Michael D.Heath-Caldwell M.Arch.

1992 - Diary - Joe Palmer

Joe Palmer Diary 1992

Saturday 22nd August 1992

Ubud, Bali, Indonesia.

It is one week since I arrived back in Bali, and just over one year since I left it. There hasn’t been a lot of work for me in Australia for a while, so I really can’t afford a hotel type of holiday, but thanks to the kind invitation of my friend Fabia, I am staying at no cost in her rented house in the middle of Ubud village. Well, it is sort of in the middle. Outside the front fence there is a dirt track, leading to a dirt road which is driveable, if I had a car. This road leads to the main street, Jalan Raya Ubud, although some might argue that Monkey Forest Road is the centre.

Fabia’s house has two rooms, each with its own bathroom and a shared patio, from which there is a step down to a small garden with a few scattered plants and a well. There is an attached kitchen which is also home for the home help boy Wayan, but a different Wayan from the one at Alex’s house last year. He is putting his best foot forward today, because Fabia is here. She spends the working week in Denpasar, where she teaches English and lives in another rented room with an Indonesian family. They look after her baby daughter Ari, while Fabia is working.

Wayan has a fish, but didn’t cook it until Fabia went out somewhere. He would be aware, that with her command of the Indonesian language, she would discover where the fish came from, and besides that, he probably didn’t want it shared into smaller portions. Anyway, I became part of the conspiracy by eating a third of it. Wayan ate a third, and the last third taken away to another friend by Wayan’s friend, who promised to return the container. When I asked where the fish came from, I was told it was caught in the river using a spear, very colourful I thought. I should have understood, but didn’t realise in agreeing to come here and keep an eye on things, that I would be spending my time with Wayan, and seeing Fabia only at weekends, but that’s how it is.

Wayan has told me about his impoverished family and “How to get the money”? I feel sorry for him, but this is an emotion that I have experienced in Bali before, because I have heard the story so often. The Balinese have this concept that Western people have endless riches, and that is often true compared to them, but they don’t understand that many rich people are only rich because they never gave anything away, so how are they to get anything from them? Wayan noticed that I have two pairs of board shorts, so I gave him the one he liked, and it made him happy. It didn’t cost me much to let him know I heard him. 

Now that Fabia is sort of home for the weekend, I have been able to catch up on her life. She had her two teenage boys here, but it cost a “fortune” to feed them in restaurants because the kitchen had not been built, not that the boys would have been content to stay eating at home all the time. They have returned to their International schooling in other parts of Asia, as arranged by their father. The kitchen is now built, but with no cooking utensils. I have bought pots and pans, and helped Wayan get set up to cook. Wayan and I have just spent a long time fishing out a lid that slipped from Wayan’s washing up fingers into the well.

I took a bemo (shared minibus) out to Bunutan village during the week, and stepped off the bemo to a hearty greeting from my Balinese friend and Fabia’s ex-lover, Suamba. He was dressed in sarong, sitting with some other men watching the traffic go by, but he doesn’t seem to be going anywhere himself. His days are spent in the house he built for the retired Australian painter Alex, who has moved to near Ubud. Suamba returns to his own house each day for lunch with wife Kandru. He told me Kandru has been unwell again, and when I saw her, I could see that for myself. I had a bag of used clothes for her and the kids, which seemed to brighten her. She immediately disappeared with them. Suamba told me that the doctor has not been able to cure her, and it has been decided to take her to a traditional Balinese healer. If Suamba is not working, how does he provide for Kandru and their kids? I just don’t get it. To be fair, the same question might well be asked about me, and the answer could well be that none of us need as much as we think we do. 

Suamba talked philosophically about life, and how people give themselves the hurt because they want to. Probably a reference to either Fabia or Alex, take your pick. Anyhow, I have been invited to stay with him at Alex’s previous residence. I will go there the day after tomorrow, when Fabia returns to Denpasar, the change will do me good.

The day after finding Suamba, I found Alex. He had already moved from the address he had given me in his letter. The two shady looking brothers there told me the name of his village, but they didn’t know exactly where Alex was? I walked about a kilometre up the hill to that village, Sambahan. After getting the run around in one losmen, I met a man called Rai in the street, who told me that he himself was a famous painter with pictures in all the big galleries. He led me about 50 meters down the road, and at the back of a group of houses, I heard Alex call my name, and as he informed me, from his bed. He emerged slightly bedraggled but with wig firmly in place, and looking at least ten years younger. 

He sat me down on his plush balcony and, with so much more confidence, ordered the home help boy to make coffee. We were surrounded by beautiful furniture and works of art, trimmed hedge plants, and rambling fields of sweet potato and pumpkin. An almost new home with immaculate bathroom, studio, and kitchen attached, all for less than $200 per month. Not too bad a life for a pensioner I thought. The family seems nice, so it seems that Alex has fallen on his feet at last, but who will get tired of who first? Alex seems to think they are such a nice family, that they will understand if he can’t pay when he is supposed to. And so nothing’s changed I thought.

There was vindictive talk from Alex about Suamba doing him in. It made an interesting contrast to what I heard the day before from Suamba, who complained of Alex ripping everything out of the Bunutan house, and smashing what he couldn’t take with him?

