The Visa Run
Anybody who spends more than 30 days in Thailand is familiar with the “visa run”. This involves a trip to the nearest border – which is often not so near - to stamp out of Thailand, cross the border and return to the Kingdom to enjoy another 30 days. In southern Thailand the 30-day visa run is usually to the Burma or Malaysia border.
When 90 days in Thailand have expired the visa run becomes a major undertaking to a Thai Embassy or Consulate in a neighbouring nation. A common place to attain an embassy/consular visa is Penang, Malaysia. According to the official Thai immigration website express visas are processed on the same day. A service charge applies.
I stay in Ranong Province and the 30-day visa run is close by to the Burma border. I have done the consular visa run to Penang before and it has been quite easy and fast once you reach Penang Of course, getting there is the long part.
I knew this particular visa run would be interesting when my friend Pon, owner of Pon’s Place in Ranong, told me the train was full and I would have to go by bus. I boarded the 8pm bus to Had Yai to find myself seated beside a large and unyielding woman who occupied her seat and half my seat. I squeezed in and established a little space in about ¾ of the allotted area She seemed to care little about proper seating and had no problem sitting half on top of me, thigh on thigh.
As the bus departed we were treated to the typical Thai karaoke videos. Fortunately the volume was not the customary ear piercing level, a small bonus. After a few stops to collect the remaining passengers we headed south toward Phuket and then east through the mountains to Surat Thani. I managed to keep most of my ¾ space but was unable to get any sleep from the combination of discomfort and loud chit-chat and cackles from the driver and crew just in front of me.
I squirmed around so that my neighbour and I were now butt to butt, she facing the window, me the aisle and caught a few minutes of shuteye before the attendant decided to crank up the music. It took some time for him to realize he had turned it up for the whole bus and not just the front cab. He finally turned it down but not until most of the people on board were awake. The squirming game with my neighbour continued for the next 7 hours until we finally reached Had Yai.
In Had Yai the only open place at 3:30am was, not coincidentally, where they hawked minivans to Penang. The initial price of 450 Thai Baht (TB) was reduced to 350TB after lengthy discussion. My Thai is not strong, but good enough to negotiate. I sat for the next 5 hours waiting for the 8:30am departure desperate to catch a few moments of unsettled sleep before the next leg of the journey.
The minivans rarely leave on time and today was no exception It departed late and immediately stopped at head office to register the passports of each passenger. Around 9:30am the van finally left Had Yai and in spite of a delay at the border arrived in Penang on Tuesday around 2:30pm. Malaysia is one hour ahead of Thailand.
At N.J. visa service on Chulia Street, Mr. Muhammed Haji Jabar advised me to pay the 100 Malaysian Ringit (MR) for the express service as Chinese New Year was two days away and the regular service would not return until the 11th because of the holiday. Hoping to return to Thailand as quickly as possible I paid the fee happily. Mr. Muhammed then explained that the regulations had unexpectedly changed Feb. 1st and the application required an air ticket out of Thailand. Fortunately, I had my laptop with me and printed the e-ticket to fulfill the requirements. Next, Mr. Muhammed said the consulate required proof of a hotel receipt in Thailand something I definitely did not have.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I will take care of that for you.” I thanked him and went to one of the dozens of nearby cheap hotels to sleep off 16 hours of travel.
Wednesday morning I went to the visa service to check on the status of my application and Mr. Muhammed advised me the vice-consul, Mr. Panurit Chamrasromram had informed the staff at the consulate that he might not sign any applications that day. There was a 50% chance I would not get my visa until Monday! I told him that if there was anything I could do to see that I got my passport - like pay more money - I would be happy to do so. After all, I just paid 100MR for the express service which might not be. Mr. Muhammed said it was not about money. His contacts had told him the vice-consul simply wanted to start his holidays early and to check back in one hour. When I returned, Mr. Muhammed said the chance I would get my passport that day was now 30%.
“Please check in one hour,” Mr. Muhammed advised. An hour later the odds were reduced to zero and Mr. Muhammed returned my express fee and apologized.
“There is nothing I can do, I am sorry,” he said as he counted out 100MR.
