Michael D.Heath-Caldwell M.Arch.

1991 Palmer

Joe Palmer Diary 1991 

Tuesday 19th March 1991

Bali

This afternoon I stepped out of a Qantas 747 and onto the island of Bali. As I trekked across the hot tarmac, the smell of jet fuel merged with the welcoming scent of Balinese frangipani trees dotted along the front of the terminal.

After inspection in the terminal, I took a $3 taxi ride to Bunut Garden Losmen, Kuta beach. A losmen is usually a small family hotel, and this one of many is owned, or I think it is, by Ketut Mandra, brother of Madé Suamba, one of my friends in Bali. I have known Suamba since 1981, a man who has unlocked many of Bali’s mysteries for me.

At the losmen, I was met by Wayan, a friendly boy who is looking after things while the family is out. Straight to an upstairs room with cooling breeze across the balcony, new buildings everywhere. Out of the cold shower and into hot strong Bali coffee waiting, it’s been a while since I drank one. 

            With Komang, her kids and female losmen workers in 1989  

I unpacked in time to give Komang (wife of owner Ketut), her gift of two Australian towels, and a few little toys for her children. Many ”salam salams” with kisses on the hand from the kids (3 kids). Komang told me that her brother-in-law Suamba, recently survived an accident in his tour bus, but his business is finished for the time being. I hope to see him and his wife Kandru in their village of Bunutan near Ubud tomorrow.

How did I meet Suamba? In 1976, I went to Bali on a failed quest to find the painter Wayan Sadia, whose painting I had seen in an Australian exhibition of Balinese art works. This painting was my first captivating glimpse of Bali on canvas, and my first purchase of any painting at all. I eventually did find Sadia when I returned to Bali in 1981, but the problem in those days, was to find someone in Ubud who could speak English. I wanted to buy a painting from Sadia, and so Suamba was sent for, to help with negotiations. 

In the days before Bali airport was extended to enable international jet traffic in the 1960’s, Suamba had cut his teeth with English speaking tourists as a boy, hanging around Padangbai harbour, selling trinkets to passengers on the big cruise ships. So on the day when I met him in 1981, having concluded my negotiations with Sadia, Suamba kindly gave me a lift on the back of his motorbike, returning me to the losmen where I was staying at Legian Beach. 

We were both wet and cold from the journey in the rain, and as we sat on my losmen patio, drinking slightly hot tea from the thermos, I gave Suamba my dry sweater to wear home. I think this double kindness, Suamba bringing me to my losmen, and my gift of the sweater, was the start of our friendship. He asked me if I could come with him to the airport in a few more days to meet his new friend Fabia, the Australian lady who was to become part of Bali life for many years. 

And as I became part of Bali life, revving through Ubud’s then quiet streets on the back of Suamba’s motorbike, local Balinese would wave to me or call out “Hello Joe”. I remember asking above the noise of the bike why this was happening, and Suamba told me “You must remember, you are famous in Ubud, you paid one thousand dollars for a painting”. I seemed to have money to burn in those days, but sometimes I think I burnt it well.

                   The painting I bought from Wayan Sadia (left) in 1981 

                              Student painter Ketut Sutapa (right)

Wrenching my mind back to the present, darkness has fallen while waiting for Ketut to come home. His wife Komang is cooking a jaffle, so I don’t have to go out. The breeze is still blowing, while I sit on the balcony in a squeaky bamboo chair. The low wattage lights are dim enough to see the stars. Distant sounds of people going about their lives, a few dogs barking and motorbikes, but basically peaceful feelings here. The two girls I was talking to earlier (from the next room) have gone out. They have run away from Australia for a year, and arrived in Bali yesterday, so I have attempted to give them a few clues. Visitors who come to Bali for just a few days can leave disappointed, probably because it can take a few days to overcome the culture shock.

No sign of Ketut. They said they didn’t know here at the losmen how to make a collect phone call to Australia, so I walked around, and found it was possible at the new Bali Garden Hotel, where they boast a huge antique looking chandelier hanging from a high vaulted roof. Someone was playing piano and singing badly in another room. 

After the phone call, I have been feeling sort of released, and am now sitting cosily in my room with the fan on, and mosquito coil burning. Getting to Bali from the east coast of Australia is always a long first day. 

Wednesday 20th March 1991

Kuta, Bali

About 2am torrential rain, it was nice to just lie there, surrounded by mozzie net and wrapped in a sarong.  It’s a sarong I use for sleeping on my Indonesian visits, given to me years ago by Suamba, joined on each end, so you can’t fall out of it. 

I woke feeling refreshed, and washed yesterday’s clothes. Breakfast of fresh fruit salad, banana and jam jaffle, Balinese sweets (green sticky dumplings with runny palm sugar inside, rolled on the outside with fresh coconut), plus coffee and 2 mandarins, but could only fit one in.

Heading down the road, loaded up with a bag of used clothes, a gift from my mum Norah Palmer for Suamba’s wife Kandru, there were plenty of offers of “transport mister”. It was 9am and already hot, so I chartered a bemo (public mini bus) to get me there. If you don’t say “direct”, your driver might take detours, picking up a mate or two for the trip, because for drivers, it can get lonely travelling back on your own.

About an hour later, I am in Bunutan village, and doing my best to converse in broken Indonesian with Kandru. She looks tired, has three kids now. After having coffee, I waited for Suamba to return from preparations for the family wedding ceremony, to be held tomorrow.

Nyoman took me next door, he had generously given me one of his paintings on a previous trip. He is now married and has a baby. He showed me a painting full of colourful birds and flowers, but worth about $200. I committed myself to a smaller one painted by his brother, worth about $10. I said I would pick it up and pay for it when I leave Bali, so hope there is enough money left.

 Suamba making offerings, and me in 1989                   

Suamba arrived. Looked well but less hair – I should talk! He escaped from his car accident with only a scratch on his leg. He believes this accident is due to his neglecting the spirit forces. It appears that at a recent ceremony, God spoke through an interpreter, and named his eldest son Eka, as the future priest of the village. “I now have to be more careful because the god has spoken”, he told me.

He was interested to hear of Fabia, so I didn’t disappoint him. He sees no future in their relationship (but that’s what they all say). He smoked almost continuously, and told me he built a house for an older Australian gentleman, who is an artist, on his father’s land. 

Suamba has a room there, where he can obviously escape to from his own house. However, the Australian, named Alec, can’t pay? He has been borrowing money and services from the locals, creating a big problem for Suamba, who told me years ago with great pride, that he had once been head man of the village. Alec, and therefore Suamba, also has problems with “Immigrasi” (Immigration) – overstaying of visa, a serious offence in Indonesia. 

Suamba suggested that with my Australian thinking, I might understand Alec’s Australian thinking. In other words, what is this guy Alec all about? I could then relay that information to Suamba, giving him an advantage in negotiations. He asked me to meet Alec.

    The house in the rice fields that Suamba built for Alec in Bunutan, Bali  

Getting on the back of Suamba’s motorbike, I was taken to meet Alec at an over normal sized house in the middle of the rice fields, just out of Bunutan village. On arrival, a few steps up onto a long patio about the size of a normal Balinese house in itself, tastefully decorated with quality furnishings and objects of art, bamboo slat blinds all along the front. Doors leading into unknown rooms, the main double doors resembling an intricate wood carving, red with gold trim, about two meters wide by three meters high. It was from these very grand doors that Alec emerged. Thick set, about 65 to 70 years old, with paint brush in hand. Obviously thrilled to have an Australian visitor, he guided us toward his table overlooking the rice fields, and started talking.

I found it difficult to get a word in, and Suamba obviously wiser through experience, didn’t bother. Negative, negative conversation – “Bali is expensive, Australian economy is down, electricity from the generator inconvenient and expensive”, and so on, which to me reveals a problem with money, or lack of it. This man is a real challenge, a challenge which is falling into my lap without me even lifting a finger. 

Tired of listening, Suamba silently disappeared, and returned with armfuls of rambutans (similar to lychees). Alec was surprised – he didn’t know they were growing nearby. I thought to myself, this man could starve to death in the middle of a tropical orchard. I cannot believe Alec will survive in Bali. He has four children, but told me he is estranged to both them and his wife. Somehow I am fascinated by him, but if he thinks he can get anything from me but my time, he can think again. I don’t want to finish my savings too early. Eventually I must return to Australia, and pick up the pieces again. But I must not think about that now, and try to think of the present. As I learnt in Buddhist Thailand “The past is dead, and the future has not yet arrived”. That may be true, but isn’t it good to look back on our past and be glad we have moved on.

View across the rice fields from Alex’s patio

Kandru had lunch ready when we returned. Home cooked Balinese food is delicious even if a bit spicy, with sweet tea to soften the heat. Rice, vegetables in sauce, satay (pummelled meat mixed with coconut and spices on a stick) and roasted peanuts – it could be said, much fresher and tastier than Australian peanuts.

Suamba told me he thinks Alec might last another four or five years in Bali. He has seen many come and go, but I had to tell him that I don’t think Alec will last in Bali that long. Suamba is now involved with yet another incredible person, but I hope this one is not his downfall.

Suamba took me on his motorbike to Ubud, where I met Fabia’s Canadian friend Nadine, who has opened a gift shop directly under her Balinese  boyfriend Ketut Mawar’s restaurant – no doubt a Freudian intention that suits both of them. She is robust while he is not – he was a thin young man when I first met him in 1981. 

Those were the days of the “boy punks”, young tattooed dudes with snazzy motorbikes, perfect for picking up white girls who have nothing much to do except drip with sweat in the quiet Ubud evenings. Suamba and Ketut were part of this gang. I found myself also hanging out with these guys at the only restaurant that was open until late in the evenings, Griya BBQ, now a far more respectable establishment, lost in the modern myriad of eating places in and around Ubud. 

I received my induction to arak (Balinese moonshine) with these guys, at a warung (little shop/café) in the quiet evening back streets - the pressure of sculling. There is one glass, so it is impolite to keep the rest waiting while you sip, there is no sipping in Bali, it’s straight down the hatch, and then in next to no time, you are on your journey to the stars. “Many stars” is the next day’s answer to my question “How are you”?  

Back to today in Nadine’s shop. Suamba is busily chatting up Kay, a middle-aged lady also from Canada. By this time, I am nervous about getting back to Kuta, finally getting out of an offer by Kay to go to Jogyakarta in Java with Ketut and Suamba. 

Eventually Suamba took me away, by dropping me off to where I could catch one of the last public bemos. Four changes of bemo later, just after sunset, I arrived at Kuta and walked to the beach – pink hues filling the sky. Returning to the losmen, Suamba’s brother Ketut was just about to head back up with his family to where I had just come from, for the wedding tomorrow, which starts at 6am. Just enough time to learn he is working now at his brother-in-law’s Hotel Ananda in Ubud, where Suamba was also operating from before his accident. Ketut says he is trying it for six months, and hopes to make “contact” with a rich foreigner who will set him up in business, and then he can leave Ananda.

 Now I am in my room with time to consider the situation. Suamba and I never write to each other, and anyway, they don’t have letter boxes in Bali. So it is often a surprise to see what is going on when I arrive in Bali each time. This man Alec has really tested Suamba’s peace of mind. I must get away, and see something more of Indonesia, otherwise I will spend my time listening to other people’s problems. There will be time enough for that when I return.

Thursday 21st March 1991

Kuta, Bali

I Caught the bemo to Denpasar to buy a ticket for the bus, ferry, and train to Surabaya in Java. I had an old wrong address, but by an incredibly lucky coincidence, the only two other Westerners getting off the bemo, asked directions to the same place I was going. They were being led onto the wrong bemo, so I was able to return the favour by helping them walk there, a bit far in the heat, but they didn’t complain (two Kiwis).

The man in the office explained it all in English. We are going tomorrow at 3pm on the same bus. I ate at a nearby restaurant, where the friendly owner had given me directions to the ticket office earlier. 

From there, another bemo to near the house of Suamba’s friend, holy man Ida Bagus Mantra’s house, but he had gone to Singaraja. His bright wife and the women there were making offerings. I left a small spiritual book and note there for him, then back on a bemo to Kuta. 

On the bemo, I remembered Ida Bagus Mantra coming at my urgent request years ago in 1985, to see Suamba as he lay desperately ill in hospital. It was at night when Mantra arrived with another man, both of them glittering in brilliant coloured robes and head dress sparkling with silver and gold thread. Ida Bagus Mantra said I could leave now, and gave me instructions to come back in the morning with certain foods to give Suamba. I remember thinking at the time how impossible it would be for this bright orange skinned man, virtually given up for dead by his family, to eat anything. But in the morning I found Suamba able to speak, and drink a little juice from a tin of Australian fruit, that I had brought (with tin opener and spoon), as instructed by Ida Bagus Mantra.

Bringing me back to present reality on the bemo, an older Australian man (not Alec) talked about the influence of the U.S.A. in the world to the point where I looked up, and we had passed Kuta and arrived at the airport! No problem for him as he lived near the airport, but a bit of a walk for me in the heat. I walked past the hotel where we stayed in 1986 - it looks a bit ordinary now compared to some of the palaces now going up nearby. The land is flat around here, but a hill has been created, partly hiding a hotel behind it. The hill would be a psychological comfort for those guests who want to get away from the locals. 

Huge money is being poured into Bali at this time, showing its popularity. When I first came to Bali in 1976, the banks were lonely places to change money, but now the banks in the tourist areas are crowded with Indonesians (with minders) holding big bags full of notes ready to deposit. Standing in line these days I feel inadequate as I hand over a solitary $50 travellers’ check to change into Indonesian currency, known as Rupiahs (or Rp. abbreviated).

At my losmen, another Wayan was waiting for Ketut Mandra to return from the wedding in Ubud. This Wayan used to work here, and is probably looking for help from Ketut. He now has a wife and baby but no work. He rents his motorbike when he can, but no doubt life is a struggle for him. The gap between the locals and the tourist palaces must seem wider than ever. Anyway, I asked him if he could take me on his bike to the bus station tomorrow, so he’ll make some money that way.  I’ll have to make sure he takes it, you just don’t openly give someone money (someone you know that is) because it’s embarrassing for them, plus anyone who sees it may want a loan! The people who make it big over here must be very secretive indeed.

I headed for the beach after having a cuppa with Wayan, who didn’t actually have one. A short hot walk, and the water a bit like warm onion soup (the colour, not the smell) - a glassy surface, with perfect waves to catch. Coming out of the water I am greeted by beach sellers – “you like massage darling”, “buy shells mister” and so on. Ignoring all that, I came back to the losmen, grabbing a cold drink on the way. I’ve been sorting out what and what not to take to Java tomorrow.

Friday 22nd March 1991

Bali to Java

I am waiting now at the office in Denpasar to get the bus to Java. It’s almost time for the bus to arrive, and the two Kiwis aren’t here yet.

It was a hair-raising experience getting here. Wayan didn’t turn up in time, and the boy from the losmen was too afraid to take me into the busy and more policed Denpasar. He was just going down the road on his bike to get a chartered bemo, when he passed Wayan on his way. Already with helmet on, I jumped on the back loaded with bags, and made it on time.

They have taken me now from the office on another bike to the bus station. The bus came and it looks like the Kiwis won’t be with me. Anyhow, the bus is loading up now with Indonesians. No air-con, and the windows are fixed, so am relying on drafts from the open doors. Already thinking it would have been better to get the air-con bus – the things we do to travel by train. Anyhow, this section to the ferry should be relatively short, and then the overnight train to Surabaya. Now I see why it all cost less than five dollars!

My mind is turning over the Kiwis. Why didn’t they come? Did I do or say something yesterday to put them off me? I hope not. A workmate used to tell me I was not a regular guy (thank you so much). How does that song go? “We love football, meat pies, kangaroos, and Holden cars”- now that defines a true Aussie! Of course it’s a great sendup of the Aussie condition - the need to be popular. But why bother trying to make yourself the same as everyone else, all you have to do, is to try to be a good person. 

It’s now 7pm, and at last the bus has driven onto the ferry. Only two and a half hours from Denpasar but it seemed longer, with no leg room, obviously designed to cram in the Indonesians. On the way, nice views of the coast, with raging brown streams pouring into the sea, so it must be raining in the mountains. As we arrived at the ferry, a fiery sun was setting behind Java’s volcanoes.

Had a drink of bottled iced tea with some biscuits that I bought this morning in Kuta. Just been out of the bus and onto the top deck of the ferry, where the locals are digging into rice in banana leaves, bought from vendors patrolling for customers.

Fended off a kid wanting to shine my shoes – was almost tempted to get it done, because when Wayan took me to the bus on his dilapidated bike, one of my shoes became covered in oil, sort of like a baptism of oil for my journey. The kind people in the train office gave me some paper to clean it up a bit. 

The boat is moving off now into the darkness.

I ate a couple of big bananas, and now I’ve walked off the ferry and onto Java, in a cavern of a train station being blasted by Indonesian rock music echoing around the cement.

Had a cup of coffee to bolster me up, and washed the face for about 7 cents, similar charge if you use the toilet, with extra cost for sitting down. There is a charge for a shower too, but it doesn’t look clean enough to pay for.

I hear a train horn breaking through the music, and now all I have to do is find my seat using the ticket instructions. It’s 3rd class, so I’ll be with the masses.

Train not here yet. I’ve been watching a little romance. A man is travelling with his small daughter, but it doesn’t seem to stop him chatting up the pretty girl he had the good fortune to sit beside on the bus. 

Now he’s offering her a cigarette – she refused. Suitably, the music plays on with the words “How many arms have held you, I really don’t want to know”. Pity they probably don’t understand the lyrics.

I haven’t seen a Western person since leaving Kuta, it’s like stepping onto another planet, an interesting feeling, and a softer one. It’s hard to believe anyone could have a problem travelling in this country, but it doesn’t stop you from being careful.

Saturday 23rd March 1991

Surabaya, Java

It’s 9.30am and I am sitting comfortably in the “eating area” of the “Bamboo Den” Travelers Hostel, Surabaya. It brings back memories of 1976, but they have moved, so it shouldn’t bring them back. I don’t mind the down to earth atmosphere, and it was a relief to get here after the 15 hour journey from Denpasar.

On the train last night, I hired a pillow from the man walking through the carriages, as the seat was rigid. Young Javanese guys in the other seats, having worked three years in Bali, returning to their home town. They wanted to practice English of course, so I kept going for walks. In fact, the best thing was to keep on my feet, as it was hopeless trying to sleep. This other guy nabbed me and wanted me to sit with his friends. I caved in, so it was handshakes all round and rigorous questioning, in other words, hard work. But they were nice company, and like so many young men, eager to make something better of their lives. I guess one of the Java guys thought he’d return the favour of my joining them by discreetly disappearing. At last I had the space to lay flat for about the last hour or two. His friend woke me up when we arrived in Surabaya.

It was the first light of dawn, with a few becak drivers (three wheeled cart for human transportation) asking for business. However, I set off on foot to find a guesthouse nearby, which was recommended in my guide book. It was being rebuilt by the looks of it, so I headed for this old stomping ground “The Bamboo Den”. 

A becak driver took me nowhere because he couldn’t find it. I found one tourist, a French girl, who didn’t recommend her hotel – cockroaches running all over the white sheets. She had given up waiting for her boat to leave for Sulawesi, and was waiting for the airport bus to fly there instead. I asked around until I found the “Den”. 

Ushered to what was once a big room, now divided by some sort of board wall with rows of doors. I thought they were showing me the cupboard, but it was big enough for a top and bottom bunk bed, with just enough room to squeeze between them and the wall. Perhaps fortunately, the wall was only high enough not to see over, so there is some air. I could hear a fan somewhere in the gloom. No light, which was an advantage as I needed rest after a shower in the area put together for that purpose. The funny thing is a note on the wall requesting travellers to inform others about the new location of the “Den”. Comments scrawled over it such as “You must be joking” and “Yeah, I’ll tell my friends who are 3 feet tall and totally deaf”, plus others best not repeated.

I rested for a few hours, and have just sampled some of the “Den” menu, fruit salad, boiled egg, and toast with tea. I will go back to bed again soon I think. I also did the washing with my sister Dara’s gift of travellers soap in a tube, it really is good stuff.

5pm. I am just back from the modern Tjangung Shopping Centre. Exclusive shops selling everything from Rolex watches to wide leather ladies belts – very macho looking with big metal clasps, sometimes studded with jewels. I bought another notebook as this one looks like it will run out.  I snacked on some cooling raspberry ice cream and a kind of fried vegetable pancake. I am now sitting back at the “Den” with a hot lemon drink. 

There is a strange looking young child here, who is a biter. I just found out the hard way, when I was resting my arm on one of their old lounge chairs while having my hot lemon. She came straight up and sunk her teeth into my arm. I yelled and shooed her off me. The English guy in another other lounge chair, casually said without looking up from his book “should have been strangled at birth”. I instantly liked him. Indonesian parents seem to accept the behaviour of their children better than we do in the West. How they really think is difficult to know.

They have older kids learning English next door, and guests are invited to join in conversation in the school room. If you don’t, then they come right in. One kid just smilingly said “Excuse me, is it not too dark for reading your book?” I told him I’ll be getting glasses soon. He went away laughing, not knowing what else to say.