We met again that evening in the night market. Alex was loaded up with a jug of kerosene for his paintbrushes, and a plastic bag of something else that he retrieved from some darkened place under a chef’s makeshift table. He unsuccessfully bargained for a lift up the hill, so I offered to help him with his things while he cursed the Balinese. The high price of transport became clear, when we found the usual road blocked because a ceremony was in progress, but the extra cost for a detour didn’t seem to occur to Alex. There were beautifully dressed children with temple scarves throwing wads of money on dice gambling boards. It’s legal at any age if it is for religious purposes.

At his residence, and after much talk from Alex, it became impossible to leave, because as soon as I entered the by then dead quiet darkened street, I became surrounded by snarling dogs, my greatest fear in Bali after many terrifying encounters and rescues by the Balinese. Ahead of me was a restless night having to share Alex’s king size bed. In the morning I explained to the family there why I had to stay, and they said it would have been very unlikely to have been bitten by a pack of dogs, maybe bitten by only one perhaps. 

Alex promised to come to my place for lunch. I bought supplies from the market on the way home, and then Wayan and I cooked up a feast. By 3pm I decided to eat. Next day (this morning) Alex found me here at Fabia’s house to explain that he had indeed even been next door, but they had not heard of Fabia. I have since found out that this is result of Fabia not using her real name with the locals. This was all news to me, and I still don’t know myself the name she uses. It could be “Memsaab”, the name Fabia jokingly gives herself when she needs to show some authority.

Fabia had to use some authority over me when she returned from Denpasar for the weekend. I had not made sure Wayan painted her room, I must have misunderstood the instructions. I had thought it was the job of the owner, Ibu Asa, who called in twice during the week. At those times I asked Ibu Asa as instructed, about getting the sink installed, excess mattresses removed, and as I thought arrange the painting. It turned out that Wayan was supposed to do the painting, what a mix up. There was lot of talk from Fabia about the lack of money and the failings of others. Trying to calm things down by saying that it was not worth getting stressed about, escalated her emotion. It seems that my staying at Suamba’s house for a while has come at the right time, but I need to listen better, and be more considerate as to what I say.

This morning things were calmer. Fabia warned me that if I went out to Suamba in Bunutan village, I could be kept there and used as a pawn in the hope of attracting herself (Fabia) there. (Fabia and Suamba have enjoyed an on and off again relationship for many years). While we were discussing this, I nervously saw Alex approaching, as Fabia had previously told me that she never wanted to meet him, but they got on like a house on fire. Fabia even agreed to lunch together in the restaurant Alex had suggested.

At the restaurant, much talk about the intrigues of the local love affairs, but the talk inevitably narrowed to Suamba, who seems to be their shared nemesis. All this criticism of Suamba by Fabia doesn’t fool me for one minute. The ways of love are curious, and some of us talk harshly about the person we secretly love.  I can’t help feeling that my invitation here is to be some kind of go-between, so that Fabia can patch things up again with Suamba. Fabia suggested we walk out of the restaurant, because the food was taking too long to prepare, but Alex had already eaten. He had arrived before us, so we left the restaurant with Alex carrying a plastic bag of cuttings that he had previously garnished from Fabia’s garden.

Fabia couldn’t get her legs waxed, so we bargained for food at different stalls. Fabia tried to help me at one stall by telling the owner that she could get the pawpaw so much cheaper in Denpasar. The owner explained that she herself had to buy the pawpaw in Denpasar, but she gave me a cheaper price on the passionfruit, so Fabia’s intervention was beneficial after all. 

This evening Fabia has taken Ari to see a video at a local restaurant, which is the nightly hangout for the local expats. Wayan has transformed himself from his daggy day clothes into his nightly outfit, smelling of perfume as usual, good on him. Today I saw him dig a hole using a stick where a spade was needed, if there had been a spade that is. He is not much more than a boy, but I can see that he, like most Balinese, is already a survivor. That word “survival” is something I think a lot about in Bali, even though Suamba thinks I come here for the “cleansing”. 

Tuesday 25th August 1992

Ubud

What a different reality faces me now. We had just parked Fabia’s car in Ubud’s main street, when Fabia’s long-time friend Margriet rushed up to us on the back of a motorbike. It was terrible news, my friend Suamba’s wife Kandru had passed away. I was carrying Ari, Fabia panicked, and Margriet suggested we go immediately to Suamba’s house. At that time, we were right outside Tino’s supermarket, so I went inside with Ari and bought sugar and coffee, which are the traditional gifts when someone has died. I added a carton of Suamba’s favourite cigarettes and some sweets for Ari. Margriet, her Balinese friend and I, crammed into the back of Fabia’s jeep. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. They talked about the possibility of being asked to pay for funeral expenses, and how their lives might be affected. I explained that when I saw Kandru, she really didn’t look so much sicker than she sometimes did before. My mind was in turmoil, thinking about seeing Kandru just a few days ago, and wondered if I missed any clues that might have helped her.

We don’t know the last time we will see someone, but I am glad I had that little meeting, and that it was sweet. My mum, being the wife of a clergyman, heard many stories from the women of the parishes where they lived. One lady now deceased, told of how she had an argument with her husband as he left for work. He died that day, and the wife said she had lived with their final argument all her life. It has made me more determined to leave others well.