“Is there anyone in the consulate I can talk to?” I asked of Mr. Muhammed. He dialed a number and handed me the telephone. The voice on the other end told me there was no way I would get my visa that day. I pointed out the official website advised a one-day service was available for a fee. The man on the other end said “the website is not correct.”
“How can the official website be incorrect?” I asked.
“It’s not my problem, it’s yours,” he responded and hung up the phone. To add insult to injury, the vice-consul locked my passport as well as those of dozens of others in the same situation inside the consulate and there was no way to access them until Monday - 5 days later. I could not leave Malaysia to apply in Indonesia or Singapore and thus became a “prisoner of Penang.”
A young French woman overheard my conversation with the consul staffer and asked what I had learned. “Nothing,” I said as my irritation increased.
“I came here for a work visa,” she explained. “I have been hired as a manager by the Hiatt Hotel in Hua Hin and the company lawyers prepared all the documents. They advised me to come to Penang where I was assured I would get my visa the same day. I am supposed to start work Monday and I will not even receive my passport until Monday afternoon,” she said on the verge of tears.
We decided to drown our displeasure in alchohol. By coincidence, I met another Canadian in the bar who had just been to Kota Baru. She informed me that the consulate there does not require the ongoing ticket or a hotel receipt in Thailand. She had received her visa in one day without any problem. This further increased my irritation as I knew that I would remain a prisoner of Penang for the next five days.
Next time you go to Malaysia, I recommend Kota Baru. Perhaps the Consul Mr. Surapon Petch-vra and his team will treat you better than the Penang prison masters.
Copyright, Tim Morch, 2008
Friday, February 22, 2008
Thursday, March 15, 2007
A New Beginning
Aow Yai Beach, Ko Phayam
Koh Phayam, Thailand, March 14, 2007: the end of an era. Six weeks of two-on-two volleyball every morning ended when the core players retreated from our tropical island paradise and returned to whatever constitutes their “real world”.
Somewhat disoriented by the change to the morning regime, I decided that paddling my kayak was a good substitute. A strong northwester blew side-onshore so I pointed upwind, stroking steadily into the chop. After 1.5km, I reached the end of the white sand beach where a rocky headland juts out perpendicular. The cliffs created a wind shadow and the waves diminished with each stroke. I changed course and traveled toward the open sea staying close to the headlands. Creeping over the shallow reef, I watched Dusky Damselfish defend their territory while Moorish Idols paraded lazily amongst the corals. Sergeant Majors and Banded Butterfly fish cruised calmly through the green-blue water.
Leaving the rocky point behind, I rounded the tip and found myself in a confused sea. The combination of wind generated waves and surge waves coming from opposing directions, mixed with the rebounding surge from the headland, created a bathtub effect. Water sloshed everywhere as I bobbed along. I sat idly and watched thousands of small baitfish school at the surface. It looked like water was boiling only a few feet from my kayak. Occasionally, the ubiquitous predators that lurk below dashed through the school scattering the pack in a frothy frenzy only to regroup instantly. There is safety in numbers.
I floated on the wind back to the headland, lost in contemplation. Replaying some of the best serves, sets and smashes in my mind, I recreated rallies from recollection. I recalled the quips that were fired over the net as often as the ball, retorts returned with speed and a smile. I reminisced at the competitive nature of each player and noted that none lost their cool on the court or their sense of humour.
I repeated out loud the distinct declaration of disappointment of each player. Laurent “The Wall”, with his French-Canadian accented “ooohhhh noooooo” which was perpetually repeated with peels of laughter. “Rocket Boy” Jim and his gargled “aaarrghh” rarely failed to generate a comment. Or images of Chris paddling about in the sand with one hand on his bandanna covered forehead uttering a plaintive “ooooohhh” and our subsequent wisecracks. Each brought a smile to my face.
In the shelter the cliffs once again, I cooled off with a swim and found myself gazing aimlessly toward the horizon. The bright sunlight created bizarre effects on the wind whipped water and I imagined a variety of visions in my mind. I was almost certain I spotted a dorsal fin but decided it was a mirage created by the elements. Snorting at myself for conjuring images I was taken aback when the dorsal fin flew from the water, attached to a male dolphin performing a graceful aerial maneuver.
