An excerpt from one of my non-fiction travel essays, based on a trip to the famed tropical island of Bali in Indonesia, to be published in my new travel book entitled "Distant Islands and Sea Light", to be published in late Spring of this year.
BALI: LOST IN PARADISE
by John Herlihy
The next morning, I braved the elements of hot sun and potential rain and left my boutique three-star hotel, invitingly called The Haven, and safe haven it was from the hustle and bustle of the street-life outside its sheltering folds, hoping to walk off the Australian breakfast I had just finished, beef sausage and a cheese tomato omelet, washed down with a fresh mango smoothie and coffee compliments of the house. A mid-morning stroll led through the bazaars and flea markets lining the main road of Seminyak, a coastal town where my hotel was located. I carefully made my way down the crowded thoroughfare, replete with all manner of cars and trucks, motorbikes and scooters, bicycles and pedestrians making their way to unknown destinations with grim determination. I hardly knew where I wanted to go or cared, just wishing to take in the early morning sights and sounds of the neighborhood. I got more than I bargained for.
People beckoned me into their dingy shops, wishing to sell pirated DVDs. I had laughed at the porter when he brought my bags into my room: “DVD” he leered pointing to the machine beside the TV and I laughed outright, saying: “I didn’t bring my DVD collection with me to Bali.” But he was not to be daunted: “Outside shopping, very cheap-lah, only 10,000 rupee.” I wondered if he didn’t have a point, when I soon saw all the latest movies, including the most recent features of Hollywood sitting in the windows like orphans waiting to be selected and cherished. At one point, I was forced off the sidewalk for all of the parked scooters and cycles thrown about like scattered leaves, out into the merciless turbulence of the traffic that took no hostages and left no one among the living. I managed to plunge forward on my sight-seeing trek through the dingy town, remembering the eerie (and throaty) vibrato of Juanita Hill singing Bali Hai, so evocative of everything spicy and tropical, and taking note of the various shops enticing the curious modern-day tourists with time and money to spare and reservoirs of curiosity to indulge themselves in, such as massage and reflexology, inviting stalls with pungent, exotic smells selling fried rice and noodles, money changers offering 25% more exchange rate than I had received at the airport. I should have stayed in bed, I thought, recalling the heavy stupor I felt upon awakening, my body clock still ticking in the middle of the Dubai night.
Still, I walked on, determined to explore on foot what the area has to offer no matter what it may be. This was travel at its heightened modern-day best, half-way around the world from where I belonged, tucked away on a island famous the world over for its music and dancing, artwork and handicrafts, known to celebrate the Hindu new year in the spring with a day of silence as per local custom that has survived the ages. This is a far distant place nestled as an island among many in the Indonesian Archipelago , an island that evokes mystery and charm in its very name as it lures even the intrepid traveler like a siren on the shore, beckoning with its fingers blood red with beetle nut and sweat. At a crossroads, I took a left, tired of the traffic and the ennui of my linear trajectory; I smelt the sea to my left, and knew from recent inquiry that it was off in that direction. More shops followed me on left and right of a narrow passageway with little enough room for two cars, much less troubled pedestrians like myself thrown back onto the melee of the street when the sidewalks were strewn with parked cars, stalls, tree stumps and other obstacles.
Up ahead in the near distance, the view gives way to the white light of open sky after the dim pallor of the tropical vegetation and the dank, moss-covered buildings along the roadside, a virtual jungle of people and places and dense foliage smothering the beauty and life out of all who pass by. The sea, I thought, at last the sea, rough in its moodiness and gray in its tone, reflecting the turbulent heavens with its pregnant storm clouds waiting to burst their accumulated flood waters. I have arrived where I need to be, back within the folds of Mother Nature’s cloak, a place to justify this idle wandering through lanes and byways, long-awaited experience itching to be placed into my pocket like a secret treasure, for remembrance on some rainy day. This grand body of water is the Bali Straight and beyond its horizon lays the island of Java, whose exotic name has travelled down through history as the center of powerful Hindu-Buddhist civilizations, Islamic Sultanates, and the empire of the Dutch East-Indies focused within the capital city of Jakarta in Western Java.