I could see a confusion of people in the dark at the front gate. Suamba greeted us inside his courtyard, which was full of men and children, and took us inside, where some men were sitting on mats. Piles of coffee and sugar against the wall, all furniture removed from the room. We sat on the floor. I must have hesitated with the offering, because Fabia took it and handed it to Suamba. He looked exhausted, unshaven, red eyes almost closed, but smiles for everyone. They say that in Indonesia there is a smile for every occasion, and this smile was certainly a forced special smile. Not much talking, but people coming in to shake hands.

Suamba began explaining, and kindly in English, what had happened. Kandru was relatively alright until her final day, when she began acting strangely. The Dukun (Balinese medicine man) was sent for, but he said Kandru was so sick that he didn’t want to even touch her. She ate a spoonful of porridge, and after taking a warm bath, she collapsed. Suamba wrapped her in a towel, and put her on the bed.

Suamba said quietly to me alone that it was at this time he saw her spirit rise like a rush of wind or smoke. They rushed her to a doctor at Campuhan where it was confirmed that Kandru had died. She was taken home, and dressed for burial, which occurred the next day, the day we had come there. There will be a cremation at a later date, chosen on an auspicious day, when many are cremated at the same time, to lessen the expenses for ordinary village people.

In a corner of the room, Ari had the other kids laughing, ordering them about, and pretending to wash their hair. It was much appreciated by everyone, especially Suamba, who was giving Ari instructions. Fabia was too overcome to know what was being said, and asked Margriet to tell her. They walked outside. Later Fabia told me how they went into Kandru’s kitchen with the piles of wood and buckets of water, thinking about the hard life she had, and who would do it now? How would Suamba manage with three children, Eka, the eldest boy aged 16, Dwipayana about 12 years old, and the little girl Nyoman, about 4 years. Kandru was only 33 years old.

Suamba told me that after I gave to Kandru the clothes from my mum, he had later suggested to her, that maybe she should give one to her sister - no, she said, I’m keeping all of them. Suamba enjoyed telling me that, and I loved to hear it. I told him how I always liked Kandru very much, and he said Kandru felt the same about me. 

In a bit of confusion, Suamba walked with us to the car. He picked up his little girl, no other Balinese there, it must have been very late. I got in the car to get away from the emotion of Fabia and Margriet. The trip back was no better than the forward journey, I have no idea how long we were there.

Back here, Fabia’s friend Nadine arrived, and we all had a positive talk. Nadine is a practical business woman, and her powerful personality helpful at such a time. I was grateful to Nadine, and this left me free to step aside and just make cups of tea for them. After Nadine left, Fabia talked on until unable to continue. 

As daylight began, it was one of those waking experiences, when the reality of waking seems worse than the dream. I was very glad when Fabia got up to drive to work in Denpasar, I went with her.

At Denpasar, we had enough time for me to visit Suamba’s spiritual adviser Ida Bagus Mantra’s house while Fabia waited in the car. Mantra’s wife went into a panic, thinking Suamba had died, but seemed to be relieved to find out that it was only his wife. I guess that reaction is because she has not met Kandru, women like Kandru rarely leave the village. I was told that Mantra would be available at 11am.

As soon as I helped Fabia in with Ari and the bags, I caught a taxi to the post office, where there was a letter from Robert and Carrie, the Dutch couple I met last year.  I had been looking forward to seeing them in Bali again, but they had cancelled because Carrie’s mother was having a medical procedure. I read it in a sticky café and felt alone. Why do we feel more alone in the middle of a busy city full of people?

In the main street I bought some high quality incense for Mantra, and sweets for Ari which I dropped off at Fabia’s with a note. It was a hot walk to Mantra’s place because I had forgotten the street name where he lived. Once there I was taken to a room and waited until they returned to tell me that Mantra had a headache and was unavailable. They gave me paper to write a note. After three times trying to see him, I have received the message I believe I have been meant to receive, and that is that this door is closed to me. In order that none of us go through this anymore, I said in the note that I understood how busy Mantra was, and in the hope of things being less busy, on my future trips to Bali, I would find out about his life through Suamba.

Feeling dazed, but glad to be through with all that, I walked to the bus station. I felt better after coffee at a roadside stall, and caught two bemos to Ubud. The workmen were putting in the sink, remaking a path, scything the shrubs flowers and all, and painting Fabia’s room. I noticed that no one went near my room. The lady owner was floating around placing religious offerings, she was possibly disturbed by news of Kandru’s death. Luckily, I don’t consider myself to be suspicious, and draw no parallel with my arrival and Kandru’s passing. In fact, I feel that my being here at this time was meant to be, and I am so glad Kandru had some joy from the clothes I brought her. My room was the only refuge, so I had a shower and went to bed. When I finally got up, the water was cut off, which was probably incidental, but it made me feel less welcome than ever.

Now that I had the place to myself, I planted the garden with cosmos seed that Fabia and I had collected yesterday somewhere. If they grow, they will be my little memory of Kandru. Later, at the night market, I sat with Alex and his home help boy, Madé. Alex’s reaction to Kandru’s death was expected, he thinks Suamba drove her to it. He invited me to his place for a talk, but I said I couldn’t face the dogs again. Truth is I couldn’t face any more of that kind of vindictive talk about my friend Suamba from Alex. The nicest part of day came when they patted me on the shoulder as they left.