9.30pm. I went back to the plaza, feeling like something western to eat. Ah, a place called “Californian Fried Chicken”, full of Saturday night families wanting to experience the taste of America. The shopping centre full of customers, with escalators, and external elevators with glass walls, there’s no recession here. People are walking out with plastic bags full of luxury consumer items.

A group of pretty girls out in the main street, one took my arm. I thought it meant business. They all seemed to get a laugh out of it.

I went into a big pavilion down the street, displays of beautifully wood crafted bedroom suites and dining tables at cheap prices – if only you could get it to Australia!

Back in the “Den” I gave a friendly German girl one of my mozzie coils, which led to a big discussion with her group until midnight – nice people on their way to Australia, to do the usual thing of buying a car and travelling around. They were happy to know, that they will be able to get ice just about everywhere to keep their beers cold

Sunday 24th March 1991

Jogyakarta, Java

5.50 pm. I am now in Jogyakarta, sitting by the pool drinking hot lemon, and reading the information given me by the tourist office at the station. The mosque has just started the call to prayer – just realised it is coming from the TV – no, now I can hear them echoing from afar, all over Jogya. Up until now it has been very quiet except for some kids in the pool, but this is what happens when you holiday in a Muslim country.

It took seven hours to get here, but not as painfully as the previous trip to Surabaya. Train fairly packed, stopping at most stations. Luckily I was in the same carriage as the dining area, so it was easy to slip onto more comfortable seats and sip an iced tea or orange drink. Their nasi goreng (fried rice) was pretty tasteless, but it passed some time away. Friendly waiters were anxious to serve at the tables, which were decorated with some faded artificial flowers.

I really like the people here, more refined and polite than the Balinese. It’s interesting to watch them operate. Sellers with drinks and food were traversing the carriages, and locals at each stop selling through the windows, but nobody buying anything, except maybe for the kids, as this is the fasting month of Ramadan. So far finding food has been no problem for me, so all my fears of starving during Ramadan were like most fears, all for nothing.

I went straight to the government information counter at Jogya station, very friendly. They gave me a 20% discount on my room here at the Rose Hotel, plus free taxi. It’s a big room with fan, patio, and clean bathroom for $12, real luxury after “the Den”. Can’t wait to see Borobudur temple tomorrow, but for now I’ll just sit back and listen to what looks like a travelling show band, starting up on the other side of the pool. Tom-tom, xylophone and gong with finger sounds, very smooth. They are now all around me singing, playing and clapping – all very ritzy, like I’m the Sultan. 

My enthusiastic applause has been cut short, by one of their hands thrusting forward for a donation (the realisation of my innocence causing me psychological damage), so that is why I am writing this now, pretending to have lost interest after handing over a 1,000 Rp. note (about 70 cents) That worked, they’ve just said their nodding goodnights.

Monday 25th March 1991

Jogyakarta 7pm. 

Still at “the Rose” sitting cosily in an enclosed upstairs courtyard, I have the place all to myself, apart from some cooing doves in cages. Enjoying some tea from a thermos plus a kind of custard cake filled with bits of coconut. 

The day started at 5am, did some meditation and the washing, then breakfast in the hotel. Walked down some already busy streets and caught two buses to the beginning of my walk to Borobudur, the temple “Mendut”, a squat building about 20 meters square, with carved reliefs of the Buddha. Inside and up some steps a solid rock sitting Buddha about 3 meters tall, flanked by two figures which are, according to my guide book, Bodhisattvas. A high vaulted roof with occasional droplets of water quietly dropping from out of the gloom. Outside, a workman picked up a long bamboo ladder from which, water poured out of all the joints.

      Mendut Buddhist Temple, Java

Living the fantasy of being an ancient Buddhist pilgrim, I walked on down the road over a rushing river, and past some lively kiddies in a schoolyard, to the next temple “Parwon”, which is a smaller version of Mendut and locked up. No other tourists at either of these temples. Drank some bottled iced tea sitting on a bamboo seat under an awning. The three temples are about one and a half kilometres apart, on a road that stretches in a straight line to Borobudur temple, which seemed to get larger as I walked towards it, looking encased by walls of rugged volcanic mountains. Another drink of orange juice at the base of the temple itself, and I began exploring the temple’s various stone terraces, walking always to the left to encourage the good forces, as advised. 

At first, it’s like being enclosed in a carved stone storybook. Moving up each terrace, there is a kind of carved beast, which is supposed to remove evil karma (bad past actions).

                              Wall detail of Borobudur Buddhist Temple, Java

Stepping up into higher terraces, there was a feeling of release from being surrounded by stone, as the outer wall was much lower, allowing the visitor to see out beyond the temple to the distant volcanoes. There are Buddha statues sitting in stone enclosures, gazing over the visitor and beyond.

 View of Mt Merapi from Borobudur Buddhist Temple, Java

A dramatic change happens on the fifth terrace, where the stone carvings are replaced by bell like stupas with wavy surrounds on their bases. Inside each stupa, through diamond shaped openings, sits a seated Buddha, 72 of them facing outward, so it gives the effect of Buddha looking out over all the earth. Many of the Buddhas have heads missing due to vandalism throughout the centuries, vandalism that would have been very bad karma for those who did it, because sacred relics are housed in stupas, but I guess they had no idea of what they were doing. Conversely, I am sure the people who restored this ancient monument would have received very good karma for giving such a wonder back to the world. 

                                The top of Borobudur Buddhist Temple, Java

At the top is the central grand stupa itself, completely smooth and round without any carvings or entrance. Is this the symbolic release from the world? A cool breeze was blowing, and the views out to the volcanoes were wonderful. 

Back at the food stalls, I ate some spicy fried rice, and then visited the museum – worth it. It was interesting to find out that some panels and stone Buddha statues were not completed – on purpose? Or did Buddhism all come to an abrupt end? Armed with a bottle of water, I walked up a nearby field to some pavilions that looked down on Borobudur. Some local kids pointed out some elephants in the distance, which I had not noticed before.

                                    Pavilions near Borobudur Temple, Java

I had some fun back at the stalls bargaining for a T-shirt and postcard. Caught two buses to get back, talking to a Chinese kid whose dad owns what must be one of the best franchises in Indonesia at the moment, satellite dishes. They are popping up everywhere and they are big, some could be 10 metres across. 

I wonder if any practising Buddhists visit the three temples as I did today? Tourists just visit Borobudur itself, a temple that would have to be the greatest ancient monument in Indonesia. Nothing left for me to do except have a relaxing sunset swim in the pool, and think about eating somewhere.

Tuesday 26th March 2019
Bandung, Java

Well, here I am in evening Bandung, sitting in a satay restaurant near the railway station, and have ordered satay goat (saté kambing). Waiters bringing tea, rice, peanut sauce, and what looks like garlic and chillies in soy sauce – oh boy, this is the real Indonesia. 

I was out of bed in Jogya at 5am, on the train by 7am, and arrived here at Bandung 5.30pm. I hope this is the last of the long train rides, although I’m getting used to it. On the train I had a few snoozes, and not as hot a journey as before, with the train heading up into the expansive scenery of the hills. Met a student priest, very nice person, and of course others wanting to practice English. So many people getting on at some stops selling just about anything, at one time lined up right down the corridor – an overwhelming feeling of poverty.

A typical interaction on the train usually starts with the question “Where do you come from” and ends with my Christian religion, and the fact that I eat “pig”. Or perhaps, it’s more a case of not knowing what other question to ask? 

I checked into a fairly depressing joint near the railway station, as I didn’t feel like hassling around. The guy who seemed to be running it came right into my room, and like a lot of older Indonesians, speaks Dutch. I kept trying to tell him I don’t speak Dutch, but it made no difference, thought he would never leave. I will find somewhere better. The goat wasn’t too bad, at least it was filling.

Wed 23rd March 1991

Bandung, Java

I am feeling better now that I have checked into Hotel Guntur – just like a motel room in Australia, with a room back from the street, so it’s quieter but still near the railway station. About $20 per night but I feel like some luxury. Nice restaurant in the hotel, which is good because I haven’t yet found a good one here in Bandung so far.

Last night I looked around, and this hotel seemed the best – they said I could leave my bags here which I did, because nothing felt safe where I was staying. Streets are full of traffic, so it’s not easy crossing the roads. Under the awnings of the shops are the street vendors, with their wares on either side, leaving a narrow pathway to jostle your way through. A lot of cheap clothes, firecrackers for the end of Ramadan, artists drawing likenesses from photos (with magnifying glass), shoes, lanterns made from tin cans, fruits (I bought mandarins and mangosteens), and plants such as roses, azaleas, and orchids all in flower.

Changed money, then ate a fairly stale donut with iced coffee at an upmarket food stall. Avoiding the beggars (which I couldn’t yesterday, trapped on my train seat), I am now away from it all in this comfortable room at Hotel Guntur. I rang up (from my all conveniences room) the medical university, as Bagus, an Indonesian I met in Bali years ago is studying here. I couldn’t understand the girl on the phone very well as my Indonesian language skills are poor, but left my name and phone number, and soon after, he rang back to say he would be here by 4pm. Feeling tired I rested until he arrived. It was good to see him again, and hoped he would have time to show me around, but he said he was flying to Bali tomorrow. I almost wanted to go back myself, and felt lonely when he left. I value people who are prepared to talk about their life, especially an Indonesian, it’s rare.

I stayed in my room when Bagus left, trying to stop myself from thinking about what I am doing here, and whatever am I going to do with the rest of my restless life, going everywhere and nowhere at the same time. I walked across the courtyard to eat at the hotel, and back here to spend the night, feeling defeated by the day.

Thursday 28th March 1991
Bandung, Java 

I got up at 5am to the sound of a train leaving Bandung station, it’s nice to hear the trains. After breakfast, grabbed my jacket, and hopped on a mini bus right outside the hotel, heading up into the hills to Lembang, then into another mini bus. We waited a long time to get more passengers, nice people. A grandmother with a little boy about 2 years old, taking a long time to eat a rambutan. Horse carts all lined up ready to go, with ornate trappings of silver. It was really cool up there, so put on my jacket. Meanwhile a man slaughtered a big black goat right next to the mini bus – very tasteful, and attracted a lot of locals. The bus finally bumped out of town, and ground slowly up the slope. The people in the bus happy to tell me where to hop off, for the walk up to the rim of the volcano called Tangkuban Perahu. 

Almost straight away a car appeared heading down the slope, and asked 4,000 Rp to go to the top. “Very far 5 kilometres”, he advised. I didn’t want to argue, as it was already 8am and the clouds roll in early, but I gave it a bit of a go, and reduced it to 3,000 Rp. The nice driver, who spoke English, drove me right to the crater. Wonderful views, and two craters about 200 metres across, with murky waters in their depths. The guides appeared. The one who latched on wanted 10,000 Rp, but he walked away when I suggested 3,000. Pretty soon one of his mates appeared, and he agreed to 3,000. 

He led me down a sometimes slippery path to where the sulphurous steam was rising. To tell the truth it wasn’t much. Then he took me along a side path to the so called bus terminal, where I paid him. I didn’t have a clue where I was, and waited a long time, with no vehicles going past, so I walked down the right hand track. I wasn’t to know, but ahead of me was a long walk of many kilometres through a moss covered pine forest and ferns. 

                     My unexpected walk through the pine forest, Java

All this gave me time to reflect on my 3,000 Rp fee suggestion, down from 10,000 Rp. I appeared to win, but was made to pay for it, by being led to nowhere and left there. I really didn’t want to cheat him, but he didn’t let me anyway. He gave me only what I paid for, but in my opinion his lesson was a bit heartless. My friend Suamba in Bali used to say “We never stop to learn”, and I never stopped Suamba from saying it that way, because it makes a lot of sense.

I reached a bigger road, flagged down a mini bus, and on through endless hills of dark green tea plantations stretching as far as the eye could see. The ride ended at Ciater where I ate while chatting with the waiter about the Gulf War. I walked down the hill to the hot springs. A real tourist stop, I paid to go in, and then paid again to enter the pool area - a world of manicured gardens and smart waiters in restaurants. Formal cement square pools lined with flat stones. I walked down further past rushing steaming torrents, with workmen laying out new areas. A man wanted to take me on his horse to a good swimming spot, but when I refused, saying I was afraid, he said it was only for enough for him to eat. 

I walked on, but couldn’t find anything, so back up to the top and into the pool. The sign said the water temperature was between 39 and 42C, and to not stay in the water for more than 30 minutes. They had to be joking, after a few minutes my skin felt like melted butter. I stepped into a nearby stream with steaming water rushing over amber rocks tinted bright green from the minerals.

I cooled my boiled body in icy water pouring from pipes, dressed, and then back up to the restaurant on the road for a cup of tea, the tea itself coming fresh from the tea factory across the road. The same waiter as before was still there, and gave me a biscuit made from sugar and beans wrapped in flaky pastry, a kind man. His company was a sort of compensation for the guide who led me earlier to nowhere. Two buses later back in Bandung, then to the tourist office where they told me where to change money, as the banks were then closed. They also told me the location of the bus station for buses to Labuhan on the west coast of Java. (Different bus stations for different directions). Went to that bus station, and found there is a bus direct to Labuhan tomorrow at 9am. Guess I’ll find out tomorrow if that is correct.

Friday 29th March 1991

Carita, Java

It’s about 8pm, and I am sitting outside a fairly new losmen in Carita, near Labuhan on the west coast of Java, and close to Krakatoa volcano (Indo: Krakatau) off the coast, in the Sunda Strait. The only problem is how to get there?

At 9am this morning in Bandung, I caught the bus, almost new with air-con, very comfortable speeding through the mountains to Jakarta. I found it best not to look ahead, it reminded me why I usually don’t take buses, the drivers seem to have a death wish, overtaking on blind corners, forcing smaller vehicles off the road, and almost continuously blowing the horn. 

Lots of impressive buildings taking shape in Jakarta since I was last there. We stopped on the outskirts, but I didn’t eat – too many flies. We then stopped at the most westerly port, Merak, where ferries were lined up to take people to Sumatra. I was not tempted to get on board, having experienced the long bus rides in Sumatra. Back on the bus and down the coast through winding hilly country to Labuhan. This fellow from Labuhan struck up a conversation on the bus, so asked him about getting to Mount Krakatoa volcano. It seems he knows someone with a boat. 

On arrival in Labuhan, my new friend fenced off the becak drivers, and got his friend to take me out here with him on the back of a motorbike, three of us without helmets. It was far too expensive at the renowned Carita Krakatoa Beach Hotel, about $100 for 3 nights. Darkness fell as we found this place, don’t know its name yet. They found me a cheaper room at the back, but big and clean with my own bathroom for under $20 per night – expensive, but rates go up at the weekend for all the people coming here from Jakarta. They don’t speak English here.

Thinking I might get a good deal on the boat, but also grateful to them for bringing me here, I shouted them dinner – very nice chicken, prawns, and rice, all for under $13 including soft drinks on ice and a packet of cigarettes. Gave them the phone number here, so am waiting for them to make contact with a boat owner in Labuhan. I know it will be expensive, but as long as I can afford it, then it’s something I’ve always wanted to see, my big splash in Indonesia.

It’s now around midnight, sitting outside my room. At 9pm, feeling that maybe my “friend” wouldn’t be calling back, I set off to find another way. Called in at the “Carita Krakatoa Beach Inn”, and found a tour on Sunday if they can get enough people 350,000 Rp, that’s $250. Of course the snag would be less people sharing increases my cost. They said to come back tomorrow and put my name down, plus probably a deposit as well I guess.

I enquired at another place, and met a charismatic Indonesian named Younis. I would say in his early 30’s, but has been around I can tell. Apparently he fell in love with a Dutch girl last week – she wants to take him to Holland and marry him, and he thinks it’s a good idea. I wonder. We set off to find other tourists to share the cost but no luck, so we stopped for a coke and talked a lot. I find him very interesting. He thinks it’s a good idea if we find others, and spend a few days in Indonesia’s premier nature reserve “Ujung Kulon”. He does the cooking, and we sleep in a tower above the animals, go down to the river, swimming, coral, and so on. I agreed to meet him tomorrow. 

Walked back to the losmen, and the manager gave me a note. They had phoned back with the price 250,000 Rp. I wrote on the back “Too expensive, will try to find other tourists to share the cost.” They want to go on Monday, so hope I’ll sort something out by then. Anyhow, the manager is going into town tomorrow, and will deliver my reply – many irons in the fire!

It’s muggy here after cooler Bandung, and its welcome back the mosquitoes. I have a mozzie coil burning in the room, so I’ll turn in – another big day.

Saturday 30th March 1991
Carita, Java

Sitting outside my next losmen, still in Carita Beach, it’s just down the road from the last place. Well, I call it a losmen, but it doesn’t seem to have a name. Perhaps before the hotels were built, families from Jakarta would stay here for beach holidays – I like to imagine it. I am writing with the help of a kerosene lamp – no electricity here, but I like it. I’ve just had a massage on my knee from the boy in the losmen. My leg has had a big day walking around to get a boat. 

I had unbelievable difficulties criss-crossing Labuhan with Younis, trying to arrange things. Met up with four tourists travelling together who said they would go with me. Younis at the centre of things, which meant I paid for everything along the way such as meals and drinks, no worries. Found myself in many boatmen’s houses, and in Younis’s dingy little room, drinking coffee made on his little kero stove and sitting by the light of his little kero lamp, while he prayed on his mat.

The four tourists finally decided not to go after I had arranged everything for them – I couldn’t believe it – they suddenly decided that the weather might not be suitable. Younis finally left me to go back and cancel the boat, while I walked back here, calling in on the ladies of “prostitusi” and having a drink with them on their little display patio. Lots of fun, except the high charge for the drinks. I did not ask the price to enter the room behind the curtained door. As soon as you ask the price in Indonesia, you are committed to buy, and what you end up paying can be lower than expected, even in your wildest dreams. 

Earlier in the day I had the boat people on my hands out here when Younis had gone – gone back into town to see them! They insisted I look at their new hotel, nearby they said “only 400 meter” they said – turned out to be easily a kilometre walk in the blazing sun. I joked about the distance, so they got the message and paid for transport back. Somehow it all seems to blend into what is happening here. Younis has moved in to the room next to me.

Sunday 31st March 1991
Carita, Java

It’s 4.30pm and just woken from a larger than life dream. In the dream I woke up but still wasn’t sure where I was - it’s not too hard to work that dream out. I must have slept a couple of hours. Younis also just up. It’s raining again.

This morning, after breakfast of coffee and half a small loaf of bread, I went back to bed. Got up, and Younis massaged round my knees with coconut oil. A local guy who gets a bit of work playing guitar arrived with some banana flavoured bread. He talked about his time in Kuta Beach, with the Australian girls. Half of it a fantasy I reckon. We walked along the beach to find a small warung (eating shop), but the warung had not bought food. We walked over to the usual restaurant. Younis had bought rambutans from someone selling on the beach. We ate them in the restaurant, and then shared a meal of gado gado, which was as is usual, cold cooked vegetables, bits of boiled egg and soy bean curd in spicy peanut sauce. 

Back at the beach I went in – water brownish from all the rain, with big leaves and pieces of wood. Caught some long waves in, it was a great surf. I dried off under the trees, on a sort of swing chair, suspended from above. I just made it back here to the losmen, before the rain started. It’s really pouring now, streams of water pouring from the edges of the grass roofs.

Monday 1st April 1991
Carita, Java

Success at last – going to Krakatoa tomorrow! It’s almost 7pm, just had a mandi, (which is a shower by scooping water from a tub), and am feeling refreshed, writing by the Tilley lamp, waiting for the boy to bring coffee – he had the stove on the minute Younis and I returned, good boy!

First thing this morning, we caught a bemo into Labuhan. I moved my reservation to Bandung, from tonight Monday, to Thursday. In the telephone office, I noticed smartly dressed girls using computer screens, while outside the office, children in torn clothes, and the general squalor that is an Indonesian fishing village. Wrote and posted a card in the post office while Younis read Kompass (Indonesian newspaper). We then had a cool drink of Sirsak (soursop) fruit juice in a bottle - much better than Fanta or Coke - cooled by putting ice in the glass and stirring with the stick. That works well and melts quickly here.

Went across the road to the National Park office, but they knew of only one group of Germans going to the park for 5 days. I didn’t feel like I would even bother chasing that one up.

Back to Carita beach itself, I sat for a while with two young Indonesians in cane chairs under the trees. The fat kid from Jakarta was playing western pop music from his cassette, ran out of power, so he just went and bought more batteries. It felt very dreamy there, just looking out beyond the surf to the bamboo rafts on the ocean. I caught a few waves, and then went over to the warung for lunch, only one other tourist there, an older Canadian lady, Anne.

I talked of my losing out on going to Krakatoa. “I want to go there, and so do others” she said. Apparently she had been told there was no possibility of going there. I told her I would do it, if I could get enough people. She rushed off to get her friends. Pretty soon we were in Labuhan arranging the boat. The man from the national parks office was coincidentally there, so I handed over a few dollars for the permits – how do they know? Went to check out the boat, but it was out in the harbour. Bought rice, fruit, bread, peanuts, dates, coffee, sugar and water, then straight back here, dropping off the others on the way. I have paid for the Canadian lady, Anne, as she didn’t come with us. I’ll collect her money tomorrow. As well as Anne, there’s an Englishman who was in Poland, but now working in Jakarta, and a man and his wife from Spain, now working in Hong Kong.

