations, I walk inside to check it out. The restaurant is open and airy with tables on multiple levels and a fish pond in the center. Opening the menu, I am shocked to see prices that rival restaurants at home. Thanking the server, I exit and ask Agung to take me to a place he would go to. Outside Ubud we stop at a roadside restaurant overlooking rice paddies and the Idman Burung Bird Park where we both enjoy a hearty local meal at very reasonable prices.
Batubulan is famous for stone carving. The road is lined with thousands of pieces but only a few of the shops have someone actively carving. The subjects are varied, from Hindu gods to masks and gaudy phallic symbols. I watch as soft sandstone blocks become sculptures. The work is painstaking, the results impressive. Nearby, the traditional Barong dance, an exorcism ritual dating back to animist times, is performed daily.
Batik is perhaps one of Bali’s most famous crafts. Stopping at one of the many factories, I watch a group of women sitting outside demonstrate how batik is made. It is a time-consuming process starting with the application of wax in the desired pattern. The fabric is then dyed, often several times in different colours. Finally, the wax is removed and the design shines out. Inside, the huge inventory is marked with prices that are staggering. Batik sarongs sell for $25 and up! There is a large inventory of original art on the walls selling for upwards of $300 unframed. My guide tells me he can make a special price if I would like to purchase some art. I thank him for his time and leave.
Agung is waiting patiently and asks what I would like to see next. Telling him I am on shopping overload, he says he will drop me off at the junction to Kuta Beach. Stopping just before the junction, he gives me his telephone number and address, inviting me to call any time.
“Agung, may I give you some money for gas and to buy your family some food today?” I ask.
“Not necessary,” he says, “only if you like.”
“I would like to,” I reply and hand him some money. He thanks me earnestly for my generosity.
“Today, I do have good luck,” he says, thanking me again and riding off with a wave.
Copyright Tim Morch, 2006
Bali, however, is reputed to be an island of artisan villages, each specializing in a particular art or craft. I rented a motorcycle and decided to follow a typical one day route and see for myself. Passing the seaside resorts of Sanur, I stopped to consult the map. A Balinese man stopped and asked where I was going. Detailing my proposed route, he made some suggestions and offered directions. Then he said “My name is Agung. I have full tank, follow me.” I agreed and we were off.
Entering the silver making village of Celuk, I was struck by a sense of emptiness. Most homes advertise silver-making but there is little evidence of commerce. “No tourists, no business,” Agung observed as we drove through.
The predominantly Hindu population of Bali means there are temples everywhere and Batuan is very popular in the south. Visitors are provided the required sarong, asked to sign the guestbook and invited to make a donation. The sculptures and altars are typical but I find temples become the same and I suffer from “temple-overdose” easily. One is usually enough.
Nearby, Tegenungan Waterfall is pleasant but not exceptional. Agung said the water was unclean and not good for swimming. The dramatic fall in tourism arrivals has lead to the closure of the luxury resort overlooking the falls and the Air Terjun Bungee Jump appeared closed as well. Over a soda, Agung told me he has a wife and two children. The car rental company he worked for went bankrupt after the second bomb, leaving him unemployed. His wife sells vegetables in the market to support the family.
“The local people are not the problem,” he told me, “it is the outsiders that make the problems. I hope that tourism comes back and we can all make a better living.”
At a typical family-run wood carving business near Bedulu village, I am greeted by Ketut, the traditional name given the fourth child. While carvers work on the porch, Ketut explains the various woods what part of Indonesia each is from. Aromatic sandalwood, mahogany, teak, hibiscus and crocodile wood are the most common. I wander through the large shop admiring the variety of carving. From intricate masks and boxes of all sizes to large sculptures, the craftsmanship is impressive. Checking the price on a small box, Ketut says everything is at 50% discount. A small group of Spanish tourists arrives and I realize this is the first place I have seen another foreigner today.
Ubud is considered the cultural heart of Bali. It is popular with vacationers and has a large resident ex-patriot community. The shaded streets are lined with shops selling products from the nearby villages and other knick-knacks. The atmosphere is pleasant with a definite feel of a west meets east artists community. Cafes, art galleries and restaurants compete for the tourist dollar in a more understated fashion than Kuta.