Wayan the home help boy is not here, he told me earlier that he would be going with his friend to a party in Kuta. It’s quiet, apart from the crickets and frogs. I can hear an occasional dog bark and distant tinkling of gamelan music. Fabia’s house is at the end of a road here, and that’s how I feel.

1984 L to R Fabia, Kandru, Dwipayana and Eka (Suamba and Kandru’s sons), Wayan Geliduh (home help boy), Suamba, Joe. Photo outside Suamba’s house.

Tuesday 1st September 1992

Gili Air Island, Lombok, Indonesia.

There’s sand on my hands as I write. Its mid-morning, I am back from snorkelling over the reefs, and feeling good to be here on Gili Air island. I’m sharing a simple bungalow that has foundations of rocks covered in bits of broken shell and coral, right next to the beach. Things are dry here, with brown grass spotted with cactus and lumps of coral, a few coconut palms for shade. Life is relaxed, quiet, and slow at $7 per day, all meals included. Beyond the turquoise sea stretches the palm fringed coast of Lombok, the big island neighbouring Bali. Dominating the distant landscape is Lombok’s Mount Rinjani volcano, which we have just climbed. I say we, because I climbed it with people I met after leaving Ubud. Leaving Fabia’s house was a sad but necessary decision, with Fabia away all week each week, and due to local custom, too early to visit Suamba after bereavement, leaving only Alex, who was not enough to keep me there. So much has happened since leaving, and Ubud seems like another world to me now.

Six days ago, I caught three connecting bemos to Bali’s Padangbai harbour, and arrived in time to follow a colourful procession to the jetty, where I found out that the ferry to Lombok was leaving in fifteen minutes. This was good, because it saved me from staying in Padangbai overnight. It’s a lazy trip of about five hours. I mostly stretched out on a bench with views of a glistening turquoise ocean. The ferry was not crowded, but some confusion on arrival in Lombok, with crowds of people and their bags jostling around bemos. I was encouraged into one of them without finding out the price, so ended up paying more. This would not normally be such a problem, but I met a Dutch girl named Edith on the bemo, who has been travelling for months, and she was ready to argue with them when we got out. They pulled a swift one by taking my 5,000Rp (Rupiah-Indonesian currency) note, and took off saying that the girl (Edith) could pay me her fare. She didn’t like it and talked about it all day, but I decided not to feel responsible, it was just that I was there to cop it. I possibly could have demanded my change from the bemo boy, but I thought nothing of it at the time, and none of us are perfect, although others often expect us to be.

We walked through the hot streets of Ampenam to Triguna losmen, a big old place with wide verandahs and sitting area, where we started talking with an Irish girl named Suzanne, about climbing Mount Rinjani volcano. A guy who had just climbed the volcano joined us and gave some details. In my previous trips to Lombok, it was too wet to climb, and now it all seemed to be just so easily falling into place, this was my time.

Next day at the market we stocked up on food, rice, noodles, beans, cabbages, onions, chillies, sugar, salt, tea, coffee, biscuits, and sweets. We had enough food for four days in the mountains. Suzanne bought a cap and sweater. That afternoon we caught three bemos to Senaru in the foothills. We checked into Losmen Segara Anak, with nice views down to the coast. They had tents and sleeping bags right there. That evening we talked with a local porter named Ram. We all got on well, so agreed that he should guide us up the volcano.

Next morning, after buying bottles of water, we set off at 6am through open fields bordered with trees decorated with hanging vines of beans. Soon we entered the forest, it was cooler there as we trod steadily uphill. We could hear monkeys in the trees, but they were too shy to come near. I asked people coming down how long it would take us to reach the rim of the volcano, and got a different story each time.

The rest stops were getting down to every 15 minutes, until we stopped at “Post 3”, where we stopped for lunch of noodles and coffee, cooked over some firewood.  I had arrived before the girls and Ram, who had stayed with them, so I was able to have a good rest. While waiting for them to arrive, some people heading down saw me flat on my back, and asked if I was ok, to which the only answer I could think of was “I’m never doing this again”. They got a laugh.

Soon after lunch, we left the forest, and began to get glimpses of how far we had come, and how far we had yet to go. We could see Mount Agung volcano across the sea in Bali surrounded by circles of clouds, it seemed to be rising from the ocean. There was very little protection from the sun, with steeper steps, but it became easier in the shade of a ridge.

About an hour before sunset I reached the crater rim. The view was even more beautiful than anticipated. About 800 meters below me stretched a deep blue lake about 2 kilometres wide, sitting at the bottom of a crater about 6 to 8 kilometres across from rim to rim. Below a peak on the northern rim, a new cone below it seemed to be rising from the water. The last eruptions were minor, and the new grey black cone seemed quiet, surrounded on three sides by the lake, and on the other side the seemingly sheer cliffs of the original crater covered with pine trees. We were more than 2 kilometres up, so turning around, we had great views of the Lombok and Bali coastlines. We helped Ram pitch the tents and started with cooking preparations, but stopped all this to drink in the sunset, a ball of fire, setting almost behind Agung volcano on Bali.

(Continued Wednesday 2nd September 1992)

We camped on a path just inside the rim of the volcano, so we were protected from the chilly winds. From our sleeping bags it was restful listening to the wind whistling through the pine trees. I tossed and turned in my sleeping bag, as the sandy ground felt so hard. 

