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
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