I ask Agung to break for lunch. We stop at a charming restaurant and as we are about to enter Agung says he will wait for me. Refusing repeated invitations, I walk inside to check it out. The restaurant is open and airy with tables on multiple levels and a fish pond in the center. Opening the menu, I am shocked to see prices that rival restaurants at home. Thanking the server, I exit and ask Agung to take me to a place he would go to. Outside Ubud we stop at a roadside restaurant overlooking rice paddies and the Idman Burung Bird Park where we both enjoy a hearty local meal at very reasonable prices.
Batubulan is famous for stone carving. The road is lined with thousands of pieces but only a few of the shops have someone actively carving. The subjects are varied, from Hindu gods to masks and gaudy phallic symbols. I watch as soft sandstone blocks become sculptures. The work is painstaking, the results impressive. Nearby, the traditional Barong dance, an exorcism ritual dating back to animist times, is performed daily.
Batik is perhaps one of Bali’s most famous crafts. Stopping at one of the many factories, I watch a group of women sitting outside demonstrate how batik is made. It is a time-consuming process starting with the application of wax in the desired pattern. The fabric is then dyed, often several times in different colours. Finally, the wax is removed and the design shines out. Inside, the huge inventory is marked with prices that are staggering. Batik sarongs sell for $25 and up! There is a large inventory of original art on the walls selling for upwards of $300 unframed. My guide tells me he can make a special price if I would like to purchase some art. I thank him for his time and leave.
Agung is waiting patiently and asks what I would like to see next. Telling him I am on shopping overload, he says he will drop me off at the junction to Kuta Beach. Stopping just before the junction, he gives me his telephone number and address, inviting me to call any time.
“Agung, may I give you some money for gas and to buy your family some food today?” I ask.
“Not necessary,” he says, “only if you like.”
“I would like to,” I reply and hand him some money. He thanks me earnestly for my generosity.
“Today, I do have good luck,” he says, thanking me again and riding off with a wave.
Copyright Tim Morch, 2006
Central Bali
Narrow winding roads climb and descend the steep volcanic valleys of central Bali. Villages, perched on ridges, come to life early. People make their way to the fields closely inspecting each one. Irrigation streams are carefully cleared of debris that collected overnight. The grass on the barriers between terraces is cut by hand and collected in baskets to feed the animals. Each plant is examined and vegetables are harvested when they are ripe. Baskets of red chilli peppers and tomatoes line the fields waiting to be transported to market. The green fields and blue skies deepen in colour as the sun climbs. Sporadic red and yellow hues complete the spectrum, creating lovely scenes. A mountain most always graces the background, slowly gathering clouds as the ocean winds rise and cool. Small children cry “hello” enthusiastically as they walk to school and adults rarely fail to smile and return a “hello” as I pass.
Ascending Mount Bratan I arrive at the first of three freshwater lakes that lie in nearby volcanic craters. Lake Bratan is the larger and it is possible to rent a boat and motor or sail about the lake. A market sells fruits and vegetables as well as art and knick-knacks. A popular stop for tour groups, the local people have learned from their southern compatriots. “Hello Boss,” is the common greeting, followed by “you buy here I give you special price.” The sales pitch is less intense and a simple “no thank you” usually concludes the efforts.
Lakes Buyan and Tamblingan are often bypassed by tour groups. The absence of foreigners means that traditional life dominates and people accept my presence with a smile or a wave. At the west end of Lake Buyan a nature preserve offers several kilometers of walking trails that lead to the hillside and the forest. It is possible to walk over the ridge and reach nearby Lake Tamblingan.
My destination for the day is the village of Munduk. The road to Munduk runs the north ridge above the two lakes which yields impressive views. Coffee and cloves are the main crops in this steep terrain. The white flowers of the coffee plants are in full bloom and the aroma of cloves drying by the roadside is intoxicating. I stray from the road and wander onto narrow paths that weave along the ridges. Distances are short as the crow flies, long as the road winds.
Occasionally, I stop and sit with people, unable to communicate other offering a smiling and a “hello”. They are always friendly and return the smile with an easy manner that makes me feel welcome. If I ask for directions by naming my destination – Munduk - a gentle wave of the hand indicates the way and I continue on my unhurried journey.
Villages in this area are simple clusters of homes with an occasional shop. Descending the twisting track, I find myself entering the village of Giseng, not far from Munduk. Giseng has a large holy tree where a temple is currently under construction at the base of this behemoth. I count no less than 78 paces to walk around the base and start to appreciate why the local residents consider it sacred. Afterwards, I note the “Giseng Big Tree” is visible from almost every vantage point in the valley.