As soon as there was some light, I got up to enjoy the sunrise. The clouds below us flecked with red and gold. A cold wind was blowing over the outer rim where I stood, and the dark lake below was changing colour with the brightening sky. As time went on, we found ourselves more popular with other hikers, as they gathered around our fire to enjoy breakfast with us.

                                   Making coffee for breakfast on Mount Rinjani, Lombok

Two Italians decided to accompany us down the rim to the lake. Their guide was stung in the head by a bush bee the day before. I had come up to him on the track, and he told me to go no further. Sure enough, his nearby pack and bottle of sweet tea were coated with swarming bees. I rubbed some balsam into his head as he was suffering much pain. Edith arrived, and the stung guide told her not to go past there, but she said it would not be a problem. She ran past the bees and was stung on her arm. An Indonesian porter arrived. We made smoke from tying branches, leaves and grass onto a piece of wood. After putting my two jackets on us, we were able to move close enough to smoke the bees, pushing the pack and bottle away from them. Each time we moved, the bees flew around us, so we stopped dead still until we were able to work at it again. By the time we had cleared the bees, there were a lot of people waiting in both directions to continue their journey. Edith suffered for the rest of that day, and in the morning her arm and face were swollen.

After breakfast, we looked across the volcano rim to the steep looking ridge running up to the ultimate peak in the distance. To get there would mean another camp, getting up at 1am, and trek by flashlight to reach the peak at dawn. I felt nervous already, because I have had a difficult experience doing this sort of thing with flashlights, which can fail, and it happened to me. It didn’t help when some people who had just done it said how there was a lot of slippery sand and the path was narrow near the top. We thankfully decided that enough was enough, and left our camp where it was, leaving Ram there to look after things.

With the Italians and their jovial guide now sort of recovered from the bee sting, we set off down the inside rim of the volcano. It was steep and slow, but always great views of the lake below. Just about half way and an hour later, we met some fishermen coming up with fish hung on a pole. We bought a big one that looked like a carp. We found out later that they can catch them in their hands, because the water is so full of chemicals it slows them down. We later learned that the fish have been introduced. At the lakeside, it was a relief to splash water on our hot faces. We sat on the shore in some shade enjoying biscuits. A monkey snatched my whole packet of biscuits right in front of me and was gone, it was so quick.

There is a split in the rim where the lake can flow out in the wet season. At this place, hot springs gush from rocks, dropping in waterfalls down the slopes into pools of yellowish steaming water. Further down, the water was at a temperature we could enjoy. We sat in the pools, water gushing over our heads, admiring the views into the valley below. Meanwhile, Hadji, the guide was cooking up a storm with our fish, noodles, cabbage and rice. He had stuck a stick through the fish and baked it over the fire until the flesh was breaking apart. We sat in a clear space in the middle of the rocks to eat it. Refilling our water bottles from bamboo poles sticking out a rock wall, we set off to trek back up to the top. My pack was loaded with three by one and a half litre full bottles, the kitchen utensils, and my own things. It was hard going but easier in shaded sections. It was at that time the words “Allah is merciful” kept running through my head, I think it helped. I stopped on the narrow track to allow about fifty Sasak pilgrims to pass in single file down to the lake carrying their provisions over their shoulders, some of them quite old people. It is the time of the new moon, and apparently they come on their pilgrimage at this time. 

At the halfway point we rested on a flat rock in the shade of the pines. Suzanne thankfully took over my pack, and I continued on with just one bottle of water. I offered to take it back several times, but she took it all the way to the top, good girl. We arrived in time to see another colourful sunset. Ram had a fire going, so we settled in for the night. Soon after we got into the tents, we could hear some Indonesian voices outside. They sounded youthful and drunk, warning each other not to go near the edge in the dark. They were calling out for water, but Ram who was sharing my tent whispered to do and say nothing. One of them said something about it being wrong to steal, which made me nervous for my shoes outside the tent, but in the morning we were missing only one bottle of water. I had a restless night with waves of nausea. Was it the fish or the water or both? To be honest the fish tasted of sulphur, but I guess the texture of it was enjoyable. I was glad to get up and see a red glow coming on the horizon. Being known now as the early riser, I got all the others up, and we trekked around the rim to get a better view of the sunrise. We lay the dismantled tents in the sun to dry off the dew. 

Breakfast attracted all kinds of people for coffee, luckily we had enough water for everyone, but I had lost my appetite. As we headed down the volcano, I was grateful that it was not yet too hot, and we enjoyed beautiful panoramas of the ocean, until we entered the forest and the cool of the tall trees.

At “Post 2”, I clambered down a steep slope to wash my face and hands in a ravine rock pool. Monkeys scattered into the trees. About 2.30pm we reached Senaru, where Ram and Edith had already downed a bottle of coke in the warung (small shop). Ram borrowed my soap, and headed for the waterfall, while I stayed drinking coke followed by a cup of tea. Someone told us that Suzanne had gone past in a bemo, so I caught one down to our losmen where Suzanne had already ordered food there. I was given a better room with bathroom, and headed back up the hill to meet Edith and Ram coming down with my bag. 

We sorted the gear, and paid Ram extra for his good work, he was so grateful. The losmen owner told us later Ram was very poor, so I felt glad we gave him our left over food. I forced down some food myself, and fell into bed for a decent night’s sleep. In the morning I still didn’t feel too good, but ate a banana pancake. My sore bones and feet were not as great a problem as the sick feeling. At these times I wonder what did it? In the end it doesn’t make any difference to know, what matters is waiting to get over it.