I have some nice clean clothes on, felt like a celebration. No sign of Younis yet, so not sure about dinner – not really hungry, but guess something will happen. We meet tomorrow at 6am fingers crossed.

              With Younis outside the losmen at Carita beach, Java

Tuesday 2nd March 1991

Carita, Java. Trip to Krakatoa

Had a restless night, then suddenly it was 6am. Woke Younis who had said he would wake me. I put on my new Borobudur T-shirt for good luck, and threw the camera plus odds and ends in my airline bag. Younis and I caught a bemo right out front, to the meeting place. The others were not quite ready by the time the car arrived and took us to the harbour, smelly, and strewn with garbage. 

Got into a hulk of a tiny dinghy, and out over little waves to our boat, about 12 metres long with enclosed area and padded seats. The crew had made coffee. Eating a slice of bread and some peanuts, we headed out into choppy water. Before long we were all feeling pretty crook, and took refuge inside from the spray. Eating fruit and sweets, I kept my stomach intact. The typical Indonesian crew were not over exerting themselves, but the captain continuously at the wheel.

As we approached the Krakatoa islands, the active island in the middle began to come into view. The older outer islands were covered in luxurious jungle, while the active middle island looked barren except for a few trees on the northern side near the water. 

     We jump off our boat into the hot waters of Krakatoa, in the Sunda Strait 

Our captain steered his boat towards the trees, and anchored near the black sand beach, the water itself appeared to be black from the fine sand. We jumped into neck deep water only a couple of meters from shore. I jumped in first and the shock of the hot water was a surprise. The crew carried our provisions and clothes ashore. We dried off eating some lunch on the beach, with the grey-black mound of Anak Krakatau (Child of Krakatoa) rising up behind us. 

It seemed incredible that this island was beneath the sea less than 70 years ago. We observed the curved shapes of the surrounding islands, indicating the perimeter of the original cone which blew up some two thousand years ago. In the later fateful eruption on 27th August 1883, the central cone had grown to be attached to one of the outer islands. The cone collapsed, allowing kilometres of sea to plunge into the cavity. This sealed off the lava under enormous pressure and is thought to be the reason for a cataclysm that could be heard thousands of kilometres away in Australia. Ominously in 1927, Anak Krakatau appeared from beneath the sea in the middle of the surrounding islands. It is astounding to see how much it has increased in size from nothing that was visible before 1927. Today it could be about a kilometre long and half a kilometre high. 

We trekked for about 100 metres through tall grass and spindly trees, and then began the ascent. I was foolishly wearing sandals, and soon my skin was being rubbed by the abrasive sand. I was slipping until I followed an Austrian with heavy boots, so that I could get a toehold. We thought we were arriving at the summit, but we saw that we were actually on a ridge, looking across a deep ravine at the smouldering cone. Black rivers of lava ran down each side, and formed cliffs fronting the ocean. It was a wonderful panorama, not only of the outer islands, but another huge volcanically shaped island to the north, and the coasts of Java and Sumatra. A mercifully cool but strong wind almost lost me my hat, and there would have been no chance of recovering it, so put it in my bag. 

    View from top of ridge on Mount Krakatoa, in the Sunda Strait

I took one sandal off, as the skin on my left foot was rubbing loose, and set off with the others down the ridge. Even though the sun had been behind the clouds, the ground was getting hotter. We passed through some gaseous looking smoke coming from tiny holes in the ground. At this point I found a plastic bag in my travel bag, and tied it around my foot, so that I could wear the sandal. This was comfortable, but as we began to ascend the cone itself, I was slipping in the loose sand and rocks, my toes breaking through, so I kept retying the plastic.

At this point Younis, and one of the Indonesians from the boat, said they had never been up there, and would wait for us to return. Anne, the older lady from Canada, was having trouble, but was determined to make it up there. I was able to help her, as the others had gone on ahead.

   Section of crater Mount Krakatoa, in the Sunda Strait

We were now climbing higher than the first ridge. Nearing the top, billowing clouds of smoke seemed to be pouring from inside the crater. Then the wall of the current crater came into view. An dangerous looking wall of bright yellow powder covered the near inner wall, and from holes in the rocks on the edge, constant smoke billowing out, only to be blown, fortunately, away from us in the stiff breeze. The ground was hot, but if you put a foot near the edge, it seemed like it was near fire. To fall over the edge into the yellow mass would cause at least a severe burning, or worse. 

At the crater of Mount Krakatoa, in the Sunda Strait

Further around the edge in what looked like the most active part, there were bigger boulders, with smoke pouring from cracks everywhere. It felt like I was standing on a giant eggshell that could crack beneath me at any moment. There was a sudden feeling of urgency to leave that place, especially when gusts of wind blew smoke in my direction. Slipping and sliding down the slope, we made our way along a different track to the black sand beach, and walked over ridges of washed up smooth pumice stone.

Suddenly from the grass a two meter long lizard right in front of us, and in a few strides was in the ocean before any one of us could take a photo. It left only its big claw marks in the sand. Black crabs scuttled into holes, a giant yellow butterfly and birds in the trees – a new land complete with life in less than 70 years.

With gratitude I found our boat and crew waiting. They were patiently doing the Indonesian thing of resting in the shade, but soon sprang into life with the prospect of returning home “pulang, pulang” (return home). We kept them a bit longer, with a refreshing swim in the hot ocean, and then headed off into an even more turbulent ocean than before. I stupidly sat on the roof with the Spanish guy, and almost went over the side, getting soaked, but with spray only. I gave that up and went inside. All was quiet with passengers lying down, hanging on, or heading for the side.

After four and a half gruelling hours, we arrived safely in Labuhan harbour after dark. Our faithful old boatman was there ready to collect his fee, as we rode a small breaker to the shore. Immediately we were surrounded by dozens of kids, with the usual choruses of “Hello mister”, escaped to the boat owner’s car and sped back here to Carita. I brought Anne down here, because she can’t sleep well at her hotel. She likes it, so may move in tomorrow. Anne had been terrified in the boat on our return in the wild weather. Lying on the floor, she was crying out that we were all going to drown. I got down and comforted her, assuring her that all would be well. Now that we were safely back, I confided in her that I had also been worried, but I received a different reaction than expected, when Anne chastised me for not telling her the truth about how I really felt. 

The boys cooked up a nice meal of spicy noodles with egg and vegetable, after which came my usual after dinner audience with Younis and his experiences with life, but they seem to be centred on the opposite sex, and getting to Australia – nothing unusual about that around here.

Glass in my foot from walking back here shoeless, but it seems to be ok now.

Wednesday 3rd April 1991
Carita, Java

5pm. This morning I listened to Younis until the boys brought out a meal of curried chicken, bowl of spicy vegetables, and rice. Afterwards, I had a sleep until 2pm. I walked with Younis – “May I accompany you?” to the warung. We had an ice cold coke then went next door to the Krakatoa Museum. Old Dutch illustrations and maps of this area, bits of Ming looking pottery, skeletons both human and animal, plus information on the Krakatoa volcano. The most interesting thing was the seismograph. When I first came up to it, the needle was moving violently. I looked down the page to find out how often these strong vibrations registered. I think if I had seen this before going onto Krakatoa yesterday, I would have been even more afraid.

Back with the waiting Younis, we detoured past the Carita Krakatoa Beach Inn to the beach. Having successfully taken our tour with their guests, and therefore taken their business profit from them, I could see his point, and he has to continue to live here. So I went into the water further down, but too much debris, so went in even further on, where it was ok, and back here for a mandi.

Thursday 4th April 1991
Back to Bandung 

5.30pm. Here I am backtracked to Bandung after 9 hours on the bus, and sitting in the comfortable surrounds of the Guntur Hotel waiting for dinner – ordered chicken steak and tea – back to western food.

This morning, wide awake at 5am, lit the lamp, had a mandi, and then packed. Woke up one of the boys to make me coffee (they had asked me to) then Younis emerged from his mattress on the floor. We had a chat while I drank coffee and some bread rolls with chocolate filling. I said goodbye to Younis, who knew how much it meant to me to go to Krakatoa. He was with me every day to help make it happen and I am forever grateful to him. But where are his next Rupiahs to come from, the poor man. He came with me in the bemo to Labuhan, where we met Anne in a fairly bedraggled state, hassling with the becak boys to get to the bus station. Younis lead us there, not far to walk, and the bus was waiting. 

Air-con bus all the way to Bandung, so I didn’t have to go to Jakarta and get the train. We bypassed the outskirts of Jakarta, on tollways with toll gates popping up all the time at an average of $2 each gate.

  Toll gates on the road to Bandung, Java

The distant skyscrapers of Jakarta were almost obscured by pollution, and the bus weaving through traffic, with the aid of the co-driver giving extra directions. Anne got off at Bogor. A friendly boy got me onto the right minibus at Bandung, which went straight to the outside of Hotel Guntur. I just walked inside when it started to rain, so it has been a successful day. 

I am missing Younis, and the simple life at Carita Beach. I should have stayed longer with Younis, with him above the animals in the tree house, but how much do we want something when we can no longer have it. The people at this hotel are formal, but nice – and so they should be at almost $20 per night. I have the same room as last time, and might watch the colour TV tonight, that is if there is something that I can relate to. The meal was delicious with many vegetables, finished off with sliced fresh pineapple.

Friday 5th April 1991
Pangandaran, Java

Now am sitting in a restaurant in this beach place, Pangandaran, on the south coast of Java. Its 10pm. I have just eaten fried rice after a gruelling minibus ride from Bandung.

In Bandung this morning at 6.30, I got a phone call from Bagus – how did he know I was back? Having breakfast when he came over, he joined me at the table but would not eat. He’s just back from Bali. He doesn’t know if he can continue to study for “the doctor”. I found myself talking him around. Told him I had to go to the post office and bank, and am leaving this arvo. He showed me to the bank, and from there to where he lives. I left him there.

Went to the post office, and very happy to receive letters. Took them to a swanky art deco style pastry shop, read them, and wrote replies. Back to the post office, then tried to go into the “Merdeka” building. Apparently there are historic photos there, but it was closed. Went back upstairs at the pastry shop for a chicken burger and iced lemon tea. Returning through the maze of street peddlers, I bought a gaudy cheap watch, plus fruit and sweets for the trip.

At Hotel Guntur, they let me stay in my room until the minibus came at 3pm. It cruised around Bandung picking up passengers, then straight to Pangandaran. It looks good here, so might stay a while, tummy no good.

Saturday 6th April 1991
Pangandaran, Java

5.30pm. Feeling much better after a good night’s sleep in a big bed at Pantai Sari Hotel. Most of stomach pain was gone when I got up, and had a big breakfast. Did the washing and bought some rambutans from a girl street vendor, there’s lots of them here.

Set off for the black sand beach about 100 metres away. Sign said “Dilarang Berenang” (no swimming). Big dumpers were thundering down. I walked along under the shade of trees down the beach front. 

Said hello to an upper middle aged Dutch couple, Robert and Carrie. We met on the minibus trip here last night. Our bus had stopped at a solitary roadside eating place in the middle of the jungle. We ate around the back, at a long table under an awning, with the jungle looming out of the darkness. All was quiet. I took no notice of a “tokay” gecko call from the trees, but that sound had an arresting effect on Robert and Carrie sitting opposite me. “Listen” one of them said. I asked them why they were so fascinated by that call of the gecko? They told me that they had not heard that sound since they were children growing up in Indonesia. 

I continued walking on down to the end of the beach, where many prahu (outrigger sailing boats) were lined up. Occasional wafts of fish smell. I paid about 20 cents entrance fee into the reserve. I walked along jungle paths over exposed roots carpeted with yellow and brown leaves. Birds and crickets the only sounds interrupting the serenity. Found myself at a white sand beach. A solitary Indonesian family were picking up shells among the washed up coral.  I struck into the jungle, only to come across what looked like a World War Two bunker, overgrown with moss and vines.

I went in for a swim. Perfect temperature, couldn’t describe if it was warm or cool, but I just wanted to stay there. Water a turquoise colour, small waves protected by the reef, only me in the water. Dried off in the shade, listening to the clinking of washed up coral pieces as the waves rolled over them onto the shore. 

Back on the paths, climbed up to a view over cleared hills, no animals to be seen. I walked into the mouth of a jungle cave, dark and silent except for the drips of water. I got out of there, and to the other side of the peninsular. Fishing boats out in the bay, and a few monkeys sitting around.

Back in the village, a fish market, with fish drying on racks – stomach churning stuff. Feeling hungry, but not for fish, I sat under a canvas awning in a very basic eating place mentioned in my guide book. Had a wonderful meal of creamy avocado juice, big bowl of vegetable soup with bits of chicken, rice, and hot lemon juice with honey and ginger. I find that the ginger really settles my stomach in Indonesia. Nothing much to do except look out on the jungle, from which a middle aged woman with an American accent, appeared to come out of, asking the only other people there, a tourist couple at another table “Is there a place around here where a girl can get her legs waxed?” They hadn’t heard of such a place around here.

Back at the hotel, had a shower, and slept for 2 hours. After hot coffee with milk (condensed as usual), I set off in the other direction, and came across the Dutch couple Robert and Carrie, getting off a becak. They have a guide for tomorrow, and invited me to go with them. 

Tired of the endless stretch of coast, I headed down tiny lanes, shades of back street Kuta in the good old days.  An occasional kid went drifting by on a bicycle. A young boy was holding a pigeon by the legs, lifting it up to make it flap its wings, then out of the coconut trees swooped another pigeon, which the boy quickly captured, and put in a cage. To me, it was like a magical experience.

7.30pm. Back in my room after an authentic meal in a smoky thatched little warung by the beach. Easy going locals wanting to know about Australia, and about me of course. I’ve learned to be as direct as they are, guess it’s the only way to really find out. The meal was rice, stewed beans, egg, soya bean cakes, and 4 peanut crackers washed down with tea, and then sitting back at the end with coffee, all for 1,000 Rp (70 cents). For the first time in this trip, I am at last getting the first sensations of slowing down. It is a relief.

9.45pm. Am just back from a stroll down the beachfront, to find the disco not yet open. It’s a while since I went to one, and in Indonesia it’s a scene. The locals really get dressed up for it, a ritzy night out. Walking back along the darkened sandy track beside the beach, horse driven becak drift quietly by, inhabited by solitary ladies of “prostitusi” clutching tiny transistor radio to the ear, and inquiring in a low deep voice if you’d like a ride? Dark shapes with indiscernible faces glide away into the night, and above it all, a myriad of stars, broken by flashes of distant lightning.

Sunday 7th April 1991, 

Pangandaran, Java

From this morning, Dudung is my new friend at the hotel, because he cooked up the best pancake I’ve ever had in Indonesia, crisp and thin with slices of banana wrapped inside, and drizzled with chocolate. 

It rained until 10am. I went around to Robert and Carrie. We had a nice talk, the guide turned up, but they decided to not go with him to the jungle. I met them later at the fish market - lots of fish, a big shark, and tuna almost as big, but cut in half. We walked nearby to the park entrance and arranged with a nice guide in uniform for this afternoon. We stopped at a nearby restaurant for juice, fried pineapple and banana in light crispy batter, and fruits in hot peanut sauce, very authentic.

Back to our hotels, and met again at 1pm, catching a becak each to the park, our guide happy to see his clients. He bought some fresh batteries which we paid for, and dodging a toothy monkey, headed into a seaside cave. Back in the jungle, a monkey leapt from a tree onto my bag and ripped it open looking for food. The guide forced him off me, and holding onto my bag for me, kept him away until he finally gave up. I felt like I had been part of a regular performance.

We trekked down slippery paths with jungle bird song, to a waterfall glistening in streams of sunlight. Giant rafflesia flowers about half a meter across, attracting flies with their rotting odour. Down the steam until the vista opened through a narrow canyon to the sea. About 50 metres below, the sea raging, and all around, jungle clinging to the cliffs. We sat and contemplated the beauty of it all, big thunderous clouds on the horizon.

With Carrie and guide in the nature reserve at Panganderan (Photo by Robert)

We crossed over a big hill to a grassy area, to see deer and buffalo grazing in the setting sunlight. We paid our guide on the beach, the sunset silhouetting kids frolicking in the surf.

I’ve been writing this in the restaurant of my hotel, kids leaning over the fence to watch the satellite TV direct program of cartoons from Malaysia. Heading off to a restaurant recommended by our guide for authentic local cuisine. I’ll meet Robert and Carrie there I hope.

9.45pm. That restaurant had run out of authentic Indonesian food, so we went to the warung I went to last night. Robert and Carrie were so happy to get a really authentic meal. Robert speaks Indonesian well, and had the locals entertained with stories about an earlier Indonesia, a place that those villagers would have never experienced before, saved me a lot of work too. I feel so relaxed after such a nice meal and friendly time. 

Robert and Carrie were both born in Indonesia. They both left Indonesia as youngsters after World War Two, and have bad memories of the Japanese occupation. Carrie’s father was imprisoned and tortured by the Japanese, he did not survive. They had never returned to Indonesia, so this time is an emotional experience for them. Carrie is part Indonesian, and loves to cook Indonesian food in Holland, but she hasn’t had the courage to return here until now.

Monday 8th April 1991
Return to Jogyakarta.

4.20pm. Just arrived back at the “Rose” in Jogykarta, had a shower, and sitting by the pool waiting for iced juice. 

This morning we caught the minibus from Pangandaran at 6am. It was a short ride through green hills to the ferry on the river at Kalipucang. People crowding small barges crossing the river in the morning mist, muddy water swirling swiftly downstream. 

 
 barge crossing the river at Kalipucang, Java

Locals loaded with their produce, filling up the small ferry. I was sitting near a young mother with a pretty baby. Old ladies with broken straw hats smoking fat hand rolled cigarettes. Men were lolling about on a raised wooden platform, women on another. 

A lady was selling Indonesian snacks fresh from her kitchen, and still hot. I had two dumplings named onde onde - rolled in sesame seeds with a centre of gooey palm sugar and beans, delicious. Robert and Carrie had great fun trying all the different foods.

Down the river, we flowed past collapsing banks, due no doubt to the river traffic. We called in at makeshift jetties, where passengers could leap on or off. The river began to widen, and mangroves began to dot the shoreline as we neared the ocean. We were sheltered most of the way by a very big island off the coast, so it seemed like a river all the way.

I noticed that Robert had moved to a far corner of the ferry. He looked lonely, staring at the passing shoreline, so I went to him, but he didn’t speak. Close up, he actually looked stricken. Alarmed, I went back to Carrie, who suggested I leave him to himself, and she would explain later.

A burning oil refinery appeared out of the coconut trees as we neared Cilacap, where we disembarked 4 hours from our departure. 

Straight to the waiting air-con minibus to Jogyakarta - checked out the hotel recommended by our smart looking lady trip guide, but we didn’t like it. She was not pleased with us - no doubt worrying about losing her commission. It is so unlike an Indonesian to show displeasure to tourists, guess she is trying to relate to western thinking - certainly looked the part. However she did get all the other people to stay there, and instructed the driver to take us to my suggestion, “The Rose”. Robert and Carrie seem happy with their room here, and I have a room similar to the one I had before.

9.30pm. Back from downtown Jogya and becak rides. The restaurant recommended in the guide book was good, but the meat tough. There would be hundreds of restaurants and hotels in Jogya, and yet incredibly, the travelling show band that entertained me previously, arrived at our restaurant looking for new victims. Perhaps they recognised me as someone who doesn’t pay much, and didn’t come near our table. If only they knew it, Robert and Carrie would probably have been far more generous than I had been. It reminds me of my early dining out experiences in Australia, where visiting flower sellers would always ask if I would like to buy flowers for the lady. It was very difficult to say no, I would not like to buy her any flowers, right in front of her. Selling flowers or music, I guess it’s the same thing, people trying to make a living.

Main street Jogya was crammed with cars, becak, street vendors, and people on the move, we had to be careful not to be bowled over. Scary, but safer in the becak, gliding seemingly without effort through the morass, then without warning turning down a side lane almost empty of people and it’s suddenly very quiet, like floating through space - Indonesia, land of contrasts. This brings to mind something that happened a few days ago. Sitting in the minibus from Bandung, we had stopped, it was hot and airless, we opened some windows, and as the minibus moved away, there was a quick sensation of coolness. It was a feeling of paradise for just a few seconds. Anyone who has travelled on an airless bus in Indonesia would know what I mean. Indonesians keep the windows closed for fear of “Masuk angin” (catch a cold), which literally translates as “Wind entering”.

On the ferry earlier today, from time to time a man released one or two of his caged pigeons. They would circle around the ferry, and then head for home. 

Tuesday 9th April 1991
Selo, Java

3pm. Writing this in a dimly lit room at Agung Losmen at Selo, in the mountains out of Jogya. It’s pouring rain outside with claps of thunder. A thousand metres high here, so it’s nice and cool, bordering on cold. Outside are the steep slopes of Mount Merapi, deep green with patches of trees.

This morning at the “Rose”, I had a hot shower in the vacant room next to mine, because my shower wasn’t working. I wish I had a shower place here, but it’s only a mandi with floating insects. Maybe all that won’t matter when I come back sweaty from an attempt at climbing Mount Merapi tomorrow.

I caught two buses to get here, and had to wait a long time for the second bus in the village of Blabak, passing the time in a warung having iced tea, lumpia (spring rolls), and conversation with the nice lady owner. The bus arrived, so I grabbed a seat up the front of the bus, which quickly filled with passengers, as we crept higher up the steep slopes. Views of the countryside became more pretty.