In Munduk, I check out the half-dozen or so guesthouses located along the ridge. Each has views of the valley and mountains beyond, although one stands out for its superior location. Puri Alam is run by Ketut and her husband. The large rooms are airy and clean with a wide balcony that drinks in the scenery. The shower is also open and even the toilet looks through the shower to the peaks beyond. Perched on the top is the restaurant. From this vantage point the panorama is fantastic. I can see the same white building at the top of the mountain where I deviated from the main road and the “Giseng Big Tree”. While rice terraces cascade down the center of the valley below, orderly plantations climb the hillsides framed by the peaks of Mounts Batukao, Sangiyang and Lesong.
Ketut is friendly and welcoming. She is eager to have a guest as business has been terribly slow, so she truly does make a special price. Her attentiveness creates a warm ambience and the food is fabulous. I tell her feel I have found another piece of the true Bali and she beams with a smile that fills the room. With such a wonderful combination, I decide to make Puri Alam my base for a few nights.
Tim Morch, Copyright 2006
Ascending Mount Bratan I arrive at the first of three freshwater lakes that lie in nearby volcanic craters. Lake Bratan is the larger and it is possible to rent a boat and motor or sail about the lake. A market sells fruits and vegetables as well as art and knick-knacks. A popular stop for tour groups, the local people have learned from their southern compatriots. “Hello Boss,” is the common greeting, followed by “you buy here I give you special price.” The sales pitch is less intense and a simple “no thank you” usually concludes the efforts.
Lakes Buyan and Tamblingan are often bypassed by tour groups. The absence of foreigners means that traditional life dominates and people accept my presence with a smile or a wave. At the west end of Lake Buyan a nature preserve offers several kilometers of walking trails that lead to the hillside and the forest. It is possible to walk over the ridge and reach nearby Lake Tamblingan.
My destination for the day is the village of Munduk. The road to Munduk runs the north ridge above the two lakes which yields impressive views. Coffee and cloves are the main crops in this steep terrain. The white flowers of the coffee plants are in full bloom and the aroma of cloves drying by the roadside is intoxicating. I stray from the road and wander onto narrow paths that weave along the ridges. Distances are short as the crow flies, long as the road winds.
Occasionally, I stop and sit with people, unable to communicate other offering a smiling and a “hello”. They are always friendly and return the smile with an easy manner that makes me feel welcome. If I ask for directions by naming my destination – Munduk - a gentle wave of the hand indicates the way and I continue on my unhurried journey.
Villages in this area are simple clusters of homes with an occasional shop. Descending the twisting track, I find myself entering the village of Giseng, not far from Munduk. Giseng has a large holy tree where a temple is currently under construction at the base of this behemoth. I count no less than 78 paces to walk around the base and start to appreciate why the local residents consider it sacred. Afterwards, I note the “Giseng Big Tree” is visible from almost every vantage point in the valley.
In Munduk, I check out the half-dozen or so guesthouses located along the ridge. Each has views of the valley and mountains beyond, although one stands out for its superior location. Puri Alam is run by Ketut and her husband. The large rooms are airy and clean with a wide balcony that drinks in the scenery. The shower is also open and even the toilet looks through the shower to the peaks beyond. Perched on the top is the restaurant. From this vantage point the panorama is fantastic. I can see the same white building at the top of the mountain where I deviated from the main road and the “Giseng Big Tree”. While rice terraces cascade down the center of the valley below, orderly plantations climb the hillsides framed by the peaks of Mounts Batukao, Sangiyang and Lesong.
Ketut is friendly and welcoming. She is eager to have a guest as business has been terribly slow, so she truly does make a special price. Her attentiveness creates a warm ambience and the food is fabulous. I tell her feel I have found another piece of the true Bali and she beams with a smile that fills the room. With such a wonderful combination, I decide to make Puri Alam my base for a few nights.
Tim Morch, Copyright 2006
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Sunrise Circus
My internal alarm clock went off while it was still dark. In spite of repeated attempts there was no going back to sleep. Tired of tossing and turning, I decided to walk to the beach and watch sunrise. The side street, usually bustling with foot traffic and the occasional motorcycle, was empty and silent. Even the two-lane street along the beachfront was still. The moment I exited the hotel, I could hear the surf crashing a few hundred meters away.