As I approach the beach, I observe the ponderous waves, frothy and powerful, making their way and cresting to break some distance from the shore. I immediately think Pacific as opposed to Atlantic, the Pacific Ocean surge famous for being much stronger and more dramatic in its statement than the sober and more sedate Atlantic. A few surfers, Australians no doubt with their blond hair and knee-length cut-offs hitched onto a bronzed torso, ride the waves to shore, their boards expertly attached to their ankles and looks of abandonment and joy spread across their faces. Still, I have no wish to be in their places and no regret that I am nearing 70 and have no use for the salt-sea in my beard, although I endeavor to ride whatever waves come my way in life with detachment and dignity; but that in no way spoils the joy I feel in watching them frolicking in the waters atop their surf boards. Indeed, a few other brave souls have taken to the turgid waters and are being tossed about like plastic dolls that someone has thrown away. They blend into the muddy waters seemingly without a care in the world. The froth of the waves gives off a dark, dirtied appearance and initially I wonder why the foamy white suds we have come to expect from the pristine ocean were so dirtied. Has pollution reached the shores of paradise with its insidious touch? I take note of the nearby sand and its dark, muddy color, not the immaculate white sands that am accustomed to seeing in places like Miami Beach, the famous Cancun coastline in Mexico, and even the northern shores of Boston on summer beaches such as Gloucester, Massachusetts and York, Maine. This is Bali for heaven’s sake. My choice of hotel in Seminyak will hopefully give way to other places where the mystery and mystique of Bali can shine forth in its true colors.
I begin my reflective walk along the beach to soak up the sea air and the soothing sound of the waves as they rush headlong to extinction; but before I can invoke any familiar sacred mantra to set the mood of my stroll, I say boo when suddenly accosted by all manner of locals trying to sell me things. One would like to be friendly; but I have found from years of experience in Mexico, Morocco and Cairo, among other equally notorious places, years of being dragged into shifty alliances and awkward commercial rip-offs buying things you don't want, that it is better to assume an air of detachment and disregard, as if these sellers of unwanted wares simply don’t exist. How in truth can people say, day after day on their short holiday, as they walk or rest on the beach, that they want to buy costume jewelry, flying boats in the form of kites, assorted knives, cheap watches or doctored perfumes? What’s worse, you cannot sit on the beach without looking cheap and laughable by the local beach bums, who relentlessly ask if you want to rent a chaise-lounge “for the day”. Can I rent one for half an hour, I wonder ironically. I just want to rest my weary bones and soak up the sea air and surf spray for a few minutes before moving on. But this cannot happen and I am not left alone. “How much you pay” (nothing) and “where you come from” (nowhere), they ask as though they were punching you, and then quickly lose interest when they see my inscrutable, unforgiving face. Im-mediately, they write me off as a cheap, old grump, not one of those friendly, innocent tourists who merrily allow themselves to be taken in and then ripped off. Life is tough no matter which end of the stick you hold, I think with sudden exasperation.
Meanwhile, the beach itself is strewn with litter, a virtual disgrace to Mother Nature’s paradise. Images of Juanita Hill singing Bali Hai on the beach in the movie South Pacific come to mind, the eternal mystery of the smoking volcano silhouetted against the emblazoned sunset sky. Piles of beach debris infect the atmosphere; there is the smell of the sea mixed with rotten weeds and fruit all around that is suffocating. I see old rags, dead fish, rotten driftwood, piles of stacked plastic foam for the lounge chairs and other articles of waste discarded by the sea. Rotten fruits are broken open and surround with flies, and stacks of abandoned coconuts look hairy and uninviting, all piled together into a corner, as if waiting to be burned. This is unpleasant enough to justify a quick departure I thought; but unwilling to leave, not wanting to exaggerate an experience that might otherwise be just a human one that should not be fled from or scorned. After all, this is life as it is and not as we dream it to be.
I have a decision to make. Either I trek through the grime of the grim beach and get sand in my shoes to boot, or I take the shoulder pathway that gives way along the coast. The beach itself has only the sand, the surf, the thin line of the horizon, and the open canopy of darkened sky to give itself a name. Beyond that, nothing within sight lends any charm to its natural embellishments. I head down the narrow passageway crowded with scooters, the random beach-goers heading for the sanctuary of their hotels, and other locals servicing the various stalls, shops, and sit-down places that are scattered randomly along the way. A place to sit down and contemplatively soak in the shore, the sea, and the horizon, is not to be had. Either one rents a beach lounge chair which I detest as a testament to sheer laziness, or the grim and grimy sand of the beach invites the casual passer-by to sit down on its forlorn spread of beach as a soulful testament to melancholy and sad afterthoughts. All told, I feel like I am walking through the detritus of lost dreams, in the form of fallen leaves, broken and sawed-off tree stumps (distressingly from the scarred remains of an aging rain tree whose trunk still stands nobly nearby), old tires and other bric-a-brac of a negligent aspect, assorted garbage and only God knows what else the sea had thrown up and left to rot.