We caught a bemo down to the coast, and then a bus to Pamenang, where I bargained with a horse cart driver for a ride to the coast. Andreas, a German guy had joined us. At an eating place on the coast, I drank ginger tea to settle my stomach. My feet settled themselves comfortably into the sand waiting for enough people to take a boat trip to Gili Air (Water Island), about two kilometres across the sea. Beyond it sit the other two islands Gili Meno and Gili Trawangan, where I have stayed before. We didn’t want to go to Trawangan, because the military is now over there trying to re-establish order. The new Japanese owners have been bulldozing some tourist bungalows in order to make a new luxury hotel. One traveller told Edith that he came out of the water, to find all the bungalows of his hotel bulldozed except his, they were waiting for him to come out of the water to get his things before they knocked it down, how considerate of them! It is a sad situation for some locals who depend on low budget travellers for their income.

Arriving on the island beach, we were met by many touts inviting us to their rooms. One enthusiastic tourist jumped off the side of the boat too early, and went completely under the water, to the amusement of the locals. Luckily I already knew the best side of the island for snorkelling over the reefs, and we were led here to “Gili Beach”. I am now sitting next to the sea in their pavilion, which is open on three sides, allowing cool breezes to blow in off the ocean. They have lit the Tilley lamp and brought out tonight’s meal. Every day is a different meal, and tonight it is fish in red sauce. We usually buy a packet of biscuits in the afternoon, they are nice to eat after swimming and snorkelling. Andreas has broken skin on his ankles from the Mount Rinjani climb, and has given up going into the water. I’ve lent him my antibiotic powder. Suzanne, Edith and I have a lot of fun sending each other up as the days slip by. After breakfast I slept all morning, and feel better every day.

 1981 My first visit to Gili Air. The three Germans were the only other tourists. Picture also shows the friendly local Indonesian school teacher (left) who helped me get to the island.

Thursday 3rd September 1992Gili Air, Lombok

We walked down the sandy track beside the beach. A shining half-moon shone through the coconut palms, a myriad diamond stars above. The lapping water gradually gave way to the beat of disco music, our big night out on the island.


We pressed our way to the bar next to the pulsating dance floor. The local lads dressed in everything from only shorts to crazy patterned clothes and headbands. And they sure could dance. Before I could finish my drink, I was on the dance floor with Suzanne. Soon everyone was up and dancing everywhere, thanks to an electric generator pumping out the pounding music. Everyone was grinning from ear to ear, and the sweat pouring off like rain. I went outside to cool off, but couldn’t wait to get going again. 


I went back in with Edith in her new Lombok shirt. The only local girls were safely behind the bar, the local boys impressing them with their fancy steps. An older guy I found out later was a policeman, made a grab at Edith. Another Indonesian and myself got her away from him, but then he grabbed me, he was totally drunk. I got away and started talking with some locals outside, when a fight began on the dance floor, it was that same policeman (in red shorts) again, punches and chairs flying. Some locals brought him outside to cool off I guess, then suddenly he let fly again. He chased his enemy with a plastic chair held high, they wrestled on the ground making the sand fly, until Mr red shorts raised a concrete brick which I was sure would be the end for the other guy on the ground. We all screamed out in horror, and for some thankful reason he dropped the brick while a lot of Indonesians subdued him. They took him a fair way from us, where he finally calmed down. The music, the disco, the smiling faces, the party, in fact everything was over.


The torn shirted young man who had been attacked, limped to our table, where we all talked in whispered voices for about an hour. By then most people had disappeared into the night. We walked back with him. When we arrived outside my bungalow, I asked him and his friends to please come inside, and I was able to clean off some blood and put bandages on his wounds. One of his friends then put his arm around my shoulder and said nice words of thanks. It sort of made it all worthwhile that one of them had a heart, or at least was not too drunk to know what was going on. After they left, Andreas and I talked on until someone called out from a nearby bungalow that they couldn’t sleep. I looked at the time, it was 2.30am.


I slowly became conscious enough from my deep sleep, to hear the distant sound of the caller of the mosque through the warm night air. For the first time in my life, it sounded so pathetically beautiful. From my dream, I thought I could hear the song of a sweet girl’s voice, until I gradually became aware of what it was, like a song floating from the heart and soul. I felt so comforted that I felt like crying with gratitude for having a life, but I peacefully drifted back to sleep.


Today was cloudy and windy, and the sea choppy, although I went into it twice, the water colder. I bought a few trinkets from a boy on the beach, while the little girl sold peanut brittle to Edith. Suzanne had us model shirts for her until she bought one. By the time we finished, the shirt seller had his wares spread all over the beach, and was attracting more customers, so we did him a favour. I had a good sleep after lunch. Suzanne has decided to go her own way.