Entering the 24 hour convenience store, the chime woke the clerk. Armed with the elixir of dawn - a strong coffee - I crossed the street to the beach and sat down against a palm tree to watch nature’s colors unfold. The first shafts of light sprayed the fluffy clouds that hung low on the horizon in soft shades of pink. For a few short minutes the colors shift fluidly before the sun crests the horizon and daylight dominates.
The beach is nearly void of people. I spot a few Indonesian men sitting off to my right; they appear drunk. To my left, a lone foreigner sits propped against a palm tree listening to his headphones. Behind, where the beach meets the sidewalk, a couple of vendors are setting up for the day. The morning surfers have yet to shake off the excesses of the previous night and the beach break is empty. I couldn’t help but smile to myself and soak up the serenity; a rare commodity in this town.
The serenity stopped when one of the bleary-eyed men from the nearby group staggered over and sat down beside me.
“Sorry, way you from?” he asked in heavily accented slurred speech. The smell of cheap rice whisky floated in the cloud of air that followed his words.
“Canada,” I said quietly, avoiding eye contact in hopes of discouraging further conversation. The message was not received, however, and he started to blather on. He tried his best, as drunks often do, to speak deliberately but the combination of accent, booze and vocabulary left him short. In painstaking detail, I heard about his West Papuan origins, the troubles in his country and how the army walked around with guns shooting people. The only savior, according to my new friend, was Australia, America or the European Union. He hoped they would help bring peace.
Why I always attract the crazy people is a mystery to me. It could be my easy-going nature or, perhaps, I am one of them. I may never know. Nevertheless, I wished him and his country luck but he still did not get the message. He continued his slurred story until a boy from his group approached and tried to take him away. Brushing the boy away with a grand drunken sweep of the hand, he lost his train of thought and started over from the beginning.
“You already said that,” I said gruffly. He got the message and stumbled away.
One sip of coffee later he was replaced by the boy. This lonely character launched into his life story. He came from Timor to work and study languages, hoping to work with tourists. By day he worked in a clothing store and by night he was a dancer in a show. I gave up listening and watched the ocean.
As he in turn rambled on, a tiny woman interrupted and introduced herself as Maria. She, at least, spoke English and was not drunk, so I shifted my attention to her, hoping the boy would get the hint. After the usual questions, she told me of her two sons and family in Jakarta. The boy kept interrupting, but I ignored him and answered Maria’s questions. After several attempts to regain my attention, I asked if his classes taught conversation etiquette. The comment flew over his head.
“Sorry, but I don’t like women. I like men,” he said.
“Good for you,” I said, “I hope you find one” turning to Maria. He mumbled something and wandered off.
“Western men are much better than Asian men,” Maria said. “They can love someone from a different class or education. Not in Asia; men can never marry across class. A western man could marry a prostitute like me and it would be fine,” she said.
As I digested this, Maria continued. She told me she had been working all night long, but still had lots of power.
“Do you want massage? Or something else?” she asked with a mischievous smile.
“No thanks, Maria,” I said, “I just came to try and enjoy a quiet sunrise.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes before she excused herself and wandered off in the direction of the other foreigner. I walked across the street for another coffee and sat once more hoping for a clean start.
After a few minutes, the first bleary-eyed Papuan man approached and started again.
“Please,” said, “I just want to drink my coffee and enjoy the dawn. No offence, but, leave me alone.”
His bloodshot eyes displayed the exact amount of time it took to process the request.
“Good bye from West Papua,” he managed before turning to leave.
As he staggered away I could not help but laugh at the fickleness of fate. I had come for the peace of dawn but found myself in the center of a small sunrise circus. The waves continued to crash as I left the beach and town was springing to life. By the time I was half way to the hotel, I could no longer hear the ocean and the street was becoming filled with foot traffic.
Copyright Tim Morch, 2006
Entering the 24 hour convenience store, the chime woke the clerk. Armed with the elixir of dawn - a strong coffee - I crossed the street to the beach and sat down against a palm tree to watch nature’s colors unfold. The first shafts of light sprayed the fluffy clouds that hung low on the horizon in soft shades of pink. For a few short minutes the colors shift fluidly before the sun crests the horizon and daylight dominates.
The beach is nearly void of people. I spot a few Indonesian men sitting off to my right; they appear drunk. To my left, a lone foreigner sits propped against a palm tree listening to his headphones. Behind, where the beach meets the sidewalk, a couple of vendors are setting up for the day. The morning surfers have yet to shake off the excesses of the previous night and the beach break is empty. I couldn’t help but smile to myself and soak up the serenity; a rare commodity in this town.