The guide here “Yanto” seems like a nice man. After I agreed to go with him, he told me about a German who went up alone, then fell and died. (All for the sake of saving $7 for a guide, or was it bravado?).

I ate gado gado with rice and orange juice. A local boy gave me one of his kerupuk (crackers) to have with it. I went over to the warung and bought more kerupuk, peanuts, cakes, bananas, and water for tomorrow. My guide says he is bringing his own food, but since he was also at the warung, I bought him water. He will come over at 1am to get me up. I have fresh batteries, plus he will also have a torch, so hope it has stopped raining by then. They said that if raining during the day, none at night, so here’s hoping. It’s still thundering, so maybe it’s just a storm. It sounds different here, so high up. Feel like getting some rest now, hopefull sleep.

Wednesday 10th April 1991

Today a beautiful young lady fell from the bus as it was stopping. I can’t write any more today.

Thursday 11th April 1991 

Jogyakarta, Java

7am. I feel much better today thanks to Robert and Carrie. They took me out to dinner last night in Jogya, and insisted on paying - a big meal.

I was so glad when they came back from their tour of Borobudur. I just had to tell someone about the accident, so I told them, in the pool. Robert put his arm on my shoulder, and told me to come out with them, and have a good meal. It turned out to be a really nice night, with the old lady from the restaurant, speaking Dutch with them, and Robert kindly telling them I was a good person. The old lady’s grand-daughter sat with us - sixteen years old and so gentle, but had to finish school, because she has eight sisters and brothers. She was anxious to learn English. It seems such a pity that she was the one who had to miss out on an education.

Just when we were leaving, some local boys at a nearby table asked us if we wanted to sing a song. Robert knew an old Dutch/Indonesian song which they sang. Then Robert asked for the guitar and to my surprise, played and sang some rousing Dutch songs - they loved it. I noticed the old lady having a few smiles, because she understood the words. They insisted on more songs, so it was hard to get away, and so ended a very big and eventful day.

The day began in the foothills of Mount Merapi at Selo, when they woke me from a fitful sleep of bizarre and realistic dreams. I put it down to the altitude. Three Germans had arrived, so now we had two guides, and would share the cost. It didn’t matter to me, but the couple of dollars difference to them seemed important. But they were young, and nice people, and that’s the way it was for me once. The single German guy teamed up with me and Yanto, and after coffee, set off at 1am.

The walk went up through the village to a path between terraced fields of cabbages. I was already breathing heavily, and wondering how I would make the distance. The track was eroded earth but with plenty of stones. We could see the flashlight of another group further up. Then other flashlights appeared behind us, but much further down. In the cool quiet mountain air, the guides had no trouble communicating with each other, and sharing information such as where they were and how their tourists were going. We sat down in a bamboo shelter and drank some water - it never tasted so good. The German guy brought out his altimeter, it read 1,800 metres - we had only climbed 800 metres with more than 1,000 metres to go. I concealed my panic as the others seemed to be having no difficulty.

Up we went through stunted trees and thick undergrowth. We stopped again at the first marker, there are four to the top. I was glad to eat some banana, crackers, and a small cake Yanto gave me. It seemed to renew my strength.

After going a short distance, we stopped and waited, while Yanto answered the guide calling out from below us. Soon an English guy appeared out of the darkness, and explained that the girl with him, was too slow, and he wanted to get to the top by sunrise. He joined us. 

Suddenly my torch stopped working. They waited while I changed batteries, but it was no use, the bulb must have blown. Yanto went ahead, and kept shining his torch back for me, but at first it was difficult. I was so glad to be wearing big boots with protection over the ankles and good tread. I could not have made it without them because of the slippery terrain and the rocks.

The steep sections began, and Yanto helped me up many times. We reached the ledge where a year ago, the German fell to his death. The moon had risen from behind a cloud, and thankfully shone more light on the surroundings, even though the moon was only crescent shaped. It was like a compensation for my torchless ascent.
Scrambling over bigger boulders, we reached a memorial to an Indonesian who fell from there in 1983. Up an easier section to a plateau, and another memorial to three Indonesians who perished from exposure. According to Yanto, the weather had worsened, and they couldn’t find their way down. They died on the mountain. Again, they had no guide.

It was a nice feeling to go down a slight slope, where I waited with Yanto while he had his last meal of the day. Like many Indonesians, he is fasting from dawn to dusk for Ramadan, for one month. How can he do all this without even a sip of water?

Now we began what turned out to be the final section, steep with loose rocks and sand. Smoke smelling of sulphur poured from between hot wet looking rocks, gleaming in the torchlight. Down on all fours, my heart was really thumping, but I found enough energy to reach the black edge of the first crater. By now we could see the deep red glow of the sun over the horizon. Yanto said “oh clouds coming”, so I quickly took a picture of the sunrise there. Almost straight away we became enclosed in streaming clouds. 

Then up a short distance to a high clump of rocks, and all I could say was “Bagus, bagus, bagus” (Fantastic). I just couldn’t stop saying it. There right in front of me was a narrow ridge leading to a tall single black looking boulder about ten metres high at the end of the ridge, the absolute summit. Between streams of cloud, there were distant volcanoes, and deep valleys thousands of metres below us, enveloped by a pink horizon. It was a feeling of immensity that lasted minutes.

        With guides at sunrise on the summit of Mount Merapi, Java.

Peering over the edge of the crater into the black depths, an evil eye of red molten lava was blinking far below. To slip over the edge, would be a fatal terror beyond belief.  An icy wind hit the crater, which seemed to form clouds that poured out like huge puffs of smoke. Soon we were enveloped in the cloud. I put on my wet weather jacket, and sheltered behind the boulder, the guides shivering with the cold, while the others were taking flashes. We waited but it became apparent that the clouds were here to stay, so we began the descent.

The wind was now blowing gaseous fumes across our path, which started us coughing. Fairly soon we were in a kind of misty cloud, and with the sun now up, we could see the absolutely breathtaking panorama around us, steep slopes of huge black boulders and grey black sand cut in gutters by the rain. As we went below the mist, we could see deep green ridges far below, with cuttings leading from previous eruptions over millennia. We were on Indonesia’s most dangerous volcano 2, 911 metres high.

                              View descending Mount Merapi, Java.

Great views denied to us on the way up, made good subjects for photography on the way down. I took photos of my guide Yanto, who has asked me to send them to him. The German girl had good looking sneakers on, but was slipping, and hurt her leg. I stayed back with her, until we caught up to the others waiting further down. It seemed like we would never get down, the village of Selo hardly seemed to get any closer. As we finally went down the steep street of the village, my legs were hurting but felt strong enough to continue.

                                Yanto, guide on Mount Merapi, Java

We paid Yanto, who probably needed a rest. We arrived at the losmen at 10am, four and a half hours up and three and a half down. I had a painfully icy but refreshing mandi, and then joined the others (who didn’t brave the water) for pancakes. They said the bus wouldn’t be there for another hour, so I went to my room to rest.

Fairly soon the losmen boy came running up to say the bus was here. Grabbed my things and threw myself in the back of the bus. We picked up local country people on the way, all dressed up to go to town. I was in the back wide seat. At one stop, a beautiful looking girl about 18 to 20 years old hopped in the back, happy and smiling. Dressed in smart jeans, and clutching a plastic bag. She sat briefly beside me, and then moved to a vacant seat further up.

As we approached Magelang, the bus was stopping. I didn’t see, but heard the crash of glass. The bus stopped, and right beside the open back door, I froze to see that beautiful girl half on the ground and half against the tree, she had fallen from the front door of the moving bus. Her plastic bag was on the ground, with the contents of the broken bottles pathetically spilling on the dirt. She was right there beside me, I felt stunned with a sick feeling of horror. In an instant the conductor jumped out and tried to lift her up, and at the same time the bus moved away and the conductor jumped back in. A few passengers shouted something, and the bus slowed, allowing the conductor to jump off again and run back, but the bus didn’t stop. As we sped away, some villagers were running towards her. It was over in seconds. I felt a sudden sense of shame that I didn’t jump out. She fell from the front door, and the bus stopped exactly where I could see her from the back door. It was as if the stage was perfectly set to force me out of my self-centred existence. Oh God forgive me. You gave me a gift, and I failed to take it. What the hell is wrong with me?

I have tried, but I can’t get it out of my mind - the suffering of the innocent. I hope is that she was not hurt badly, and I know that there were people rushing to help her. I had just climbed Indonesia’s most dangerous volcano in the dark without a torch, and felt such immense pride that I had done it, but now all that feeling came crashing down with the realisation that our achievements are nothing compared to the sufferings of others. Human suffering seems to have no meaning unless it is witnessed. That’s when you find out if you are part of the human family.

I changed buses, and kept my head down all the way to Jogya. Even the becak drivers didn’t pester me on my walk to the hotel - I strode it out with immense purpose. I had a shower and fell on the bed crying my eyes out, it was just awful. I recovered enough to get in the pool, and at sunset Robert and Carrie came back. I was feeling a great need to talk to somebody, and I was just so grateful that they listened.

I will catch the night bus with Robert and Carrie to Bali. I am lucky to have such kind company.

Friday 12th April 1991

Bali, again.

8pm.  Happy to be back in Bali, I am sitting on the patio of Jepun Homestay in Campuhan, near Ubud. It’s approximately the middle of Bali and in the foothills of the mountains. It’s quiet except for the frogs and crickets, and the indistinct murmur of Balinese language from the office area.

Yesterday morning in Jogya, Robert went to pick up a manual for his now broken camera he’d bought in Singapore, while I had a swim in the pool with Carrie. It was there in the water, where Carrie chose to tell me about Robert, and let me know the reason why he acted so strangely on the ferry down the river to Cilacap. It was from the harbour at Cilacap, our ferry’s destination, that Robert’s father was taken away in a ship by the Japanese in World War Two, a journey of no return. All our days in Pangandaran, Robert and Carrie would have been preparing themselves for their journey into that dark memory, and I had no idea. 

Out of the cold pool and into a hot shower, threw my things in the bag, and left them in the front office at checkout time, 1pm. We walked together to Restaurant Lies, pronounced Lease, on the corner, where we met the old lady and grand-daughter. They have been so kind, and brought out Robert and Carrie’s favourite dishes. We ate a huge meal, and didn’t finish until 2.45pm. Hurried back to the “Rose” after many goodbyes, and caught the bus just after 3pm. An old bus, but was comfortable with air-con and reclining seats.

At last we arrived at the ferry to Bali, and waited for 5 hours because the bus was too late to catch the earlier ferry. We saw a golden sunrise over Bali, lighting up an island that to me, had the appearance of The Promised Land, just across the water.

The passenger ferries were loading and unloading people carrying all kinds of baggage. Boys fishing on the jetties catching small silver fish, and Indonesians sitting under an awning, in perfect rows of plastic pink seats, waiting for their turn to board a ferry.

I can’t remember how it was, or how I felt, waiting for this ferry, when I floated into Bali for the first time in 1976. I do remember that I was travelling with Ernie, who I met on a bus from Brisbane to Darwin in 1975. With incredibly bad timing, we bought tickets to fly to Bali, just when the war in Timor started, and stopped us, because in those days, the little plane from Darwin to Bali went via Timor to refuel. Eventually a Qantas flight from Sydney to Singapore made an unscheduled stopover in Darwin, and we were some of the stranded people on it, bound for Singapore instead. Ernie and I rode a freighter to Borneo, and eventually made it to the Bali ferry. 

Bali was not the tourist destination it has become, it was an artist mecca, where you could paint pictures or learn traditional dancing. It was also just another port for cruise ships, and a beach place for travellers on the trail between Australia and London. You could stay at the one international high rise hotel “Bali Beach” at Sanur, or the smaller Indonesian style hotels in and around the capital, Denpasar, or a shack on the beach in the Kuta, Legian area. We stayed at all three. Well, at the high rise Bali Beach Hotel we only stayed in their huge pool. 

Ernie and I saw well-heeled tourists beginning to arrive. Along the track which was the main road through Kuta to the beach, there were almost no cars, but an occasional 1950’s style “Yank Tank” would slowly drift by, with well-dressed Westerners looking out the car windows at the “hippies”, but never getting out of the car. We didn’t need to meet them, there were enough incredible people there already. The authorities however, were worried - there was a sign posted on Kuta beach, on sand practically empty by today’s standards, asking people to refrain from completely removing clothing due to local sensitivities. I never saw anyone flouting that law, but you only had to go away from the beach, to see local people washing themselves as nature intended, in irrigation canals and rivers, it was truly a natural paradise.

On today’s ferry, I threw some excess coins in the water, while boys on the high upper deck dived, retrieving the coins every time. I was on the top deck myself for the cool sea breeze during the half hour crossing. I bargained with the shoeshine boy, from 500 down to 200 Rp to clean my boots. He did such a good job, I gave him 500 anyway. Once we were in Denpasar, I bargained the chartered bemo back from 20,000 to 10,000 Rp - Robert seemed impressed. I had always let him do the bargaining, but he let me do it on my own territory so to speak. I had the ace up my sleeve, knowing more about where we were going. If you are the one who bargains, then you have no right to be disappointed after negotiations, but if you have to watch someone else bargain, and then pay half, well then, what can you do?

Our driver took the bumpy back road to Ubud. We stopped when his radiator boiled, but he lifted the cap straight off, “no worries” he said, just like an Aussie. Steam was gushing out, while he straight away tipped his water container in, probably a regular event.

On arrival in Ubud, we checked out Hotel Ananda, beautiful but they wanted US$30 plus tax per night. I saw the owner Pargeh, who is brother-in-law of my friend Suamba, and explained that we might have to go to another hotel because his was too expensive, and he simply said “ok”. Last time I came to Bali, Pargeh found out I was staying here at Jepun Homestay, and told me to stay at his place, which I did, for the same price, about $7 at that time, and it was the same room! It seems strange that the wheel has turned full circle, and I am back here at Jepun Homestay, but it’s very nice, and less than $12 with breakfast. Lovely trees and flowers, and sitting areas over the stream dotted with lotus and nibbling goldfish.
 That is where we were when Johnny arrived. After introducing himself, (he is quite charismatic), he took us in his car to a warung where we had a nice meal. After the meal, I surprised him by saying I would walk up the road to see my friend Suamba, while he (Johnny) took Robert and Carrie back to the losmen. Suamba was not at home, just his oldest son Eka and a nephew. Everyone was bathing at the river, and Suamba was in Ubud.

The rambutan trees are weighed down at this time with rich red berries. I can’t remember seeing the trees so weighed down with fruit, so I mustn’t have been here at this season before, incredible if true I know. They gave me a bunch of rambutans while we waited for a bemo. Eka waited with me, he is a good boy. It started pouring. 

I took shelter in a doorway until the bemo came, but half of me got wet. It didn’t matter, and the bemo was filled with happy well-dressed locals going to the temple, the children dressed up in dazzling headbands of gold thread and flowers. I felt like the shabby looking foreigner that I am. The Balinese can be such an immaculate race. The more I come here, the more obvious it is, especially after the conservatively clothed and serious natured Javanese. It is like entering another country.

I joined Robert and Carrie for coffee by the stream (pond really), where Robert and I recalled some funny stories from our pasts. They are tired out, and have now gone to bed. I should also sleep, the journey from Jogya to here was 21 hours.

Saturday 13th April 1991
11pm. At Jepun Homestay in Campuhan, Bali

After breakfast with Robert and Carrie, I caught a bemo to Bunutan. Suamba was sitting with wife Kandru in their meeting place for guests. Kandru served coffee and boiled bananas in coconut. There was a lot of talk about Alec. Suamba showed me a letter written yesterday by Alec, all about going to Gianyar to sign a contract for the house Suamba built for him, words used like ”please do not let me down”. Suamba told me he has no intention of signing it because of the money Alec owes him, and others, so there’s trouble ahead here.

Suamba brought me back to Homestay Jepun on his motorbike. We were both wearing hats but no helmets when we came up to a police blockade, they waved us through - “You are very lucky” said Suamba. He went on to Ubud, promising to return at 6pm and have dinner with us. Robert and Carrie returned from a walk in the rice fields, and a look through Neka Museum. 
We caught a bemo to the warung in Kedewatan for lunch. While waiting for the bemo back, Carrie gave a pad and pens to two little girls walking past. From there we caught a bemo to Ubud. I bought a new torch bulb plus a spare. Robert and Carrie bought tickets to Jakarta, for this Friday. 

Walking back, we looked around Hotel Campuhan. Robert wants his brother to stay there when he comes here next year. We almost reached Jepun when we saw Peter and Lisa, a friendly young American couple, whom I originally met on the bus from Bandung to Panganderan. We invited them back to Jepun for a drink.

I was having a shower when Suamba arrived. He went to Ananda, and brought back a car with a young driver named Ketut, who took us to a food market in Ubud. I didn’t know it existed, but Suamba said it has only been going a few months - a variety of warungs lit by Tilley lamps, selling a variety of foods - Babi guling (BBQ pork), Chinese, Madura soup with goat satay, murtabak (Indian omelette), fried bananas, es campur, and other Indonesian mysteries . We had a tasty meal together, sharing a glass of arak (locally distilled moonshine), and sang happy birthday to Carrie. We finally left after getting treats from other stalls, only to discover that our driver Ketut had been faithfully waiting in his car for us all that time.

Robert, Carrie, and I talked for a while at the pond, and I started writing after they went to bed. Sometimes it’s hard to let go of a nice day.

Sunday 14th April 1991  - 11pm,

Campuhan, Bali

We set off this morning on our tour, in a new looking air-con bus at 9am with Robert and Carrie, Peter and Lisa, driver Ketut, and Suamba, our guide. First stop, the nearby Kupu-Kupu Bungalows, a magnificent location, just down the valley from where in simpler times, I lived in Suamba’s hut, which he originally built for his Australian girlfriend, Fabia, who also stayed there. Speaking of relationships, I am sure Suamba would agree that sometimes you can tell a fish is there, but actually catching it, is not always guaranteed. I was there for a lot of that relationship, and stayed in Suamba’s hut for free. Along the ridge at Kupu Kupu Bungalows they charge US$325 per night. 

After Kupu Kupu, we entered Suamba’s village of Bunutan, and to his father’s house, where I first ventured away from the hotel life. I remember how the old man had kept his deceased wife’s beautiful long hair, which was displayed on the wall of my room. Today, Suamba explained to our tour group about the standard layout of a Balinese family compound of houses. I didn’t know it before, but the distance between houses is literally measured by the owner stepping it out. This way it suits the individual owner, because a bigger body means it’s all further apart, and therefore more comfortable. 

We drove down the road, and walked through the rice fields to the expansive panorama and Suamba’s hut where I used to stay. It’s now a dilapidated storage shed, and the land has been bought by Pargeh (Suamba’s brother-in-law and owner of Ananda). I then realised why Pargeh didn’t bargain with us at Ananda, he didn’t need to. Pargeh bought the land in partnership with a man from Java. Apparently they paid about $9,000 for each 10 x 10 metres - a ridiculously high price said Suamba, but I guess some people in the village who used to be land owners, now have more money to spend, and must think highly of Pargeh for raising their standard of living. 

It was a lot of land from the fields above the high cliffs, right down to the winding river, a magnificent panorama up and down the valley to the distant coast, where at night in years gone by, I would sit in my hut and see the lights of the big far away jets silently landing and taking off, behind a screen of floating glow worms. 

As time used to go by, I would wonder what was happening in the world. An old man with teeth blackened from chewing betel nut, would sometimes leave his shack near the river and pass by my hut, to give me some greens from his garden, or a shrimp from the water, in exchange for a cigarette. Small boys with plastic bags of dragon flies caught using sugar tipped poles, fried them on my little kerosene stove, and we would eat together. Daring youths would venture there to practice their English language skills, but never their parents. Let’s face it, if you knew of a foreigner living in a hut outside your town, would you go anywhere near him? I think not.

Suamba stayed a while sometimes, and we would talk late into the night, sustained by boiling strong coffee over the little kero stove. Ida Bagus Mantra joined us once, what an honour, and we talked until sunrise.  When I look back now, I see the kindness of Suamba, he didn’t have to bother with me but he did, I owe him a great deal. 

In the dream fantasy I lived, I would tell him how I wished I had been born in Bali, to which he would reply “You will never be Balinese”, bringing me down to earth with a thud. It all made me wonder about how we treat the foreigner, and now, after having the experience of being one, it was a surprise to me to learn that it seemed natural to be rejected. At night as I lay in bed, my tiny visitors the rats, would squeak as they played, but I put up a mosquito net when I woke to find them chewing my hair, but they didn’t eat much.

A walk each week to the village became a big event. I would sit and talk with the locals in a quiet warung, away from the main road, and spend the evening drinking coffee, smoking kretek cigarettes, and eating snacks from little plastic bags. And now it makes me wonder why I didn’t buy that land when it was offered to me by Suamba so cheaply all those years ago. I like to believe that I would have left it as the natural paradise it is, but I remember Suamba saying to me at the time, nothing stays the same, and one day there will be hotels all over these lands. It seems to be coming true.