Friday 4th September 1992

Losmen Ayu, Mataram, Lombok


It was a big day today. Crossing over to the mainland from Gili Air, I left my shoes in the boat. I didn’t remember the shoes until we were in the bemo and well on our way to Mataram. I was committed to continue the journey while negotiating for my return. After dropping off tourists here and there, including Edith and Andreas at Ayu losmen, we sped back for the best part of an hour over the hills to the harbour, finding nothing but empty boats and blank faces. The man in the ticket office wanted me to charter a boat for 20,000Rp, and suggested I find other tourists if I couldn’t afford it. The price came down to 12,000Rp. I found three tourists who were waiting for the regular boat at 700Rp each. The only way it was going to work was by persuading them to pay the normal 700Rp each, just to help me a little. They had ordered food but agreed, after all, how long would they have to wait for more tourists? 


Out of the blue, the boat owner who had brought us across turned up, and said he had my shoes. He sent the boy to get them from somewhere. While waiting for his return I felt enormously relieved, but I was surprised to see how disappointed the tourists were with me. There and then, I had a greater understanding of how some Indonesians must feel sometimes with tourists. I had apologised for messing up their plans, and thanked them for offering to help me, but they ignored me, as they were eating by then. Not so the Indonesians, who were very happy for me. I gave the boatman my good Explorer socks that were still in my shoes. I bought water, cigarettes, and bananas for my driver and his assistant Seminyon, to whom I had already given my watch to persuade him to negotiate on my behalf at the harbour. I know it would be hard for most people to understand, but in Indonesia, you have to do unusual things to get a desired result, and this time I got it. 


They brought me back to the losmen in Mataram. By that time, the driver had an upset stomach, he had to stop on the way. I asked Edith and Andreas if they had any medication but they didn’t. I paid the driver, and Seminyon invited me to his house later that afternoon. At a nearby warung I ate nasi goreng (fried rice). The place looked dirty, so asked for it without meat. For the first time in Indonesia, I had chosen a warung that didn’t have tea or coffee, so I had soft drink, which was probably cleaner than the water would have been anyway.


Seminyon turned up late and after Edith and Andreas had gone shopping. We caught a bemo to the other side of town, which he paid for and I let him. He was joking with me asking what time it was, and then pointing to my watch on his own wrist. It was a cheap watch, but I could tell that for him, it was like a treasure. We strolled through back lanes, and I think he enjoyed showing off his tourist friend. 


The water in the canal looked still, and mostly covered in water lilies. Naked kids were leaping about at the edge of the water, and men neck deep scooping silt into small barges. We stood very still in a narrow canoe, as the ferryman poled us across the water.

Nearby we entered his family compound, round river stones, and a canopy of mango and banana trees above. Three related families lived there. Part wood, part bamboo construction, plastered with sheets of newspaper. There were two tiny rooms divided by a low wall and curtain. He offered me a seat, and then came back with his young wife, who was still suffering a headache after two days. I told him I will give him tablets for her later. He took chairs and a small table to the patio of the bigger building, where we were joined by a stout middle aged man who wanted to talk politics, and a much older man who could only speak Dutch and Sasak, the local language. I wished I could talk directly with him, he seemed such a gentleman. We all drank sweet tea while the little kids played and the chickens pecked around our feet. Back in Seminyon’s room, he gave my back and arms a massage, telling me the same one at Sengiggi beach costs 15,000Rp. I took that as a hint to pay which I didn’t. In any case, he found some sore muscles, and I felt much better afterwards.

We walked back a different way past a “family” shop, where he asked for beer, but fortunately they didn’t have any. Instead, I bought us a bottle of soft drink each after we caught a bemo back to my losmen Ayu. I had been talking with Seminyon about taking us to Suranadi when Edith and Andreas returned. They pulled apart my plan, but didn’t have any plan of their own, just complaints about having to pay for anything. Actually I have been paying for Edith all along. She told me that Dutch people can get access to money at post offices in Indonesia. The trouble is that there aren’t many around here, so I am paying for her until she can get her own money to repay me. I hope this does not end badly. 

Saturday 1st September 1992.

From Lombok to Bali

I am writing this on the ferry to Bali, and feeling strangely calm after all the trauma.

Edith, Andreas and I left Mataram in Seminyon’s chartered bemo towards Suranadi. He and the driver had not eaten breakfast, so we stopped at the Narmada market. I borrowed 10,000Rp from Edith, as I had run out of Indonesian currency. Edith and Andreas waited in the bemo, while Seminyon guided me through the crowded market. We went right through the market and back again, only to buy bananas at a stall near our bemo. As I reached into my pocket, there was a growing sense of panic. At first, I just couldn’t believe that my wallet was gone. I searched everywhere but in my heart I knew. The pickpocket must have been an expert because I didn’t feel a thing. We went to the market office, and the people there wanted to know how much was lost. I thought it was between 150 to 200 Australian dollars plus my Mastercard. We were directed to the police station, where I signed all their forms. Luckily Edith is fluent in Indonesian, so it made the task easier. The police took down my address in Australia and Fabia’s address, but I think my wallet is gone for good. After walking outside, the police asked Seminyon and the driver to come back in. We could hear the police telling them that they should have looked after me better. However, I admit that the theft was partly due to my own carelessness. I don’t remember if I did up the button on my pocket, which would have made it safer. But why did we have to go through the market, when it was obvious that we could get the bananas right where we went in. I am trying to believe that Seminyon just wanted me to see the whole market, but I will never know, and it would make no difference if I did know.