The serenity stopped when one of the bleary-eyed men from the nearby group staggered over and sat down beside me.
“Sorry, way you from?” he asked in heavily accented slurred speech. The smell of cheap rice whisky floated in the cloud of air that followed his words.
“Canada,” I said quietly, avoiding eye contact in hopes of discouraging further conversation. The message was not received, however, and he started to blather on. He tried his best, as drunks often do, to speak deliberately but the combination of accent, booze and vocabulary left him short. In painstaking detail, I heard about his West Papuan origins, the troubles in his country and how the army walked around with guns shooting people. The only savior, according to my new friend, was Australia, America or the European Union. He hoped they would help bring peace.
Why I always attract the crazy people is a mystery to me. It could be my easy-going nature or, perhaps, I am one of them. I may never know. Nevertheless, I wished him and his country luck but he still did not get the message. He continued his slurred story until a boy from his group approached and tried to take him away. Brushing the boy away with a grand drunken sweep of the hand, he lost his train of thought and started over from the beginning.
“You already said that,” I said gruffly. He got the message and stumbled away.
One sip of coffee later he was replaced by the boy. This lonely character launched into his life story. He came from Timor to work and study languages, hoping to work with tourists. By day he worked in a clothing store and by night he was a dancer in a show. I gave up listening and watched the ocean.
As he in turn rambled on, a tiny woman interrupted and introduced herself as Maria. She, at least, spoke English and was not drunk, so I shifted my attention to her, hoping the boy would get the hint. After the usual questions, she told me of her two sons and family in Jakarta. The boy kept interrupting, but I ignored him and answered Maria’s questions. After several attempts to regain my attention, I asked if his classes taught conversation etiquette. The comment flew over his head.
“Sorry, but I don’t like women. I like men,” he said.
“Good for you,” I said, “I hope you find one” turning to Maria. He mumbled something and wandered off.
“Western men are much better than Asian men,” Maria said. “They can love someone from a different class or education. Not in Asia; men can never marry across class. A western man could marry a prostitute like me and it would be fine,” she said.
As I digested this, Maria continued. She told me she had been working all night long, but still had lots of power.
“Do you want massage? Or something else?” she asked with a mischievous smile.
“No thanks, Maria,” I said, “I just came to try and enjoy a quiet sunrise.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes before she excused herself and wandered off in the direction of the other foreigner. I walked across the street for another coffee and sat once more hoping for a clean start.
After a few minutes, the first bleary-eyed Papuan man approached and started again.
“Please,” said, “I just want to drink my coffee and enjoy the dawn. No offence, but, leave me alone.”
His bloodshot eyes displayed the exact amount of time it took to process the request.
“Good bye from West Papua,” he managed before turning to leave.
As he staggered away I could not help but laugh at the fickleness of fate. I had come for the peace of dawn but found myself in the center of a small sunrise circus. The waves continued to crash as I left the beach and town was springing to life. By the time I was half way to the hotel, I could no longer hear the ocean and the street was becoming filled with foot traffic.
Copyright Tim Morch, 2006
Monday, October 9, 2006
For Good Luck Boss
“Hello Boss, taxi?”
These were the first words I heard exiting customs at Bali’s Ngurah Rai Airport. This, followed by “Hello Boss, hotel?” would be repeated every three steps until I left the airport.
The tropical island of Bali, Indonesia has been rocked by not one but two terrorist bomb attacks in the past four years. The first exploded in a popular nightclub district in Kuta Beach on October 12, 2002, where a monument now stands at “Ground Zero”. This had a dramatic impact on tourism and led the international community to recognize that global terrorism is very real. Tourism all but ceased as Bali tried to rebuild both its infrastructure and reputation. International arrivals gradually returned to the island until the second attack in 2005. This all but stopped tourism.
Today, arrivals are down – way down. Tourism, the mainstay of the Kuta economy is at unprecedented lows. The effect on everyday life is obvious. It is not possible to walk ten meters without hearing “Hello Boss, shopping?” or “Hello Boss, transport?”
The sales pitch is always gentle. “Please come look Boss. Looking for free, Boss. Today I have no sale. If you buy it will bring good luck.” Who receives good luck is difficult to say, but a polite “No thank you” is always returned with a smile accompanied by “Welcome to Bali, Boss.”