Our tour group strolled back to Bunutan village, someone was thatching a roof with long dry grass and bamboo. At nearby Payangan village, we looked through the once every 3 days market. I bought manggis (mangosteen) fruits. Suamba asked Ketut the driver to stop on a pretty side road where we walked for a while past lush jungle and water pouring down embankments, nice to stick the feet under. 

Back in the car, we climbed up the slope through the villages. It began raining, which soon stopped, revealing clove trees, coffee bushes, and higher up, rows of cabbages.  We reached the top at Kintamani, only to find the cone of the Batur volcano and crater lake covered in cloud. We stopped at a temple overlooking an expansive panorama. Peered over the stone wall taking pictures of colourfully clothed Balinese, squatting on the ground in front of a big bamboo altar festooned with flowers. I had no idea what was going on. It all looked so mystical, with the people and temple buildings sometimes half obscured by swirling clouds.

Just as we drove down the road to the lookout, the clouds drifted up just in time to reveal the volcanic cone and lake. Down the hills towards Sebatu, we stopped on a high bridge. People appeared from nowhere desperate to sell wood carvings. Where did they come from? I couldn’t imagine many tourists stopping there. I think they were a little crazy as well. I bought a really good carving from a gangly, foppish looking boy with bright red lipstick on. It was all so wonderfully strange. Just down the road I became involved with the owner of a shop selling Bali crafts - before I knew it, I was bargaining again for a carved wooden box with lid. I bought that also, for a ridiculously low price. He said he spent two days making it. No one else bought anything.

We stopped for an authentic Balinese meal, the soup was really hot stuff, but tasty. At Sebatu, spring water feeding big pools teaming with huge goldfish. Robert threw in some bread to see them thrashing about. I went into the men’s section to bathe. Villagers were standing under stone pipes gushing with spring water. Peter came in, and Suamba handed us a tiny satchel of shampoo and his soap. Some local boys were peeping through cracks in the stone walls at the women’s section. They seemed completely unashamed about it, and no one took any notice of them except Suamba, who said something in the Balinese language which made them smile.

Down the road we drove through endless green rice fields to Petulu, where the high trees were beginning to be dotted with white cranes. They fly there every evening to rest. It must be true, considering the white carpets over the road. “It is good for the fertilizer” commented Suamba.

Returning to our homestay Jepun, I shared the cost with Robert and Carrie. Peter and Lisa had a free day. Suamba and Ketut left, and the conversation went on until we walked very late to the Ubud night market for dinner. Many warung closed, but we ate soup Madura and satay goat - well that’s what we were told, and kind of hope it was. I was pleased when Peter paid for it all after we had paid for his tour. We couldn’t get transport so walked back, cooled with drops of rain.  It will be great to be in bed and listen to the rain now falling heavily, broken only by the sounds of crickets and frogs.

Monday 15th April 1991

Campuhan, Bali 

I went on public bemos to Kuta today. No mail. Walked through the rain, bought biscuits and gave them to Komang at Bunut Garden Losmen. She was busy preparing many offerings with the boy and girl workers at the losmen, all the while carrying the baby. The offerings almost covered the entire patio. Komang still seemed to have time to make me coffee. I sat on the step with nothing to do but look at the rain. She peeled a mango for me to eat. I noticed skin rashes on her arms. I took my cassette player and a few things from the bag I had stored there, and left things I’m finished with. I must have caught the last bemos back to Ubud, so was lucky again.

It was just on dark, when walking back to Jepun, I met Robert and Carrie driving down the road with Johnny. They invited me to the dinner and dance performance, but said I wanted to get home, and would see them when they return. Called in at Ananda, Komang’s husband Ketut not there, so couldn’t give him the antiseptic I had bought for Komang’s skin rashes before I left Kuta, so left it with a family friend there. Tour driver Ketut also not at Ananda, so couldn’t talk to him about arranging another tour. Arrived here in a sweat, had a welcome shower, and sitting out here on the patio sipping coffee and listening to some welcome music on headphones.

9.30pm. I had a meal nearby, only one person there, me. A boy was playing a bamboo gamelan, but so quietly. I have been waiting for Robert and Carrie to return, but think I will call it a day. A day that went nowhere but am now feeling better, that’s what can happen.

Monday 15th April 1991

Campuhan, Bali 

I went on public bemos to Kuta today. No mail. Walked through the rain, bought biscuits and gave them to Komang at Bunut Garden Losmen. She was busy preparing many offerings with the boy and girl workers at the losmen, all the while carrying the baby. The offerings almost covered the entire patio. Komang still seemed to have time to make me coffee. I sat on the step with nothing to do but look at the rain. She peeled a mango for me to eat. I noticed skin rashes on her arms. I took my cassette player and a few things from the bag I had stored there, and left things I’m finished with. I must have caught the last bemos back to Ubud, so was lucky again.

It was just on dark, when walking back to Jepun, I met Robert and Carrie driving down the road with Johnny. They invited me to the dinner and dance performance, but said I wanted to get home, and would see them when they return. Called in at Ananda, Komang’s husband Ketut not there, so couldn’t give him the antiseptic I had bought for Komang’s skin rashes before I left Kuta, so left it with a family friend there. Tour driver Ketut also not at Ananda, so couldn’t talk to him about arranging another tour. Arrived here in a sweat, had a welcome shower, and sitting out here on the patio sipping coffee and listening to some welcome music on headphones.

9.30pm. I had a meal nearby, only one person there, me. A boy was playing a bamboo gamelan, but so quietly. I have been waiting for Robert and Carrie to return, but think I will call it a day. A day that went nowhere but am now feeling better, that’s what can happen.

Wednesday 17th April 1991

Bali, on tour

7am. I didn’t make a diary entry yesterday, as it was a full day, no time to write. Yesterday I was up at 6am, walked around to Ananda asking for tour driver Ketut, and to Peter and Lisa in Ubud, so I could get our next tour underway. Walked back to Jepun, had a shower then breakfast. Robert and Carrie told me that last night they had come to a temporary arrangement with Johnny for 200,000 Rp for a 3 day tour, but I said his car might not be big enough, because maybe Peter and Lisa were coming. Tour driver Ketut arrived and we discussed the tour with him. I was, I realise now, arrogantly pleased to steer things Ketut’s way, but Peter and Lisa arrived to tell me they couldn’t go with us, because they wanted to see a wedding ceremony the next day. This news unwittingly created a dilemma of loyalty to either Johnny or Ketut. But Ketut was there with us, so we set off. Poor Johnny, I hope he wasn’t desperate for money. Sometimes I am too enthusiastic to help someone, and lose sight of the fact that in helping someone rise, someone else can fall. 

We stopped in Ubud to pick up Robert and Carrie’s flight tickets Denpasar-Jakarta. Next stop the Elephant Cave (Goa Gajah), then drove higher through the hills to Bangli, stopping at a simple cremation in progress under the trees, near a temple. 

Beautiful views on the way to Bali’s holiest temple at Besakih, where we ate with a couple of hungry dogs jumping up to snatch the food right off the plates, had to be chased away a few times. We sheltered from the rain under one of the temple roofs with some kids, who had a lot of laughs with Robert. I looked beyond the hills, down to the sea, like a dawn coming from the rain. We stepped inside the main temple area. A small group of vividly dressed Balinese were praying, a gamelan orchestra playing hypnotically simple rhythms.

We drank coffee with Ketut, then on through the hills. At Bukit Putung a high view to the ocean. Darkness fell as we approached our historic looking losmen at Tirtagangga, the Dhangin Taman Inn, which I was told, is Balinese for East Garden Inn. 

Thursday 18th April 1991

Bali, on tour

Yesterday began at Tirtagangga with delicious black rice pudding for breakfast. I had a swim with Robert and Ketut in the nearby pool of the Water Palace, the spring water gushing from the mouths of stone demonic looking creatures. 

Leaving there, Ketut drove on slowly through the south east corner of Bali, stopping for us to take pictures. Robert and Carrie gave gifts to poor looking mountain kids working in the fields near the road.We travelled along the coast to the north, with the highest mountain in Bali Mount Agung on our left, swathed in stormy looking clouds, and the hilly ground dotted with large boulders fallen there from the 1963 eruption.

At Tulamben, we stopped by the sea for a tea break. We sat on cane chairs, with the sea two metres away, gushing over smooth black stones. A few tourists were snorkelling.

We drove on up the east coast past poor looking villagers, poor looking country and goats. We passed through the old northern Dutch capital city of Bali Singaraja, and arrived at the main tourist centre of the north, Lovina Beach. Carrie not feeling well and said she would rest up. Robert and I went for a swim right in front of our “Losmen Tasik Madu”, translated as “Hotel Honey Lake”. The sea was clear despite the rain, and a lovely temperature, no waves, just in fact like a lake. Robert found a sarong in the water, so I stretched it out on the beach, and lay down so that my feet were in the water. Robert later told me I looked like the king of the place, with the fisherman hauling a big net in all around me. Robert lent a hand, and soon small silver fish were leaping about in the arms of the net. 

Later, Robert came to my balcony upstairs, where we could look over the ocean. He told me he was a boy when the Japanese invaded Indonesia in World War Two. Boys were taken from home and placed in internment camps, and so it was with Robert. The day came when Robert was to be put on a train and taken away to the internment camp. His mother packed his little bag, and when he was on the train, Robert opened his bag to find inside a large cooked chicken. Robert had helped look after the family chickens, but his favourite was the big chicken, and he just knew this big cooked one was it. “I couldn’t eat it, and gave it away to the other boys” he explained. 

Ketut came back from seeing his friend, and the three of us, Robert, Ketut, and I walked to the warung for dinner. Nice pisang susu (small milky tasting bananas) on the table. Some kids there wanting to join in on the conversation - “By day she sells sea shells by the sea shore”. One kid could say it so well, that I think other tourists have told him that one. Stuck there by the rain, but didn’t mind. After about two hours, walked back in lighter drops past the tourist restaurants, they seemed so lifeless after the warmth of a Balinese warung.

After check out this morning, we drove up into the hills to the Buddhist monastery. No speaking inside. Some monks in orange robes were slowly stepping out their walking meditations. Two halls, with gold Buddhas, offerings, flowers, fruit, incense. Nearby, a short drive to the hot springs, not so hot but the water felt milky. Luxuriously warm water was pouring from demon heads, and another section higher up, with pipes - a real pummelling.

We backtracked from the hot springs to Losmen Tasik Madu again, and the reason? Before Ketut and I left in our shared room, I put a 10,000 Rp note on the table, telling Ketut it was for him to buy fruit for his mum, because we would be stopping at the fruit markets. His mum has eight kids and her husband has died. At the hot springs, Ketut asked me if I had picked up the money from the table. But I left it there for Ketut to pick up. I didn’t notice it because the note was the same colour as the tablecloth, so thought he had picked it up. A creeping feeling of suspicion grew over me, and knowing I wasn’t born yesterday, I decided to string it along and see where it would go, rather than just hand another 10,000 Rp note to Ketut. With a heavy heart, I walked into the losmen saying I left 10,000 Rp in my room, and they handed over 10,000 Rp straight away. I had silently thought Ketut maybe had pocketed the original note, so that he could get another one. How easy it is for my mind to slip into suspicion, when I really want to believe the best in people. Nothing bad actually happened, it was all in my mind, but it was sorted.

I once asked a very spiritual Balinese lady why the Balinese don’t chase dogs away from eating their beautifully prepared offerings after they are placed. She explained that it was in the giving of the offering that the spiritual benefit is obtained, and it shouldn’t matter to us what happens to the gift after that. My generosity to Ketut turned sour in my mind, because I was attached to the result of my gift, even though I had let it go.

I quickly gave Ketut the 10,000 Rp, before we went back to Robert and Carrie in the bus, I had told them the half-truth that I left 10,000 Rp in the room. Last night there was another dilemma, but not serious. Robert and Carrie give me so much, such as paying for meals, but last night in the warung, the “sea shells by the seashore” boy ate two of our bananas, but when I went to pay extra for the bananas, Robert called out that I shouldn’t pay for the bananas, but I paid anyway. While this was going on, the boy was slurping down a bottle of drink, and asked me to pay for that as well, but I didn’t. He probably had to wash the dishes after we left.

We drove back to Singaraja along the coast through an avenue of trees planted by the road long ago. About half way over the mountain range, we stopped at Gitgit (it means bite), for a walk through bamboo and steep mountain slopes to a raging waterfall. Put only my feet in the icy water, they didn’t believe it was icy until they tried it. Ketut our driver by now continuously joking about my favourite words ”Look at that”, or the sea shells boy’s favourite words “Sexy bottom”. Everything is “No worries” to the Balinese - no worries no food, no worries no bed, you name it, no worries. 

Driving through the mountain rain, and down past monkeys by the road, we reached the fresh water lakes at Bedugul. A temple half submerged in the lake, with Indonesians zooming over it in high powered speed boats, what a contrast. At the temple area, Ketut asked us to wear sarong, but I didn’t notice anyone else bothering. It was so much cooler up there after the coast.

Nearby were the big fruit markets of Bali. Vendors were breaking up fruits for us to try. I bargained with a girl at a simple stall for a cooked piece of corn and a passionfruit, the only things she had to sell. I went to a bigger stall for manggis and pisang susu (mangosteens and lady finger bananas). Meanwhile Ketut buying loads of passionfruit for his mum. I found myself needing 200 Rp after bargaining, so asked Ketut for it. He offered me a hand full of notes, and said “take what you like”. 

Robert and Carrie were determinedly handing out chalk and drawing books to as many kids as they could find. I have been taking pictures for them, with their film in my camera. From there, we drove down narrow roads through vibrant green rice fields dotted with shrines. We passed country people walking along the road on their way to bathe, and stopped occasionally for Carrie to give them soap or a sarong. They always looked amazed, but accepted the gift. Men were cutting rice, women threshing it. Back at last to Jepun Homestay, and they had the same rooms waiting for us. Robert and Carrie pressed two thirds of the 200,000 Rp in my hand. I tried to give it back, but they wouldn’t take it. I was willing to pay half but not a third. Do the right thing and it will reflect back in some way, is my belief, particularly in Bali, it’s the land of Karma to me. 

I didn’t have enough money on hand to pay Ketut the 200,000 Rp. I explained that I could pay it all tomorrow, and Ketut said “no worries”. Ketut is taking Robert and Carrie to the airport tomorrow, so I will go with them, check the mail, and change money, so that I can pay Ketut completely. 

11pm. We had a nice night. Sweet and sour prawns, mixed vegetables, and fried rice, in the night market. We were driven there by an American tourist, and paid 1,000 Rp to an Indonesian for the ride back, armed with a half bottle of arak, and a small bottle of coke to have with it. We sat together near the fish pond. 

Robert talked about this successful tour operator in Holland, who started business by taking tours to Egypt for those who wanted to see the “real” Egypt. It made me think about how this could be something for me to do in Bali. It was very thoughtful of Robert to tell me about it. Many times I have been asked by Balinese to start some kind of business with them, but I have seen that it is not always a good idea for a foreigner to become a rival with the other locals.

Friday 19th April 1991.4.15pm.

Jepun Homestay, Campuhan, Bali 

Out of bed at 6am, was having breakfast with R and C when Ketut our tour driver arrived to take R and C to the airport. Nobody said much, I think we all felt that a nice chapter was closing. I asked Ketut if he could detour off the road for a quick look at Sanur beach, Robert’s nephew had stayed there. Goodbye hugs with R and C at the domestic terminal, and Ketut drove me to the post office, great, 2 letters. I changed money and paid Ketut the 200,000 Rp owing, while we waited in line for petrol, a lot of Javanese on holiday queuing up. Ketut dropped me off at Homestay Jepun, and told me to contact him if I wanted to go anywhere, no charge. 

Soon after that, I caught a bemo to Ubud to see a big cremation ceremony. If you have a good position in Balinese society, a high caste, and plenty of money, you then have all the ingredients necessary to make a final splash like the one I saw today. Hundreds of participants were either carrying the tall festooned towers, or riding on them in smart temple clothes, their shouts competing with the clanging gamelan orchestra as they swung and swayed through Ubud’s streets toward the burial grounds. It seemed as if there were thousands of onlookers choking the street, everyone in a good mood, there’s no public grief here. A black and red painted life size sarcophagus of a bull covered in beautiful new cloths going up in smoke, swirling skyward through the giant trees. Everyone was getting spotted with flecks of ash, as if the past was being carried forward on another life. I had a shower when I returned to the homestay, the ashes washing away in the water.

Saturday 24th April 1991

Campuhan, Bali 4.15pm.

By 9am I was in town, dropped off Robert’s film for processing, posted a postcard, bought another diary book and batteries. Back at the homestay, I had a job which I had promised to do. I went next door and into the sarong shop, to see lovely Nyoman, and ask her about viewing the bungalow her uncle is building. R and C ran out of time to see it, so I will take photos for them. We walked along the road toward Bunutan, then down a narrow path beside the rice fields for about 500 metres. A two storey four room bungalow overlooking the rice fields on one side, and a deep wooded valley on the other side. 

We walked back on a different track to Nyoman’s house in a small village. She sat me down with her gentle husband. We drank tea, while their little boy grabbed at the tea glasses. He wanted to do everything himself, as they do. Other kids playing, and an old lady coming in to check me out, she smiled when I said something funny to the little boy. They asked me where I was going (I always think that is the Balinese way of saying they have had enough of you). I told them I was on my way to Alec’s house. Husband Wayan, said he would drop me there on his motorbike. Perhaps it was through pity, but it seems that everyone knows Alec.

The little boy wanted to ride on the bike too, and the track was rough, until we arrived at the main road. Wayan’s wife Nyoman, being only a woman, was walking while I rode. She caught up, and took the boy off without protest from him, he knew he had his ride. I asked Wayan to stop at Suamba’s house on the way. I waited until Suamba came out of the bedroom, and told him I was passing on my way to see Alec. Wayan then dropped me at the road, as I told him the path to Alec’s house is rough. Wayan said he’d wait, but told him he may as well go, as I didn’t know how long I’d stay.Stepping up to the house, the old man in the garden told me Alec had gone to Ubud. Walked back to Suamba’s house and got him up again, suggesting lunch at a warung, as it was already past 11am. We went on his motorbike.

Suamba told me Alec was seeing a lawyer who would probably fleece him. He seemed happier, or was he amused, when I suggested he could take tourists around Bali, if I could get them in Australia. How in fact, a currently jobless person such as I am, with no experience in the tourist industry, could say such a thing, I don’t know. There’s a fine line between trying to give hope and being just plain insincere. 

Suamba dropped me at the road near Alec’s house, and no, he didn’t want to see Alec. On reaching the threshold of Alec’s world, I called out “Alec, its Joe”. Alec emerged from the direction of the kitchen, silently ushering me to one of his beautifully carved chairs with marble inlay on their backs. It felt as if I was about to get a verbal grilling. He is over 6 feet tall, so he has that advantage over me, even though I am almost 6 feet tall myself - less 5 inches actually. 

He sat squarely opposite, with the huge red and gold Balinese doorway framing his more senior presence. He offered me a coffee, but I said I had just had one. He told me he had just downed a couple of stiff araks, as he was in such a state about the house. This I thought would be the precursor to Suamba, the dark clouds before the storm, and I wasn’t to be disappointed. Alec said he knew Suamba was my friend, but “half the village” doesn’t like him. He seemed sure that Suamba would eventually sign his contract - twenty five years with clauses such as unrestricted access. He told me that Suamba acts as if the house is really his - I thought to myself, how right you are.

Alec kindly invited me to stay, so I committed myself to do so. Told him I could give him 10,000 Rp per day - he seemed pleased. “It’ll cover the food” he said, but I told him I would be only too pleased to pay my share. Alec indicated the direction of my room, but I went to check it out to see if it could be locked. With incredible timing, just as Alec was telling me about a “naughty boy” Wayan, who takes things, Wayan himself turned up, and walked straight towards the kitchen as if he owned the place. Alec asked him what he wanted, he called back without looking “sickle”. Back in a flash with sickle in hand, Alec asked him to bring it back when he finished with it. “No” said Wayan. Alec said “Maybe tomorrow”? Wayan said “No”. Alec turned to me and said “Oh, I think that’s his sickle, mine looks different.” I thought to myself, this is so pointless. Wayan had not stopped, or looked in our direction once. Does Alec not see, or not want to see what is going on here? Where is the respect?

Alec told me about this cook he had brought back from Java, who would spend hours in the kitchen preparing luscious meals for him. Alec doesn’t think much of him because he (the cook) insisted that Alec pay his fare, back to Java - “40 or 50,000 would have been enough, but why did I give him 100,000?” Bit late for that, I thought, but had to nod in agreement, when Alec admitted he has been a fool many times in Bali with money. He rattled off all the names of the nice Balinese who had given him money, or told him to pay later. Alec asked me about my 15 years of experience coming here, so I was quick to tell him that I didn’t have a job to go back to, and that I couldn’t give anybody anything with my limited funds.We wandered into the kitchen - every appliance imaginable for a well equipped kitchen in Bali. He boiled the jug over a gas burner. I noticed some fish sitting in a bowl of water, making a mental note not to eat any tomorrow. I’ll bring lots of fruit.