I feel like I have not yet reached the mid-way point of my trek to justify a return to the hotel, when I notice the locals begin to come to life. Stalls for snacks of nasi lombak (chilly-seasoned rice) and mee goring (chilly-seasoned noodles) are being shuttered, lounge chairs are being dragged unceremoniously off the beach, people in various stages of déshabilé are scurrying back to their hotels, umbrellas are being hoisted in the air and a few drops of impending rain assail my head with their undignified patter as I gaze around in disbelief. I should have known, with my complementary hotel umbrella hanging safely in my hotel closet, this would happen. It is written, as the Muslims say. Still, there are no doubt worse things in life than getting wet. When behold, the heavens open, the day takes on the mood of dusk if not doom, and there is an overwhelming sense of somberness that I don’t actually dislike that is soon lost within the cacophony of rhythms and sounds the torrential rain brings with it. A virtual roar ensues, accompanied by a drenching rain that is relentless and unforgiving. This is what I have been waiting for since I have taken up residence in a desert country in the Middle East over 30 years ago, where it never rains, where the sun is relentless and where the seasons have been reduced to a torrid summer and a cooler summer impersonating winter, the beatitudes of fall and spring being tucked away as distant memories for safe remembrance.
As fortune would have it, I was only a few steps from the awning of a parking lot fronting a glamorous five-star hotel. The rain came down in sheets of silver and with a roar of sound, transforming the grubby scene into the play land of Mother Nature once again. Isn’t this what I had been waiting for since my arrival in the tropics? Indeed, I stood there under a hotel awning in silent reflection, without a care in the world, having finally achieved the state of mind that I had been hoping for since the beginning of the day. Do I want a taxi, the beefy—and friendly I might add—Indonesian security guard asked through hand signals and smiles. “No,” I said emphatically, adding a more sympathetic terima kasih (thank you) in Bahasa Indonesian, a legacy of working two years as an English teacher in Malaysia over 25 years ago. I stood mesmerized under the influence of the falling rain. Down and down it came in droves, like cats and dogs as they say. I could have stayed there forever. The doorman came by and thoughtfully alerted me to the puddle I was inadvertently standing in. “Terima kasih,” I say once again, adding with aplomb “Saya bechakap Bahasa Malayu sediket” (I speak a little Malay). He grinned once again from ear to ear as thought I were unique and no other foreigner had ever uttered a few words of his language before.
An hour later, however, I was still standing under the awning of the building. I was beginning to feel like a refugee on the fringes of the glamorous hotel and the notion of forever was indeed becoming forever in its true st sense. Perhaps I should take a taxi after all and get myself back to my hotel. “30,000 rupee,” the taxi driver demurred as though it were nothing. “Thirty thousand dollar,” I cried in mock dismay. “No, rupeeeeee-lah,” he affirmed, with extra emphasis. “There’s a lot of traffic,” he added with a frown. I did a quick mental calculation translating the sum into just over $4. Hey, I can handle that on my budget and then some. I gladly jumped into the small car and settled into the nook of the seat feeling safely and justifiably deposited out of the torrential rain and not nearly as wet as I thought I would be. He snaked his way down the main street as I sat in silence in the steaming car in a lot of traffic, and we eventually arrived at the hotel a few minutes later. I begrudgingly handed over 25,000 Indonesian rupeeeeees, a fair compromise I thought from a taxi driver unwilling to use the meter. It was only later that I realized I had given him not two ten thousand bill notes and a fiver, but two hundred thousand note bills and a 50,000 additional bill, a sizable taxi fare to get out of the rain. Now that would never happen in Dubai, I thought, with those famed and beloved Pakistani taxi-drivers. Say what you want about them, but their inborn sense of honor and dignity creates a natural aversion to cheating people or accepting money that is not “earned” (halal).
It's hard to read that such once pristine places have become overpopulated and overrun with tourism and entrepreneurship. When you described the beach, I thought of Galveston and the upper Texas coastline. Even the most pristine beaches these days have trash washed up on them.
Like you, I avoided wherever possible cheap come ons offering various deals. It helps to be poor in situations like that. It's hard to believe that you made a mistake with your money given your travel experience, but then I remember trying to buy something from a guy in Bangladesh with Thai currency and he adamantly refused. ;-)
Once again, your descriptions are very full and colorful and take the reader there… Good stuff.
It takes a soulful pilgrimage to find Paradise. Though hard to escape the seamier side of tourism, your trek to the beach provided what you were looking for in Bali to take "home" with you.
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BALI: LOST IN PARADISE