Peter is a local painter I met while sipping morning coffee on my hotel porch. He used to sell Bali landscapes from a single location. Now he walks from hotel to hotel quietly talking to anyone who will listen. He tells me he has not made a sale in nearly four months and offers his colourful work for any price I will offer.
“It is not important the price,” he tells me, “I need to feed my family. I have a wife and three children.”
Kuta Beach is quiet. The once crowded surf break of Legian has a lineup of less than a dozen surfers. Tony earns his living renting surfboards. He, like scores of others along the beach, stands beside a dozen or more boards. The prices he asks are high compared with the rental shops one block off the street but he will bargain. While Tony lowers his price every few minutes, his friend eagerly displays a book of temporary henna tattoos.
“Tattoo, Boss? Only temporary - for your stay in Bali. I give you good price.”
Further along, Leena approaches. “Hello Boss, manicure?” she asks. Young and pretty, Leena gently holds my hand assuring me a good price. She glances at my gnarled toes and suggests a pedicure as well.
Meanwhile, Leena is joined by Kiki and Made. Kiki is selling trinkets while Made asks if I would like a massage. We sit on the beach and watch the sun sink into the ocean as they tell me how there are no tourists. Canadians and Americans are rare. Australians continue to be the mainstay and Europeans arrive in small numbers.
The girls are not upset at having made no sale. Optimists, they tell me that when I am ready for their services to remember them by name. They each ask me to repeat their name is so I will not forget, wish me a good night and quietly head home.
As I leave the beach, I spot Tony packing up his surfboards. He smiles and says “Hello Boss. Tomorrow you rent from me okay? For good luck Boss.”
Copyright Tim Morch, 2006
These were the first words I heard exiting customs at Bali’s Ngurah Rai Airport. This, followed by “Hello Boss, hotel?” would be repeated every three steps until I left the airport.
The tropical island of Bali, Indonesia has been rocked by not one but two terrorist bomb attacks in the past four years. The first exploded in a popular nightclub district in Kuta Beach on October 12, 2002, where a monument now stands at “Ground Zero”. This had a dramatic impact on tourism and led the international community to recognize that global terrorism is very real. Tourism all but ceased as Bali tried to rebuild both its infrastructure and reputation. International arrivals gradually returned to the island until the second attack in 2005. This all but stopped tourism.
Today, arrivals are down – way down. Tourism, the mainstay of the Kuta economy is at unprecedented lows. The effect on everyday life is obvious. It is not possible to walk ten meters without hearing “Hello Boss, shopping?” or “Hello Boss, transport?”
The sales pitch is always gentle. “Please come look Boss. Looking for free, Boss. Today I have no sale. If you buy it will bring good luck.” Who receives good luck is difficult to say, but a polite “No thank you” is always returned with a smile accompanied by “Welcome to Bali, Boss.”
Peter is a local painter I met while sipping morning coffee on my hotel porch. He used to sell Bali landscapes from a single location. Now he walks from hotel to hotel quietly talking to anyone who will listen. He tells me he has not made a sale in nearly four months and offers his colourful work for any price I will offer.
“It is not important the price,” he tells me, “I need to feed my family. I have a wife and three children.”
Kuta Beach is quiet. The once crowded surf break of Legian has a lineup of less than a dozen surfers. Tony earns his living renting surfboards. He, like scores of others along the beach, stands beside a dozen or more boards. The prices he asks are high compared with the rental shops one block off the street but he will bargain. While Tony lowers his price every few minutes, his friend eagerly displays a book of temporary henna tattoos.
“Tattoo, Boss? Only temporary - for your stay in Bali. I give you good price.”
Further along, Leena approaches. “Hello Boss, manicure?” she asks. Young and pretty, Leena gently holds my hand assuring me a good price. She glances at my gnarled toes and suggests a pedicure as well.
Meanwhile, Leena is joined by Kiki and Made. Kiki is selling trinkets while Made asks if I would like a massage. We sit on the beach and watch the sun sink into the ocean as they tell me how there are no tourists. Canadians and Americans are rare. Australians continue to be the mainstay and Europeans arrive in small numbers.
The girls are not upset at having made no sale. Optimists, they tell me that when I am ready for their services to remember them by name. They each ask me to repeat their name is so I will not forget, wish me a good night and quietly head home.
As I leave the beach, I spot Tony packing up his surfboards. He smiles and says “Hello Boss. Tomorrow you rent from me okay? For good luck Boss.”
Copyright Tim Morch, 2006
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)