After coffee on the patio, Alec ushered me through the magnificent carved doors of his studio. Beautiful things were everywhere. Quality Balinese paintings hung on the walls, and stylish carvings on shelves. A huge bench littered with painting paraphernalia, and paintings by his own hand stacked up on the floor. He showed me his latest acquisition, a Balinese painting that he bought for 100,000 Rp, but then apparently, he found he could “spare” only 20,000 Rp. He told me that the artist had come back three times to collect his money. Alec had told him to take the painting back, saying he was prepared to lose the 20,000, but the artist wouldn’t agree! Alec also told me that this artist liked one of Alec’s own creations, so I suggested Alec give him that painting in exchange. I could tell by his expression, that he hadn’t realised that the artist was probably hinting at that possibility.

Promising to be back tomorrow for “a few days”, I trod back up to the road to wait for a bemo. Alec was still watching from the patio, so gave him a wave, he waved back. Just then, a bemo came, and glad to have a shower before I write this.

Alec had told me that the generator was still broken, so I can picture myself carting water from the creek to bathe. I think it ridiculous to live in all that splendour and cart water - there’s going to be some changes made.

I had turned the conversation to the prospect of selling as a way out. I told him that with the money, he could get something smaller and have money left over. He liked that at first, telling me that the value of houses had skyrocketed, and he could get much more that he had paid. By the time I was leaving, he seemed content to be just getting his money back, but as they say, you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink, and I shouldn’t get my hopes up too high for a solution to this situation. I am looking forward however, to living in Bunutan again.

Anyone might wonder why I want to stay at Alec’s place. It goes way back ten years, to when I first met Suamba. He was in the middle of a tempestuous love affair with the beautiful Australian girl, Fabia. The sort of love that is prepared to smash all that has gone before, for the sake of the dream. For me, in all our interactions, my knowledge and love of Bali increased, while for Suamba, his knowledge and love for Fabia increased, helped a little, by my opinionated answers to his cultural questions about Fabia’s life.

Suamba around this time asked my advice on him starting a tour business by buying a car, to show people around Bali. I suggested that the car would only diminish in value, but if he built a house on his land, he could have a business that would not devalue, and might always sustain him and his family. Later, carried by Fabia to Australia and posted on to me, I received plans, professionally drawn up, for a house. On the front Suamba had written in his own hand “This is a plan for our house on our land”. Now this was a dilemma, to go this far or wait and see. Nothing happened, until Fabia wrote to tell me that Suamba had built a hut at the panorama for her, the hut that I stayed in later, and previously described.

This is why I want to stay with Alec, because Alec has taken my place, and by learning about his experience, I hope to get an insight into what it might have been like for me all those years ago.

I admit my arrogant belief that I am the one who has arrived at the right time to resolve the difficulties between my friend Suamba and Alec.

                     Alex at home, sitting in front of paintings he created

Sunday 21st April 1991

Alex ‘s house, Bunutan, Bali

I have just discovered that Alec is really Alex, I should have realised that the Balinese can’t say the “x” as Westerners do, when they say an x, it sounds like a “c”.

Here I am at 11pm, after the first full day with Alex. Right now he is outside, waiting for the water tank to fill, before switching off the now fixed generator, so I have my first chance to write. The generator has just been turned off, so now I am writing by lamplight, and the quiet sounds of night time Bali returning. Plenty of insects are dotting this page and darting around the kerosene lamp light.

I arrived here at 10am, having not found tour driver Ketut at Ananda, so paid another driver 5,000 Rp to bring me here with my bags, worth it. Alex sat me down and started talking. We ate some of the fruit I had brought. Got onto the subject of the generator, so after leaving my washing with the boys doing washing in the creek, I started toying with the electrics of the generator. It was obvious that someone had been having a go at fixing it before. Apparently, it has been broken for weeks, with Alex carting water from the creek, and using kerosene lamps.

I connected a broken wire by pulling it out, and screwing it down with some primitive tools. I tried to crank the motor without success. Alex arrived and summoned Wayan the home help boy from his washing duties, telling me that he is the only one who knows how to start it. Wayan is young, but strong, and cranked it until it started, but no power. He stopped the motor, and I checked the connections. Wayan showed me the contacts which I had previously pulled apart, and sure enough, they were not heating up due to lack of friction. We pushed them in as hard as possible and restarted the motor - power! 

Wayan was grinning from ear to ear, and rushed over to start the electric motor to pump up water into the now empty tank. Alex told me I was “worth my weight in gold”. Truth is I felt amazed to have achieved it, because I have never even looked at a generator before. Alex soon had his big stereo system blasting so loud from his studio, and out over the rice fields, that I couldn’t hear him, so he turned it down a bit. Wayan started cooking lunch. Alex made a few half-hearted attempts at cleaning my personal bathroom, so I took over. The whole thing need a good going over - bath, walls, floor, toilet, wash basin, shelves, and mirror - it’s now clean.

The three of us ate rice and noodles, mixed with egg and spices. No vegetables in the house. When Alex suggested going to Ubud, I quickly grabbed the chance to go and get food. It was hours later that we left the house, after more talk and dithering about. The first job was to drop off some pillows that Alex didn’t need anymore, to a woman in a nearby warung, across the road from Alex. He also gave her his empty bottles. Alex introduced me to all the family, explaining something about paying off some of his debt to them tomorrow. 

While this was going on, Suamba turned up outside the warung on his motorbike. Alex took the opportunity to verbally have a go at him before he could even get off his bike. Suamba made it clear that he has no intention of signing any contract Alex makes for a house on his (Suamba’s) land - excuses like “It’s not my land, it belongs to my grandfather”, to my knowledge a man long since deceased, but I guess that is a cultural way to put it. I shrunk into the background, and distracted myself by trying to connect with their little boy “Gusti”. Alex eventually stormed off down the street, leaving Suamba grinning at me. All I could say to Suamba was “We are going to Ubud” and followed after Alex. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Outside Suamba’s house, wife Kandru was there saying nice things until the bemo arrived, she looked a lot better today. Suamba had not returned.

At Ubud I paid our bemo driver. Alex took me to a restaurant, looking for the owner, who apparently had said weeks ago that he might buy Alex’s generator. Alex wanted to tell him the generator was fixed, make a sale, and get some money. Alex originally asked the girl there about the man’s whereabouts. After she said he wasn’t there, Alex asked someone else if he was indeed there. This man also answered that he wasn’t there. Alex is a subtle as a sledge hammer. He uses a curious mixture of over polite English, mixed with poorly pronounced Indonesian. As we left, he was still muttering bitter things about Suamba.

We arrived at the market, mostly deserted by this time. Alex ordered a whole lot of food without asking the prices, then without waiting to get them, went next door for more provisions. While there, the lady he was just buying from before, came in and handed over what Alex had ordered, so that it could be totalled up together. I was able to reduce the load, by taking out some items, saying I didn’t like them. Alex held the bags and waited. I took that as a hint to pay, which I did. 

We went over to the fruit and vegetable shop. Alex grabbed a handful of tomatoes without inspecting them, they looked squashed and dripping. I suggested that I would find nicer ones, and forced Alex to ask the price per kilo of each item. We bought beans, cabbage, carrots, lemons, ginger, bananas, onions, and raw peanuts. Alex had brought a big shoulder bag, into which he unceremoniously squashed in our provisions, at the same time, having a bizarre broken Indonesian conversation with the lady owner, saying sorry, we don’t have enough money to pay you today, can we pay tomorrow? I asked him what he thought he was doing, and Alex nonchalantly explained that he already owed her 8,500 Rp. I paid today’s purchase of 3,000 Rp.

I steered Alex towards the photo shop, so I could pick up the film developed for Robert and Carrie. Yes it was developed but not printed, so I asked them to do so, and would collect later.

We set off down the Monkey Forest Road, with me carrying the bag by now, to see Alex’s lawyer, at least I think that is what was meant to happen. Before reaching our destination, Alex said “We’ll have to turn back, or we won’t get a public bemo back to Bunutan”. We returned to the main road. When the bemo did come, they asked twice the going rate. Alex stopped me in mid bargain, telling me we were in no position to bargain at this late hour. I was inclined to agree, but I think we should have at least given it a try. Anyway, Alex paid!

Back in Bunutan, in the little nearby warung, Alex bought some small bottles of Temulawak, a drink I suggested he could try, it’s like a ginger soft drink. Such a sweet lady there, who also put rambutan fruits in a basket for Alex, and some ice in a plastic bag. Alex said to me “You know, she makes me feel so dreadful, because I owe her about 35,000 Rp.” I thought, here we have poverty stricken people, allowing credit to a man living directly in front of them across the rice fields in an extravagant house, while they are scratching out a living in a dirt floor two bit little business. I told Alex that it was not right to owe the Balinese too much, and it might be better if instead of paying him 10,000 Rp per day as previously promised, I give it directly to the lady in the warung. Alex readily agreed, but at the same time, he dithered about behind the counter, looking for what turned out to be a tattered school exercise book, with amounts scratched here and there. Alex thought he found his page and wrote “PAID 10,000 RP, signed ALEX”. I also paid for the bottles of Temulawak.

Back home, a boy with a tattoo wandered in, and Alex invited him to have coffee. Alex left me with him. He has lost his job in Sanur. He is not happy. After a painfully boring interval, I told him I now have to take a shower, so he took the hint and left. More in depth conversation with Alex, until I suggested I cook dinner. It was almost ready when Wayan the home help boy and young friend arrived, but said no to food or drink, just sitting to pass the time on nice chairs, until Wayan left and returned from the generator room with an ammeter, saying it needed fixing.

I had cooked up a lot of healthy vegetables to eat with leftovers from lunch. Wayan and young friend left, so we started eating. I managed by this time, to get some unbroken words in about my experience with the Balinese. Later, Alex kindly said that he learnt more in that hour, than all the time he has been here. Nice flattery, but he really has made severe errors of judgment. What makes it worse, is that he feels so sorry for himself after getting himself into such a hopeless situation, particularly regarding money. In turn, I feel sorry for him. I don’t know how he has been able to get this far in life, and how he could have any viable future here. He really loves Bali, but that won’t be enough to get him anywhere. I don’t know how it will end up. I have now just heard a few snores, peace at last. The house is locked up, and the bamboo blinds still down, keeping Bali out.

Alex poses in front of his magnificent studio door

Monday 22nd April 1991

Alex ‘s house, Bunutan, Bali

Last night, I had a useless shower in Alex’s luxurious bathroom. No nozzle on his flexible shower hose, from which a pathetic trickle of water escaped. I went to the stream behind the house, and had a decent bath in it.

Today Alex gave me a few laughs, he seems more relaxed and glad of my company. This morning I could hear him shuffling about just before dawn, he later told me he woke up with loathsome thoughts about Suamba. I put some peanut butter on my toast, laboriously made over a gas burner, but Alex absent-mindedly picked it up and ate it, so I took his and spread it.

Feeling jaded by the conversation, and his feeble attempts at sweeping the floor, I took off across the rice fields to our nearby warung. I had condensed milk coffee and conversation with the owner, Ibu Ayu. The men were moulding and stacking concrete bricks out the back, as a sideline. A sweet lady, she thought we had no water because I had come for coffee, for which she charged only 100 Rp (7 cents).

I walked back to Alex preparing for the trip to Ubud, it was taking some time. Alex prepared himself attired in shoes and socks, shorts, nice clean shirt, and nifty hat with shoulder bag. We caught a bemo straight away, after calling at the warung opposite to drop off their basket we had borrowed yesterday. Two Australian girls flagged us down outside ritzy Ananda Hotel. Before they got in, they wanted to know the price, and the bemo boy told them it was 200 Rp (about 14 cents). They hopped in saying they had not enough small money. I stopped one of them from embarrassingly pulling out a 10,000 Rp note, expecting (or perhaps not expecting) the bemo boy to have enough cash to change it. Instead, I gave her a 50 Rp coin, because she found a 100 Rp note in her bag. I knew the boy would take her 150 Rp, because he knew the real fare was 100 Rp anyway.

I showed them where to deposit their film for processing, and walked with Alex to meet with the man he missed yesterday, the man who Alex hopes will buy his generator. Alex introduced me to him, as well as every waiter in the restaurant. Then Alex explained that if he were to buy the generator, which his friend Joe had so kindly fixed, then the amount paid for it, could be reduced by the amount Alex already owed him from eating there on credit. Alex invited him out to inspect the generator, but received no assurance that this would happen. Alex is no business man, but probably thinks he is a smooth operator.

Settling in to a table, Alex told me to order up big because he (Alex) was paying. I should have known better, because when we finished, he told them to just put it down on his account. By the time the waiter had returned, I had explained to Alex that this constant account business was not cool in Bali, so I would pay. I made a mental note that Alex would not be paid rent today, forgetting at the time, that this meant the impoverished lady in the warung would not be getting a payment of Alex’s rent money diverted to her today.

As we walked to see Alex’s solicitor, he stopped by a gallery to admire the paintings - in a flash the owner was leading him inside, beginning his sales pitch. My blood rose, and I called out “No Alex”. I turned to the man and explained “Alex sing nglah pis” which in the local Bali language means “Alex is dead broke”. He immediately nodded, and released Alex from his grip. Very few Westerners can speak any Balinese language at all, they perhaps can speak only Indonesian, and so, when Balinese is spoken by a Westerner, the effect is electric, and a realisation dawns on the Balinese person, that perhaps here is a person who might know what is really going on.

Alex was amazed, and wanted to know what I had said. Since then, he has asked me many times about the pronunciation of it. I wondered how he could have been here so long, and not know those important words, especially in his situation. How can he possibly allow himself to be drawn into a high value art gallery? As we walked on, I fended him away from music cassettes, and from buying things like spare batteries, as we past the temptations of the shops.

Alex led me to a back street restaurant with only one customer, whom Alex unfortunately knew, a Swedish girl. He immediately questioned her as to why she didn’t come to his house for dinner last week. “Did the car break down or perhaps you didn’t feel well it didn’t have to be that day really any day”, and so forth, gushing away in his customary nervous stammer. He had all the Balinese staring at him, which I guess in some perverse way, only encourages him to believe in his own elevated stature with them. The girl was so uncomfortable, while Alex, feeling he had an audience, rattled on. Alex - “When are you leaving anyway?” Louise - “Four o’clock this afternoon”. Alex - “Oh well, plenty of time”. Louise - “Not really”. Alex - “I suppose you have to have lunch and all that?” Louise - “I’ve just had lunch actually”. - And so forth. 

While on the subject of obliviousness, Alex has a wonderful time talking to the Balinese. He seems to know so many by now, and stops them for a conversation. He always walks away saying what wonderful people they are, he really cannot see the way they look at him. He can’t see that they don’t care two hoots about him, especially now that they know he has nothing left to spend. I have told him a lot of hard truths, but I can’t kill his dream about these people. We all see what we want to see, and it makes an old man happy. I have however convinced him, I think, to start admitting to people that he has no money, at least they might not take the little he has.

His solicitor was not there - is he really a solicitor? They didn’t know when he would be back. “Tomorrow morning maybe” was their only recommendation. Resisting his offer to call in at an art gallery, we caught the bemo back, but stopped on the way to see another Ketut, the brother of Wayan the home help boy. Ketut used to be Alex’s home help boy. Alex confided that he had a soft spot for this Ketut, especially when Suamba sent him away. We arrived at a private home surrounded by barking dogs, and were informed that our man was working at the building site next door. Accompanied by frenzied barking, we went next door, looked around but couldn’t see him. The workers didn’t know where he was. Over the din of dogs, Alex told me that we may as well go home. We stopped the bemo at our nearby warung, so that Alex could have a few words with Gusti, the owner. It was some sort of business about the generator, but it was done with an effort to be secret from me. I ordered coffee while waiting with wife Ayu and the kids. Alex downed his now tepid coffee, and we came home. I had paid for everything.

Alex busied himself snipping spent blooms in the garden, with a broken pair of scissors, while I trimmed the grass growing over the cement path. Alex had cut the hose from the tap when the water pump was out of action, so now I had to remove the remaining stump of plastic from the tap, while I found some string in my bag to retie the hose - a thin hose full of kinks. I started the pump, while Alex meandered among the plants splashing water.

I just started peeling potatoes, when two boys, both named Nyoman, arrived from Bunutan. One is the boy I originally promised to buy a painting from, when I first arrived in Bali this time. The other Nyoman’s young wife has died not long ago. I started preparing more food. Wayan the home help boy arrived with his young friend Madé, so I divided the meal into six portions. They said they had eaten, but ate heartily just the same. Alex was in his element, telling them about all the mistakes he has made in Bali. His audience didn’t seem to understand much of it, but Alex, with his poorly pronounced mixture of Indonesian and English, raved on undeterred. He laughed about himself so much that I couldn’t help but laugh with him, and soon we were all enjoying laughing together. 

The two younger boys washed up. I gave Nyoman the painter, the dimensions of frames I need to take home, so that he can get his friend to make them, and hopefully make some money himself from the deal. I asked him if he had sold any of his paintings since I was last in Bali, but he hadn’t. It is impossible for the average western person to truly understand the difficulties of village life in Bali. Where is the money to come from when you have a baby, as he has.

After they went, I busied myself tuning in Alex’s stereo to the FM radio stations. Alex had a bath, and returned resplendent in his red dressing gown, flinging himself on the couch. He suggested a little arak would be nice, so I poured a glass each, which we drank by lamplight, Alex having just switched off the generator. Our glasses now full of moths. Bed will be wonderful.

Tuesday 23rd April 199111.30pm.

Alex’s house, Bunutan, Bali

It’s late after a busy day, so I will try to recall the confusion. I woke up with Bali belly. Suamba arrived, unshaven and looking nervous, took me aside and asked me for $200. Sensing my hesitation, he asked me when I would be leaving Bali. I told him when, and he said I would have it back at the end of one week. I told him I didn’t have much money left, and brought out my wallet, on one side cash, and on the other side four $50 travel cheques. He said “Is that all you have left?” I said yes, but he took the remainder of my travel cheques anyway, and left.

I came inside and told Alex what had just happened. He looked shocked, but his answer was unexpected. “I wish you were my friend instead of his” (an answer that speaks for itself). Soon Suamba’s motorbike re-appeared, he had been in such a state, that he had forgotten to ask me to countersign the cheques. I kept him waiting, and he looked uncomfortable being there. Alex retired to his bed. When he zoomed away, Suamba said the money was to buy parts for his broken car.
Another Madé arrived, and said he’d cook for us tonight. I gave him 10,000 Rp to buy food in Denpasar, as he was going there. He suggested I buy the eggs here to avoid breakages. I walked over to our nearby warung taking over some betadine for the owner Gusti who has “gatal”, an itchy skin inflammation supposedly caused by impure water. He bathes in the dirty canal by the road. I put some betadine on his arm, it felt hot. His wife Ayu came out with clean water and soap, so that I could wash my hands. They gave me coffee. After buying things, I didn’t have enough small money, so promised to come back with it. 

When I returned, Alex was up and ready for conversation. I escaped to the kitchen to make fried bananas. I could hear voices. After making the bananas, I brought them out, to find Alex sitting with the owner of Hotel Ananda Suamba’s brother-in-law Pargeh, one of the richest men in Ubud. Pargeh tried a fried banana, but after taking a bite, but said it was too greasy for him.

After he went, Alex explained that the note he left Pargeh probably brought him over. It was something to the effect that although Alex still owed him about 300,000 Rp, Alex had not forgotten him, and the money would eventually be forthcoming. Alex told me that Pargeh often drops in for a chat, where he allows Alex to apologise about the delay in returning the money, and then tells him not to worry about it.

Wayan, the home help boy arrived. Alex instructed him to go to the next village and buy “solar” (diesel - for the generator). I gave him 10,000 Rp to cover the cost. He begrudgingly took off with the plastic jerry can.

                        Wayan Geliduh at Alex’s house in Bunutan

Another Wayan arrived - Wayan Geliduh, a good and faithful servant to Suamba, who helped me at Suamba’s hut years ago, cooking, cleaning, and carrying spring water up the cliffs to the hut. I made him coffee. Trapped at the table, he was another target for Alex to unload on. At least Wayan G, with his grasp of some English, could get the gist of most of it. 

Wayan G invited me to visit him and meet his new wife. Hopping off his motorbike, I went into the warung to pay what I had owed from this morning. Back on the bike, we slid along muddy back lanes to his original front mud brick fence and gate, both of which were almost completely eroded away. There was a new house in the compound, probably the result of selling some of his land. He opened the door to reveal two girls asleep on the mats. He shook them until they woke up. They saw me, and ran off. His wife also disappeared, but returned with milk coffee, Balinese biscuits, bags of roasted peanuts, and fruit. After playing Tracy Chapman on his stereo, he piled the remaining food in a plastic bag, and we took off for Ketut’s place (my tour driver and method of escape to the airport). Ketut’s brother said he was not yet back from work, but yes, he would send him over to Alex’s place. So far there’s been no sign of him. 

I am beginning to think that my tour driver Ketut is not busy, but gone. Some people often disappear without warning, leaving me to wonder what I said or did. I have seen tourists shouting at Balinese, but nothing is said or done in return. I guess in every society there is the cold shoulder, but it seems so noticeable here because the Balinese are so over the top friendly, swamping the reality that it is all about business, and survival. To be fair to the Balinese, they are in a world of constant change. Why should they be loyal to someone today, who will be disloyal by being far away tomorrow. For the Balinese, another one is just around the corner. Their loyalty is kept for their fellow Balinese, who they continue to live with, I understand that. If I do run out of money, I must stop imagining that my tour driver Ketut will get me to the airport, and find some other way.

