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
Showing posts with label Kuta Beach. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kuta Beach. Show all posts
Thursday, October 12, 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
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