Attention suddenly focused, I paddled steadily toward the dolphin, two dolphins, make that four dolphins! They frolicked and fed nearby for almost half and hour. They moved in the water with grace all around me. As the foursome breached in unison I noticed that they had a baby no more than one meter in length squeezed securely between two adults. I also noticed that a fifth adult was distinctly pink in colour. At first I thought the light was playing tricks with my perception but after several sightings from a variety of angles I was certain it was pink.
The current eventually changed and the dolphins followed the food supply around the rocky tip out to sea. This small pod patrols the coast here but rarely comes close to the beach. I thought of the fortunate timing of my paddle and considered whether or not it was some kind of omen. Perhaps the end of the morning sessions signified the start of something new. Regardless, that day will remain rooted in my memory.
Copyright, Tim Morch
Koh Phayam, Thailand, March 14, 2007: the end of an era. Six weeks of two-on-two volleyball every morning ended when the core players retreated from our tropical island paradise and returned to whatever constitutes their “real world”.
Somewhat disoriented by the change to the morning regime, I decided that paddling my kayak was a good substitute. A strong northwester blew side-onshore so I pointed upwind, stroking steadily into the chop. After 1.5km, I reached the end of the white sand beach where a rocky headland juts out perpendicular. The cliffs created a wind shadow and the waves diminished with each stroke. I changed course and traveled toward the open sea staying close to the headlands. Creeping over the shallow reef, I watched Dusky Damselfish defend their territory while Moorish Idols paraded lazily amongst the corals. Sergeant Majors and Banded Butterfly fish cruised calmly through the green-blue water.
Leaving the rocky point behind, I rounded the tip and found myself in a confused sea. The combination of wind generated waves and surge waves coming from opposing directions, mixed with the rebounding surge from the headland, created a bathtub effect. Water sloshed everywhere as I bobbed along. I sat idly and watched thousands of small baitfish school at the surface. It looked like water was boiling only a few feet from my kayak. Occasionally, the ubiquitous predators that lurk below dashed through the school scattering the pack in a frothy frenzy only to regroup instantly. There is safety in numbers.
I floated on the wind back to the headland, lost in contemplation. Replaying some of the best serves, sets and smashes in my mind, I recreated rallies from recollection. I recalled the quips that were fired over the net as often as the ball, retorts returned with speed and a smile. I reminisced at the competitive nature of each player and noted that none lost their cool on the court or their sense of humour.
I repeated out loud the distinct declaration of disappointment of each player. Laurent “The Wall”, with his French-Canadian accented “ooohhhh noooooo” which was perpetually repeated with peels of laughter. “Rocket Boy” Jim and his gargled “aaarrghh” rarely failed to generate a comment. Or images of Chris paddling about in the sand with one hand on his bandanna covered forehead uttering a plaintive “ooooohhh” and our subsequent wisecracks. Each brought a smile to my face.
In the shelter the cliffs once again, I cooled off with a swim and found myself gazing aimlessly toward the horizon. The bright sunlight created bizarre effects on the wind whipped water and I imagined a variety of visions in my mind. I was almost certain I spotted a dorsal fin but decided it was a mirage created by the elements. Snorting at myself for conjuring images I was taken aback when the dorsal fin flew from the water, attached to a male dolphin performing a graceful aerial maneuver.
Attention suddenly focused, I paddled steadily toward the dolphin, two dolphins, make that four dolphins! They frolicked and fed nearby for almost half and hour. They moved in the water with grace all around me. As the foursome breached in unison I noticed that they had a baby no more than one meter in length squeezed securely between two adults. I also noticed that a fifth adult was distinctly pink in colour. At first I thought the light was playing tricks with my perception but after several sightings from a variety of angles I was certain it was pink.
The current eventually changed and the dolphins followed the food supply around the rocky tip out to sea. This small pod patrols the coast here but rarely comes close to the beach. I thought of the fortunate timing of my paddle and considered whether or not it was some kind of omen. Perhaps the end of the morning sessions signified the start of something new. Regardless, that day will remain rooted in my memory.
Copyright, Tim Morch
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Bali, Where Are You?
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
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
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
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