Wayan G became stuck here at Alex’s place by heavy rain. Alex looked a mess. Limping about with fallen arches “from these rotten hard floors”, and one red eye watering badly. I sticky taped a piece of black plastic over one side of his glasses. He seemed to think that helped. 

Wayan the home help boy came back with the jerry can of solar and gave me the change. I didn’t offer him anything for his work. He could do a lot more to help Alex, but just wants the money for nothing. Wayan as usual shadowed by his little mate Madé. As soon as Alex clapped his eyes on Madé, he accused him of stealing, and in particular, the electric cord from the radio cassette player. He had the kid over a barrel, because another boy said he saw it at Madés place. When he finally admitted having it but not taking it, he told Alex he had cut it in half. Alex almost blew a fuse, calling him a two bit horrid little thief. Madé simply stared without expression, and did not budge from his perch on the step, imprisoned as he was by the rain. As soon as it eased off, he took off, and then returned with the cut cord, which took a bit of fixing because the stupid boy had cut it near one end. He hovered around, not quite daring to come in, until Alex told him in badly pronounced Indonesian to go, and as the poor kid slipped away, Alex shouted after him “Don’t bother coming back!”

The older Madé, the cook, arrived from Denpasar, and started cooking up a storm. Food literally flying all over the kitchen, scraps littering the floor. My friend Wayan G, still here to see all this action, said he didn’t realise it was this particular Madé coming to cook. The things he then said about him may be true, maybe not, but anyone who says that they know what is going on in Bali, is living in a fool’s paradise. Anyway, everyone has the freedom to think about other people however they want to, I don’t care. Wayan G is right about one thing, this boy Madé has a giant ego. I hardly dared to enter his kitchen, but as time dragged on, I thought I should see if he needed any help. I got a simple “NO” for an answer. It looked like he was only half way there, lots of food cut into tiny portions.

We ate after waiting two hours, but it was a good meal. Straight afterwards, Alex flung himself back on the bed that I had roused him from before dinner. I decided there was nothing to lose by asking our cook Madé questions like “Your Australian girlfriend gives you money?” No reply to that, except answers such as “She comes to Bali many times”, and so forth. Probably to get out of further conversation, he requested a mandi, and asked for hot water. I told him he could get it by boiling water on the stove. Wayan G took this opportunity to leave, whispering to me “Be careful” as he left.

I managed to get Alex to lift the white handkerchief from his face, while I told him what Wayan G had said about his cook. Alex replied “Well I certainly don’t need him here, after all, the meal wasn’t that good, considering how long he took to prepare the darn thing”. Cook Madé eventually emerged from the bathroom, and took off, saying he would be back for a repeat performance tomorrow night. I will be surprised if he does, he should have got my message. In any case, I have arranged with Wayan G, to go with me to the nearby village of Payangan, where we can get good food, leaving Alex to handle a situation that he largely created.

I forgot to say, that during the dinner preparations, Alex insisted on going out in the rain with umbrella, to pour more “solar” in the generator. He came back flustered because he couldn’t manage it. Wayan G and I went out there. The exhaust pipe had come off, and the shed was full of black fumes. I refitted the pipe, which is a length of thick bamboo, wedged into the wall with a stone. Couldn’t find a funnel, but managed to get most of the diesel in without spilling, it was almost full anyway. Alex has this great fear of the generator stopping, because he’s convinced himself that his home help boy Wayan is the “only one in the village” who knows how to start it.

After they had all gone, Alex took the opportunity of saying how fortunate he was to have me here, and that I was right to suggest he sell up. I think he is beginning to face reality. I don’t know what will happen to either Alex or Suamba when I go. It is a clash of rigid characters. 

I couldn’t help noticing a faint smile on Suamba’s face when I told him he was taking all the money I have left. This has made me wonder if his real motivation was to starve Alex from getting any money, by putting me in a position where I would find it too difficult to give money to Alex, because I had already loaned a lot of it. What Suamba didn’t count on, was that when he asked for $200, that amount was exactly the value of my remaining travel cheques, it was so strangely perfect. I could see he was in a panic when he realised that he was taking all my travel cheques. The fact that he still took them all, has made me realise how serious this battle between Suamba and Alex really is. 

I had told Suamba that I was giving him all my money, but it was not really true. I knew there was still some Indonesian cash in my wallet, but it’s easy to have morals when you know where your next meal is coming from.

Alex has retired for the day, leaving a sign in Indonesian across his studio door “Boys not allowed to enter STUDIO”. 

                                Alex took this photo of me at his table

Wednesday 24th April 19917.30pm

Alex’s house. Bunutan, Bali

I am taking this opportunity to write, while Alex is stretched out in his studio, listening to opera at full bore. The noise of the generator is being reduced by the opera to a rumble in the background, the crickets taking over in the soft passages. I have just returned from Suamba’s house, big talk about the Alex problem, and the future of this house. Suamba seemed open to my suggestion of Alex renting it out, possibly because at least Alex would go.

After breakfast this morning, I went back to bed for a rest, because I had been waking up to the sounds of Alex stumbling about in the pre-dawn darkness. I had eventually got up to find Alex sitting at the table, staring into the lamp, and cursing the frogs for keeping him awake. So I made some toast and tea by lamplight. Alex’s right eye watering badly, but he ate all the toast I could make for him, with lashings of cheese or jam.

Later, I got up from my rest, and cooked fried rice for lunch. Wayan Geliduh came back while Alex had gone to bed with a book. I reheated some fried rice for Wayan G, who then had a mandi. We took off on his motorbike for Payangan, a nearby village market, where I promised Alex I would buy more food. The market had finished, so we went to a restaurant and ate again, vegetables, rice, and satay beef. I bought some vegetables from the lady in the restaurant, and fruit from a stall across the mud.8.45pm. Continuing today’s entry after Alex found me, wanting to know about my visit to Suamba. I hope we have all resolved something tonight. Alex, tonight at least, realises that a good option for him is to have tourists stay here (when he is not here hopefully), and supplement his only income, a once a month pension payment from Australia, that he gets in cash from a big bank somewhere, by travelling there.

Back to this afternoon, Wayan G brought me back from Payangan in the drizzle. He cut up some fruit that I delivered to Alex, still in bed. Alex asked me to put it on the patio table. He came out straight away and ate it. Wayan G left to find the young home help Wayan. Alex was in a panic, because the hour had long past when Wayan was due to show up and start the generator, and so dispatched Wayan G to get him from the village.

In the meantime, I went down and managed to start the generator myself. Alex thought I was “absolutely wonderful”, saying he couldn’t wait to see the look on young Wayan’s face, when he would realise that his job was not safe. Alex was also preparing to tear strips off Wayan, believing Wayan had a hand in all the petty theft that was going on.A boy from the village “Danu” arrived with his friend, a thin little kid with long hair. They had a motorbike accident yesterday. Danu had a lot of skin off his arms and feet, covered as he was in red paint from a visit to the doctor. His foot was swollen, but he could use it. Noticing that some wounds were weeping, I applied my betadine and bandages.

In the meantime, Wayan the home help arrived. Alex immediately started shouting at him, calling him a liar and a thief, his Indonesian phrasing was bad as usual, but the kid got the message. He stood there completely dumbfounded, and then began denying everything. Alex was throwing his hands in the air, telling the boy to stop repeating everything he (Alex) was saying. The boy obviously couldn’t understand Alex, and was trying to get the understanding in his head by repeating it. Alex stormed off to his bedroom, leaving us quietly eating rambutans. The boys then left, obviously feeling they had enough entertainment for one day. Later I asked Alex for Danu’s name, which I had forgotten. “He’s sangit malas” (bone lazy), was the answer.

I bathed in the creek, which by now was flowing stronger, and was discoloured from the recent rain. I told Alex I would go to the warung and see how Gusti’s arm was going, then maybe see Suamba. Gusti had been to the “doktor”, who gave him an “injeksi” and tablets. “In infection in the blood”, he explained in Indonesian. We had a warming talk over coffee, while his pretty wife was outside in the drizzle, digging a truckload of gravel for their concrete brick making business. Apparently, the doctor had suggested he not strain himself. He also has been getting up early to drive a bemo, so there is a lot riding on him maintaining his health. He asked me when I was returning to Bali, and invited me to stay with them in their new house when I do. I realise this sort of invitation is normal in Bali, but these are really genuine country people.

Around the back, we walked between the fields of sweet potato and corn, to the edge of the ravine, a truly beautiful view. A Canadian has apparently contracted the land next door for 25 years, and will soon build. I found out later that Alex also visited the warung, and put eggs on his bill. Alex asked me if I had paid anything off his account, and I told him I hadn’t, adding that I preferred to save it and give it to him (Alex) tomorrow instead of my rent payment, so he can go to Ubud and see if any money has come through from Australia. If he gets the money, will he have any left by the time he gets home?

On the way from the warung to Suamba’s house using Alex’s multi coloured umbrella, Suamba’s older sister Nyoman spotted me from her warung and called me over. Alex had told me that she had an operation for cancer a few months ago. She told me herself, that she has had two operations, and it was sad to see her so thin, with swollen lip and cheek. I fear the worst for her. She has always been so nice to me in years past. Much older than Suamba and not hot headed, unlike the rest of her siblings. I found out years ago, that each sibling has either a different father or mother, none of them have the same two parents. As the wife of one of them, Komang told me once, they were very busy in those days.

Leaving Nyoman’s warung, Suamba’s house was just down the main road. Kandru and the kids looked on, while Suamba raised his voice in emotion when discussing Alex. It was a momentous conversation, more like a delivery to an audience. I have never seen him as upset as he is now. If only he could return to the happy go lucky guru he once was, back to the days when we practiced what we liked to call “kasihan hati” loving kindness to others, but some things take time, and my time in Bali is running out.

Reversing my steps back up the road to Alex, I passed a new warung, brightly lit up with kids on the floor playing music on gamelan instruments. They seemed so happy. It was one of those unexpected joys that come as a surprise on this island. I could hear other music far away, and by the time I reached the house, found Alex stretched out in his studio, with another dramatic opera playing at full blast across the rice fields.

Thursday 25th April 1991

Alex’s house, Bunutan, Bali

By the time I got up, the cooking gas was finished, so ate bananas. I helped Alex carry the empty gas cylinder to the road, but couldn’t face going to Ubud with him. The bemo came and he got on alone. The nearby warung had not yet opened, so kept asking at warungs until I found one that sold methylated spirits (for my little camp stove). Kandru saw me and invited me in (as is always polite to do), but I walked up to Suamba’s older sister Nyoman’s warung and had hot coffee. It was such a pleasure to have something hot, as it felt so cold this morning after the rain. I had on long trousers and long sleeved shirt over a T-shirt. Saw lots of kids with runny noses, and adults going to the “doktor for injeksi.” Nyoman gave me a cake, but she didn’t want to take the money, 200 Rp, but I made her take it, so she gave me a hand of bananas.

The boy who had the motorbike accident “Danu” picked me up on the road, and took me back home. He was using someone else’s bike. I felt nervous back here on my own, thinking about what might happen when Alex returned from lugging that gas bottle to Ubud and back on his own. It was the beginning of my desertion, and I felt like a real heel, for not getting a grip, and see it through for just a bit longer.  A boy from the village, young Madé, turned up from having a bath in the creek, and stayed for a long time practicing his English. He invited me to go swimming with him this afternoon, in the big river Ayung. Tourists now go rafting there, in rafts made from truck tubes. Fast water and big stones, it must be exciting, but it’s not for me. It kills off my memories of living in the pondok (hut) years ago, looking down on a truly natural panorama. To now see a raft of colourful yelling tourists coming around the bend, is the beginning of the end for me.

When we saw Alex getting out of a bemo, young Madé and I walked to the road, and carried back the gas cylinder. Alex was already in the kitchen fixing himself a stiff drink. Before Alex left again, he asked me for money to pay for the gas and food. I gave him 10,000 Rp but he said it was not enough. I asked him how much more, and he said 20,000 Rp more. I said no, and gave him another 10,000 Rp instead, so he probably got what he really wanted anyway. He did bring back food, but told me that if only he had more money, he could have brought back a chicken.

I got the gas going and made a cup of tea. Before Alex arrived, I had put metho in my little camp stove, and it was enough to make two banana jaffles and coffee for young Madé and myself. I had to ask Alex if there was any money for him at the bank, and the answer was no. Told me he had a nice little omelette in Ubud, and his friend was definitely coming today or tomorrow, to look at the generator and he may even buy the fridge.

I escaped to my bed, and slept for about two hours, until the sounds of Alex dropping things finally got me up. Wayan Geliduh arrived with his wife. Very formal and all dressed up, so sat them down, bringing coffee and some biscuits which Alex had fortunately brought back from Ubud. They brought a big bunch of bananas, good for fried bananas they said, and many rambutan fruits. Wayan G’s wife was fairly stiff and cold, but probably nervous. She had just a few sips of coffee after being encouraged by her husband, and then left on their motorbike. She had answered a few of my questions spoken in Indonesian, with either a yes or a no, but maybe she thought I would not understand her Indonesian anyway. After being in Bali a while, you get straight to it as they do. “No baby?” “No” “When will you have one?” “Later” “How many you want?” Her husband answered “Two boys”, adding “Maybe one boy, one girl”. I noted not two girls. 

I told Wayan G I made a promise to go to the river with Gusti across the road, so we went over there but he was too sick. I suggested we go the other way to the big river Ayung, and maybe do the right thing by young Madés earlier invitation. We walked down the road on which I had walked many times before, when I stayed in the hut. We stopped briefly at the hut, now a ruin, much like the relationship between Alex, Suamba, and myself. One straggly citrus tree all that is left of the gardens. But the panorama has remained. 

Around the side of the ravine, a magnificent new building perched on the edge, with a huge open sitting area. No work done for a long time, but it will be a special place when finished. I thought once again about how it could have been for me, but in Bali it never is yours - you have to trust an Indonesian, and have his name on the sale document, he or she is the real owner. I am beginning to see why I am here to witness Alex’s distress. He means well, but the forces are against him, and he has unwittingly given me a sense of relief that I didn’t do as he has done. But I am not Alex, Suamba and I would have overcome any difficulties, because we have overcome so many before together. That time is gone however, and we have moved on.

I believe that we don’t have to own something to enjoy it. A piece of paper may prove possession, but all that means nothing if we don’t care for it. Alex and Suamba are wrangling over a piece of paper, when all they have to do is come to an understanding between two gentlemen, and keep their word.

We climbed down a steep track to the raging river.  I didn’t venture too far into that cold rushing water, just stayed under the shade of trees along the bank. We walked up the bank to where the spring water gushes from the cliff face, pure drinkable water. I had a good wash just as I used to long ago. I felt so invigorated, that I didn’t want to do anything afterward, except drink in the moment, and look at the view. On the way up, I stopped a few times, to catch my breath. Walking back to Bunutan, we passed young Madé and others including Suamba’s kids on their way to the river. As we passed them, I just said I was too fast for them. We walked between the peanut and rice fields, stopping to see locals digging frantically for tiny eels, not many at this time.

Arrived back to find the generator, which I had started before I left, had stopped. Alex in great consternation, as there had been sparks flying from the box. I re-wired and tightened it down, and it has since been going ok. Danu was here, so I put more betadine on his wounds, before he and Wayan G left. Alex, no doubt forgetting my sin of not going to Ubud with him, played one of my cassettes, and invited me to view his photos of Bali. I noticed that some of his paintings have been based on them. He asked me if I would like fried potatoes, I said yes enthusiastically, but I did nothing about it. Later I asked him if he would like me to cook them. He said he was hoping I would say that, and laughed. 

After eating the fried potatoes, we talked about wanting something else to eat. Just at that moment, Wayan G arrived with nasi goreng (fried rice) and satay for us, and disappeared before I thought to give him money for it. I know he would have been offended anyway. The Balinese so often seem to have a kind of intuition as to what is needed, but I guess it is simply sharing life. 

Just after Wayan G left, the two Nyomans arrived, so we shared the meal with them. One of them washed up, while the other Nyoman, who is getting the frames, gave me a price of 50,000 Rp for quality frames. I gave him the money even though I now have not much left for my last week in Bali. I might have to ask Suamba for my money back, it will be interesting to see what happens. 

While the Nyomans were here, Alex brought out a painting of his that I like, and told them he was kindly giving to me. I hope it meant something to them, because it meant a lot to me. I relate to the outcast. I guess we are all outcast from someone. Who is it, who is loved by everyone?

The painting created by Alex which he gave to me.

After they went, Alex retired to his studio and the opera, while the rain pelted down. I wrote a letter, but getting plenty of interruptions from Alex, either hovering around, or collapsed in the huge cane chair down the other end of the long patio. More talk about his past errors of judgement and uncertain future. The first few days here were a shock, but now I can see the funny side of things, it’s a diversion from the difficulties. I have a job stopping myself from breaking out in laughter when Alex is in full sway entertaining visitors. For them it must be like coming to the circus, a great distraction from boring village life.

I have noticed that Suamba’s wife Kandru and her kids have not visited here yet. A woman in Bali cannot go visiting a man without her husband, and for Kandru, that is just not going to happen.  

Alex has not lifted paint brush to canvas since the day I arrived in his house.

Friday 26th April 1991

Alex’s house, Bunutan, Bali

 I heard Alex shuffling about before dawn. Got up and had some of his tea. The breaking of the dawn was also broken by the blast of Radio Australia, which Alex regularly tunes to every morning. “The news is good but I just hate the music” commented Alex. I took off in the bemo for Ubud, picked up Robert and Carrie’s photos, and bargained for 15 postcards. Wrote a few in a warung over coffee then quickly sent them off, as the post office closes at 11am Fridays. 

I ordered a vegetable pizza in the Monkey Forest Road. Out came a thin type of pita bread, with a gooey tomato and vegetable mixture on top, but it went down ok. Then I went down to the postal agent after writing the rest of the postcards in the pizza shop. I also posted a letter from Alex to Australia that needed stamps. He wanted it sent express, so it cost more. I know the intention of its contents, it’s another begging letter. I enquired at an agent, about a ticket to Australia - for Alex. He can pay for it on Monday, if his money has come through. I have suggested to Alex, that it would be cheaper to renew his visa in Singapore, as I used to do.

Bought more food and caught a bemo loaded with women, their produce and kids. Alex had the generator going but no power. I went straight into the shed and found Alex had attached a loose wire incorrectly, blowing the fuse. As I took out the fuse holder I dropped it, breaking it. Found some old electrical flex, took out one strand, stuck it in and it worked. Re-tightened the by now loose connections, and tied down the lid with wire, as the screws were lost.

Alex was by now in a panic over the prospective generator buyer not fronting yet. I was really sweating it out myself, but only from working in that hot box, so I made some tea. Alex preferred to get stuck into the arak, washed down with opera at full blast. I had a bath in the creek, and then Wayan G turned up, borrowing my towel and soap. He came back up from the creek as I was preparing dinner, but said he’d come back later. I made a cheese and onion omelette, with vegetable, roasted peanuts and rice. 

We were just finishing the meal, when we started to lose power. I went around the back, to see smoke pouring from the generator room. Opened the door but couldn’t get in for a while. Choking from the smoke, I was unable to fix it, so turned it off. In the meantime, Alex was trying to negotiate the steps he had cut into the bank, and complaining bitterly how the boy could have done it, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was so bone lazy. Alex has made it more slippery than ever. He is really whinging tonight. He has lost skin on both his arm and leg while trying to start the generator earlier, so has been moping around the house.

While I was cooking dinner, he limped into the kitchen and said that he had so many problems he may as well commit hari-kari. I couldn’t help laughing, it was so pathetic. He has just got up from his bed, shuffled to the edge of the patio, and with deep sighs, asked me if I could close the blinds before bed. He has been looking up the Indonesian words for going blind, as he is convinced he is losing the sight of one eye. 

Earlier he had gone over to the warung to get more eggs for the omelette, and received their sympathy, before putting the eggs and more on his bill - the never-never literally. When he returned, he went on and on about how poor they are, and the husband still not working what with his infection, adding, ”if only you could have paid off the bill before giving your money to Suamba”. I have a heart, but this pretty little speech did not stab it.

Getting back to tonight, when I got back up from the generator, Alex remembered putting the old air filter back without telling me. I will replace it tomorrow, and all may be ok. It was a crazy day today. Wayan G didn’t come back, his dinner in the powerless fridge.

                 Ibu Ayu and Gusti and their boys in their warung

Saturday 27th April 1991

Alex’s house, Bunutan, Bali

5pm. After breakfast of toast and honey with coffee, I cleaned the air filter of the generator motor with kero, and then cleaned up a badly functioning lamp which had a cracked glass top, and took it over to the warung. Alex had asked me to give the lamp to them, and pay them 15,000 Rp for the food we have been getting on credit. The money was worked out after I kept 30,000 Rp for airport taxes and expenses in Kuta. After that, I have 1,500 Rp left over, so am virtually broke. I am flying out next Wednesday.

At the warung, Gusti was glad to take the lamp. They sat me down for coffee, almost like water, but they didn’t charge me for it. They accepted the 15,000 Rp, and made a note of it in Alex’s charge book. Gusti has had another “injeksi”, and the swelling almost gone from his arm, he will have to get back to work.Back here, Alex washing our clothes, he had also done last night’s washing up. I put the air filter in the motor, lots of smoke at first, but it settled down and is now ok. Alex has been in a panic about the slippery steps. He had put broken roof tiles down the slope, which made it worse. Got my shirt off, and removing the tiles, dug out some steps using his spade, hard work, really compacted semi clay. I got into the creek to get the sweat off. 

Made a cup of tea, and then got to work on Alex’s stereo. He has a dual cassette player, but only one side working. Took it apart, and then started the generator to get some power and see what was wrong. A belt had come off inside the cassette player, so got it back on using one of Alex’s paintbrushes, the most work that brush has done since I have been here. The rain absolutely pelting down, Alex darting around, putting buckets under the drips, and how bad is this for a new home, I thought.

The cassette player worked, Alex thrilled, calling me a godsend. Heavy rain, and big claps of thunder persisting, so I left the generator running, accompanied by Joan Sutherland at full volume. Reheated the remains of last night’s dinner, it tasted good. Turned the generator off, and leaving Alex to clean up, I set off for Wayan Geliduh’s house. Watched men working on his new temple, they are keeping the top part, digging out the old mud brick foundations, and replacing them with concrete bricks. Wayan G took me down a path at the back of his house to the end of his land, overlooking the junction of two rivers. The land between them levelled off, a rich man from Denpasar to build a hotel there. This explains Wayan G’s new house I thought.

Back at his house, his wife brought coffee. I felt such a weight on my shoulders, and had to confide in someone, so I told Wayan G I was broke, and that Suamba had borrowed my last $200. He didn’t seem surprised, Balinese are rarely surprised at anything. I told him to keep it to himself, as we always do, knowing in our heart that this sort of information usually feeds the flames. It was wrong of me to unload on him or anybody for that matter. 

He said I could stay there if I wanted, and he would lend me money. He said Ketut our tour driver, could take me back to Kuta no charge if I make it up to him next time I come to Bali. I guess I have to face the fact that there will always be a next time. I admit that I live in some kind of romantic fantasy about Bali, a fantasy that I don’t want to wake up from just yet.

Saw Kandru outside her house on the way back, she invited me in, but said I wanted to go home. Danu picked me up on the road and doubled me back here. He stayed talking a while, but the conversation got a bit deep, so he took off. I get picked up so often coming home, that it makes me think these boys are sent by kind ladies such as Kandru or Nyoman.

Alex had given me some errands in Bunutan, such as enquiring as to when he would get his iron back, and to see Nyoman the painter about returning his glue. I did neither. What I did do, was tell Alex that I had told Wayan G about us both being broke, and spilling the beans about Suamba borrowing my $200. Alex’s reaction was typical, “If only you had given me the $200 instead of him, you might have got it back”. Fat chance I thought. I took a bath in the fast flowing creek. It was a great feeling to get under the small spillway, and feel the torrent pummelling my body.

I started the generator, and made a copy of Alex’s Spanish guitar music cassette using my blank cassette. Wayan G arrived and had a shower in the bathroom, saying the water in the creek was too dirty. Often the Balinese, and Alex, get a skin rash from bathing in the creeks or rivers, but so far I don’t, I must be tough. I made coffee for Wayan G but after a sip, he took off, saying he had to take his wife to the doctor in Ubud for “injeksi”. She has flu. They rush to the doctor at the slightest sign of illness, and seem to believe that after “injeksi”, everything will be ok.

Alex is looking healthier, but the left eye almost closed and red. No mention of going blind so far today. Wayan the home help boy turned up with the iron, and handed over 10,000 Rp to Alex. The money was from Wayan’s brother Ketut, who was Alex’s original home help boy, before Suamba removed him. Alex says he was heartbroken over it all, the boy obviously his little pet, but in fact he was lucky to have anybody here at all. He doesn’t mind taking their money by not paying, he just feels sorry for them being so poor. In return I feel sorry for Alex. He has also told me about his service in World War Two, I respect that.

Sunday 28th April 1991

Alex’s house, Bunutan, Bali

9.30pm. Things are all becoming a bit of a blur here, but I’ll do my best to recall the day. Alex sent me over to the warung for 3 eggs. Ibu Ayu found them in the chook pen, so they were fresh, hope we didn’t leave her short. She sat me down for coffee. Next thing she brought out some of their food, nangka (jackfruit} cut into pieces and cooked with spices. The cooked version tastes better than fresh, but only if you like spicy foods.

Back here, Alex was cooking up a storm with the scraps - noodles, eggs, veges, pineapple - I couldn’t face it straight away, but when I did, it was tasty with lashings of sweet soy sauce.

A middle aged man called in from the rice fields, he doesn’t own any land, very poor, with blotchy skin. His hands wrinkled with a kind of dermatitis. Asked me for medicine, my reputation is spreading. Did what I could with the betadine, and gave him some in a bottle top. Alex gave him a shirt, after he asked for one. “It’s the fourth I’ve given away in three months” said Alex. He showed me later the few shirts he has left. 

We trekked with our visitor around the edges of the rice fields. The man accidentally slipped down a bank into the creek, spilling most of the medicine. I told him he could come back for more. We arrived at my old pondok (hut) overlooking the gorge. Alex had never been there before. He thought he could do some painting there “if not for all the onlookers”. A boy from the village showed us over the nearby partly finished hotel, I took photos. 

Alex (left) inspecting the partly finished hotel and panorama

We walked back up to the village. Alex went home, while I walked down the main street. I saw Suamba’s father, who told me that his son, Suamba’s brother Ketut Mandra, owner of my Kuta losmen, is coming tomorrow, so I will try to see him, and arrange a lift back to Kuta with him.

Walked back home accompanied by Wayan the home help boy, and his two small friends. They decided there wasn’t enough water to bathe in the creek, so after Wayan started the generator, he invited me to go with them to the spring water. We walked to the other side of the road, Wayan carrying a big plastic container to get fresh spring water as requested by Alex. We took off the sandals for a steep descent down footholds cut in the bank, down the valley, and between a canyon above a lower roaring creek. Sparkling clear water was pouring out of two bamboo pipes, above rocks surrounded in jungle.

Wayan the home help boy and his small friends at the spring water

One of the boys set about collecting edible ferns, and threw rocks, trying to dislodge a coconut. I had a refreshing long shower under the pipes, but it was short compared to the Balinese. Soap is not enough, they like to rub the skin with smooth fat sticks. They thought it was so funny that I was so fast, dressed and waiting for them. It was amazing to see Wayan going up the steep slope without using his hands, while balancing the full water container on his towelled head. Back here, I found some mandarins in the fridge for them, also some broken biscuits which they finished off.

I went over to the warung, Alex asked me to buy cigarettes and put on his bill, but couldn’t face doing it, especially when I was 50 Rp (4 cents) short with the eggs this morning - they really are desperately poor. They have a clock on the wall which takes 4 batteries, it shows the same time all the time I have been coming here. They insisted I have coffee with them, Ibu Ayu spread a grass matt on the concrete. Just then Wayan G turned up and joined us. The discussion was mainly about Alex and his future here. They also wanted to know when I would be back, how much is the plane ticket, weekly wages in Australia and so on. I always find it so embarrassing to discuss these things, as they have no idea about life in Australia and the costs of living there. 

Arrived back here in the dark, and made fried bananas. Just then the painter Nyoman and his friend the other Nyoman, turned up with my beautifully carved three picture frames. After many trips here, I have frames for my Balinese paintings. Alex in a foul mood when he found I had paid less for my frames than he had, practically accusing Nyoman of doing him in, and retired to his studio, thank goodness. I kept them talking and made them coffee. They really are nice men, and really understand the situation with Alex. The Balinese can be very forgiving people. Alex brightened up after they left, and has been playing Chopin.

Monday 29th April 1991

Alex’s house, Bunutan, Bali

If it is possible to judge a day, then today was a better day. I stayed here while Alex went to Ubud on the bemo. Washed up, and gave the kitchen a good clean up. Swept the floors, and dismantled the frames Nyoman had brought, tying them up with some cord from my mosquito net. They had been well nailed together, so it was a tricky job using a hammer and piece of wood, to prevent damaging them. By the time I sat down to Bali coffee, Alex was back. He had phoned Australia. He said his bank can send him $500, and said it won’t be enough, so has to make more phone calls. Perhaps this begging for money is the normal reality of his life? It has occurred to me that Alex is in reality a beggar, a high class one. I suppose it’s not the worst a man could be. He seems to have given up on the man whom he hoped would buy the generator. If he could sell it, he would have enough. But I don’t know the history of the generator, or anything else around here. Has he paid for anything completely? He has maybe paid a deposit or an instalment perhaps, as that is the method I have seen him use so expertly.

I prepared lunch, a combination of noodles and vegetables with a fried egg each. Alex said it was amazing what one can do with so little, he ate heartily as usual. Wayan G arrived, and liked the Linda Ronstadt cassette that Alex was playing. I had another blank cassette, so told him I would make a copy of it for him. I gave him a shirt. Alex wanted to hear music on his big stereo, so I started the generator early. Wayan G took a rest on my bed. I started copying the cassette on Alex’s dual cassette player. It didn’t sound too good. Wayan G got up. I told him I also needed a rest, so he left. I lay down for an hour but so tired I couldn’t sleep. Got up again because the generator was rumbling away uselessly, Alex had not switched his stereo on, and the fridge also not yet on. Alex had taken one of his pictures out of its frame, and was painting the frame a different colour. I showed Alex the proper way to clean one of his compact discs that was dirty. We put it on, and no problem, Strauss waltzes. I had another go at fixing the cassette player, and it sounded a little better.

Gusti arrived with his two small boys. The boys loved looking around the place, seemingly overawed by its opulence. It is bizarre how Alex is living this way, but books up food in Gusti’s little warung. Gusti made arrangements to come back at 7pm for a pesta (party). They would bring the food, which is just as well because all we have is fruit and biscuits. Gusti invited me to the river at 4pm for a bath, and then took off with his boys who were clutching Australian used cards which Alex had given them. Just before 4pm I was resting again when Wayan G rode in on his muddy motorbike. Told me there was no water where he usually washes it. The irrigation system here is clever, but one day the water can be tearing down, and the next a trickle, due to diversion. We walked over and joined Gusti and his kids for a climb down the steep ravine and into cold rushing water, ferns, vines, and lush jungle rising vertically above. It was not hard to believe it, when they said that the locals often see a big snake here. They blame it for stealing chickens. Gusti’s little boy loved the water, laughing and leaping about. When you live a life of adult seriousness, a carefree kid does you the world of good.  

Gusti led us back up to the warung, carrying his smaller child on his shoulders. Tiny ants were stinging my legs. Alex was already at the warung booking up a couple of bottles of fizzy drink and biscuits for the party. Gusti’s wife insisted we have coffee. Wayan G tried to pay but she wouldn’t take it. He bought cigarettes, which sort of made up for it. Wayan G gave me a lift down to Suamba’s father’s house (priest of the village), but no one home. Wayan G thought they might be at the temple, but hadn’t seen Suamba’s brother Ketut Mandra’s car there yet. I will get no transport to Kuta today I thought. Wayan G offered me a lift home, but said I’d rather walk.

It is nice to walk through the village, and be asked to enter the warungs as you pass by. People usually smile and say hello, but today a couple of small kids asked me for 100 Rp, but even that was not serious, they came running up behind me, calling out more “hello”s, and “minta seratus rupiah” (beg 100 Rp). By the time they reached me, they were just smiling, no hands out for money.

I walked back through the rice fields. The distant blue black mountains were poking up through white clouds, silhouetting a pretty pink sky, a thin orange vapour trail from some far off jet silently cutting nature like a knife.

I was washing up when Nyoman the painter walked in. He came with Suamba’s son, here for the first time since I have been here. They placed offerings. I gave Nyoman a T-shirt, plus one for his friend, he was so excited about it. It was good of him to go to the trouble of getting my frames, and at such a low price, despite Alex’s jealousy. I felt sorry I didn’t have enough money to buy his painting. He only wanted 15,000 Rp (about $10).

I just had time to put on clean clothes, when Gusti, his wife Ayu, and kids arrived. All dressed up, with Ayu carrying a heavy basked of food on her head. She even brought all the plates, and loved being in Alex’s kitchen, dressing up the food in his bowls. I boiled water on the gas stove, Gusti wanted to know how long a cylinder of gas lasted. What a leap up it would be for them, after their kero stove.

Ayu is a beautiful, vivacious woman. She told Alex she liked his shirt, an overdone bright pink batik one. Alex immediately changed shirts, and gave it to her, telling her to keep it. Alex brought out cushions for the kids, and poured them fizzy drinks. He put some arak in Gusti’s and mine. Ayu was worried Alex might have put some in hers or the kids. Gusti ordered me to let his wife do the work, so we men, in true Indonesian style, could sit at the table and be waited on. It was a deliciously tasty meal, rice, vegetable with noodles, and a really well cooked mixture of chicken and fish. I’m glad I was so hungry, and could eat lots of it.

Alex brought out photos of his family and Bali, so I did the same. These people are some of the nicest people I have ever met in Bali. The poor seem to be invisible to the rich. It is not the rich who will come when the chips are down, it is the ones who know what it is like to have very little. 

I had some things to give them, as I may have to leave most of my luggage behind anyway, if I can’t get transport to the airport. They left, inviting me to see them tomorrow before I go. It was such a good feeling the whole time they were here. They are so concerned for Alex, I think they know he means well. Alex and I were indulging in good conversation following their visit when Wayan G and his wife arrived. I’m still not sure what it was about, but it was good of them to care. Alex was dropping and spilling things. I made them tea. They admired Alex’s paper light shades from Australia, so Alex said he’d bring two back for them one day.

Wayan G said he still hadn’t seen Suamba’s brother Ketut Mandra’s car yet, so I will go there tomorrow morning. I must somehow get to Kuta tomorrow, to make sure I catch the plane the day after. But for now all is quiet, as I take a last look at flashes of distant lightning before bed.

Tuesday 30th April 1991
Bunut Garden Losmen, Kuta, Bali. 6pm.

This morning I made some coffee, and found some biscuits for breakfast.  Walked into Bunutan and luckily found Ketut’s father just leaving his house. He led me to where his son Ketut was staying. I would never have found it myself. Ketut said he was going back to Kuta tomorrow, so I said I would get a lift from someone else, but then he kindly decided to go back this afternoon, so here I am back in Kuta. It might be thought strange that I would be so desperate to get to Kuta the day before the flight? In 1985, at Bali’s airport, they shut the boarding gate just as I attempted to go through it, “too late” they said. I have learnt a hard lesson.

This morning, after finding Ketut, I walked with his father, the village priest, to his immaculately kept house and garden. He painted his cigarette with a green menthol type of solution to relieve congestion. I walked back to Gusti and Ayu’s warung, where she boiled weak coffee for me as usual, and gave me peanut biscuits. I bought some bread rolls. Gusti turned up in his bemo, dropped off a small banana tree, and then took off for more business.

Back at the place I will no longer call home, Alex was as usual ready for conversation. I packed my bag, paintings and frames. Ate a bread roll with banana for lunch, and then walked to Bunutan with my camera, to say my goodbyes. Tour driver Ketut and Wayan Geliduh were not at home. I went to Suamba’s house, Suamba not there. I went behind to where Nyoman the painter lives, and took a photo of him making a big painting. Also took a photo of his wife and baby, standing with Kandru and her little girl.

      Nyoman the painter (left)    

                     Nyoman’s wife (left) Kandru and daughter (right)

I said my goodbyes. Kandru wouldn’t let me go. She begged me to take her with me. A heart breaking torrent burst over me, and I broke her hope right there, because some things can never be. I cannot save Kandru when I can’t even seem to save myself. I hope that in her heart, she knows, as I know, it is impossible. But I didn’t say it is impossible. For Kandru to lose hope of getting out of her hard life would break me. If Kandru left with me, she knows she would lose everything, including her own children. That is the way it happens in Bali, so how desperate she must feel. I care for Kandru and respect her honour, and so it is important that the words written here, will not be seen for many years I hope, long enough for it not to matter anymore. If Kandru or Suamba ever read these words, you know that my feeling for you both has always been a feeling of loving kindness. These words I promise you will not be read by anyone until at least one of the three of us has passed away. If anyone else has felt themselves wrongly portrayed, I apologise unreservedly. I write what I consider to be an honest portrait from my personal observation, and I realise that this may offend, but these words were never intended to offend anybody.

Just up the road I said goodbye to Nyoman at her warung, she didn’t want me to take her picture. Walked back to Gusti’s warung, and arrived in a sweat. Ibu Ayu gave me a drink with ice, and asked me to eat something, but I didn’t feel like it. I had given them my batteries for their clock, and noticed it was going. It chimed nicely, 2 o’clock. 

Saying hello to the men making cement bricks, I walked out the back for a last look at the ravine. The kids followed me, telling me the names of the vegetables growing there. Back in the warung, they gave me a little Balinese painting with nice black and gold frame, and put the remainder of my drink in a plastic bag, plus a packet of peanut biscuits.

Photo

                            Making cement bricks outside the warung

                 The Balinese painting given to me by Ibu Ayu and Gusti

 Back at the house Alex was painting again, touching up a painting he wasn’t happy with. We had watched a pink sunrise, and Alex was impressed with the way the light gave depth to the rice fields. He was trying to recapture it. Wayan G arrived. I poured the drink from the plastic bag into two small glasses, and pinched a little of Alex’s arak to give it some body. We swallowed that down with some peanut biscuits. Alex asked Wayan G if he could pick him up at 6pm, and take him to Ubud, where he could phone Australia and beg for some money.

Wayan G then left, saying he had been in Denpasar to see “the boss” about selling some land to him, but “boss” said he didn’t have any money, so the deal is off for the present. Wayan G downhearted, told him not to worry.

Alex started on again about Suamba. I told him a story which I hope will help him. I was just getting in the shower when Suamba’s brother Ketut arrived. Alex made tea. It was a cold goodbye from Alex, not what I expected. Anyway, I am grateful for his sincerity, if that’s how he feels. His thoughts are no doubt not on me at all, but on survival, now that I am not around to distract him. Ketut carried my luggage, the frames and paintings.

On the trip to Kuta, we talked mainly about the situation with his brother Suamba and Alex. Ketut reminded me he is on the lookout for a man with half a million dollars, so he can build a hotel at Bunutan. Hope springs eternal they say. At his losmen in Kuta, we settled into a nicer conversation over coffee, then we each went for a shower.

8.30pm. Finishing today’s diary entry after having returned from eating at a nearby warung, noodles with pieces of meat and vegetables and a cup of tea for about 50 cents. Nearby, I bought a small packet of biscuits that cost more than the meal. I shared them with Ketut and family while watching their TV, while the kids leapt about, I am looking forward to a rest.

Wednesday 1st May 1991

1am Bali time, on Qantas flight 30

I woke up early this morning in Kuta, felt hot, even with the fan on. I sat outside the room, very quiet. Went back to bed and rested until 6am, and then did the usual meditation. I enjoyed the prepared breakfast. I had given my ticket to Komang when I first arrived, she said she lost it, the first of a few jokes she had with me during the day. I phoned Qantas to reconfirm my ticket. Was sweaty, so had a shower. I walked to the post office, two letters, and then on my way down Poppies Lane towards the beach, I called into Poppies restaurant garden. I sat on the edge of a pond of goldfish and read Dara’s letters a few times, observing again the trellis dripping with mauve flowers visited by bee-like big black flying insects. My mind wandered back to my restaurant experiences of 1972 Kabul, where other Western origin travellers would beg me to leave something on my plate for them to eat. It was so devastating, that I promised myself that I would never ask anyone else to do that.
I walked on to the beach, and back up to a music shop, where I talked with Matt, the English guy I met in Surabaya weeks ago. He was buying Indonesian music, so I recommended the Joget, Indonesian music played on bamboo, a softer sound.

Back at Bunut Garden Losmen, the house girl made me two cups of tea. Had a shower then slept for about two hours. Got up and walked to the beach just before sunset, warm water and dumping waves.

Had another shower, this time to get the salt off, and dressed for the flight. Ketut kept telling me that Suamba will be here.

Suamba and friend arrived, getting straight into conversation about Alex. I told Suamba my summation, so after about an hour’s talking, I can only hope that it cleared some things up.

I said my goodbyes and thanks to Ketut and Komang. I felt guilty about not paying them for transport from Bunutan and last night’s accommodation, but they always say I am family, and they are very kind people. Suamba drove me to the airport. I sat with Suamba at the outside bar, but not for a drink. He took out the money he had borrowed from me. He tried to make me take it, but I just couldn’t. It was too late to be getting that money back now, but in my heart, I was grateful to see Suamba redeem himself. I like to think Suamba knew me enough to know, that I wouldn’t take my money back, and that is why he had something else ready. He pressed a US$50 note in my hand saying, you will need this in Australia, you must take it, and I did take it. I parted again from him without any emotion, broke, but feeling rich.

Yesterday, after I left Alex for the final time, Ketut unexpectedly slowed the car and stopped outside Suamba’s house, where Kandru was waiting. She handed through the window a small package, which she said was a gift from her to my mum. After a while, all I could say was “Selamat tinggal”, the usual expression that is said when leaving someone behind. It means literally “Peace be with your stay”.

At the airport, after Suamba left, I tore open a corner of Kandru’s gift - a packet of sugar.