An amazing thing is that last night I took some money and my Mastercard out of my wallet, and put them into my money belt, so I must have had a kind of intuition or premonition about what was coming. I was so distressed at the police station that I had forgotten I did this, and so I was amazed when I found the Mastercard and some money later in my money belt. Edith paid me back the money that she had been borrowing, and so ironically I ended up with money that I would have lost if I had not lent it to her, a case of kindness paying dividends. I did lose money, but I thought of something Suamba said to me recently, just before his wife died “We want to keep many thing, but one day we will lose everything”. Remembering this brought me some comfort, and I hope if he remembers his own words, they will do the same for him.

After paying me back, Edith left us right there to continue in Lombok. I did some unpleasant bargaining to get Seminyon to take Andreas and myself to the bus terminal, because I couldn’t get out of Lombok quick enough. Andreas alone is with me on the ferry to Bali. I now have just a few hundred dollars plus a never used Mastercard for emergencies, so hope it works, I may need it. The main thing is that I didn’t lose my passport or ticket back to Australia, so I am grateful for that. 

Sunday 6th September 1992

Ubud, Bali
I just said goodbye to Suzanne, who had arrived in Ubud today from Lombok. She took a room next door, and we walked to the night market. Nice talking about our good experiences in Lombok. I was sorry to tell her how it ended up for me there, and she was very kind. It was so good to be with a positive, bright person. She is leaving tomorrow for Kuta, and then to Java, and on to London to start a course. I suggested she visit Borobudur temple while in Java.

Today again was traumatic, when will it end? It was nice to be back to a sense of home at Fabia’s rental. Andreas soon got a room in Ubud, it’s never a problem here, and he called in later to visit me. After he left, Fabia said he looked so pathetic and lost. I guess he does appear that way, even though he has been on the road for 7 months. His brain has probably been pulverised from an overload of experiences. It was good to read letters from my family, posted to Fabia’s address. Nadine was here, we went to Miros for a nice meal. Nadine bought me a beer to cheer me up from losing my wallet. Fabia is into a kind of psychological testing, so she was anxious for me to answer her questions. She gave me an interesting analysis, but it would be even more interesting to hear it from her source, a man in Denpasar. How does she meet these incredible people?

I found a letter or kind of note from Margriet asking me to see her as soon as possible, so I went to her house. Initially there was much talk about her experiences with a Balian, a Balinese traditional doctor. She thinks it would be interesting for me to see him, but really I think she wants Suamba to go with her. She has been seeing a lot of him. She intimated that she is falling in love with him, but without saying so directly. In short, she gave me all the information she wants Fabia to know, without having to do it herself. What kind of game is this? She would know that I have no alternative but to tell Fabia, which I did. Fabia was upset at this news, and left to tell her other friends, who came calling in to see if she was alright. One of them invited Fabia to dinner, and Ari had to be left with Wayan the home help boy, as I was going out with Suzanne. 

Poor Fabia’s mind is in turmoil about this, and it’s hard to believe at this stage if her friendship with Margriet will survive. Fabia’s last fling with Suamba was about a year ago, so I suggested that Margriet could be doing her a favour. I obviously know little of the workings of a woman’s mind by suggesting this. I was incorrect, and of all the blows in her life, this is the biggest one. If I went to Bunutan and was party to this, our friendship would be at an end. As usual when I hear such things I am so shocked that I can give no response, but I remember two valuable words of advice my dad gave me as a youth, and it is to “say nothing”. It is necessary for me to find a better way to communicate with Fabia, so that I don’t make these mistakes in my conversations with her, mistakes in my behaviour which are stirring her emotions. Perhaps I have not understood how deep her feelings are about her relationship with Suamba, particularly now that she has the pressure to decide on the possibility of a more serious commitment. Suamba has been left more available for marriage since the untimely death of his wife. Fabia’s friends are not doing her any favours by crowding around with their sympathies. In my opinion, it only encourages the emotion. But I realise that’s what many women love to do.

Wayan was charmed by Suzanne when he met her, a bit of realism amongst the trivia. Last night Fabia paid me the money she owed me, so I could have ended up with more than I would have if I had not lent it but lost it to a pickpocket. I say ”could have” because a friend of Fabia arrived so early, that she had to get her out of bed, only to ask her for a loan. Fabia said she had nothing to spare, so when they looked at me, I knew what was coming. I am pleased that I seem to look like I’m loaded with cash, the only trouble is, just at the moment, I am a bit short of it. This situation is like the beautiful looking people, how could they have anything but a beautiful character? I once remarked to Suamba how smart a certain young Balinese man was dressing these days, he must be doing well. Suamba said he was like some fruit, beautiful on the outside, but rotten on the inside. From what I was told, it wasn’t the fact that the good looking young man was able to divest certain foreign women of their clothes, and then their money, or possibly do that in the reverse order, it was the fact that his victims were as it was put to me, old.

I have been told I’ll get my money back tomorrow “or the next day”. But I am going to have to toughen up and discriminate more. In my early Bali years, I used to feel sorry for the family whose losmen I stayed in, so sorry that I would find excuses to give them money, until one day I worked out that they were making more from tourists, than I was from my job in Australia. This morning I gave Wayan money to buy food in the market, so he and his sister cooked up a nice lunch for us, which included Fabia and a friend of hers who was here at the time. I am glad it is only frantic at the weekend like this here, and what is it all about anyway? Fabia knows I am a “soft touch”, and once advised me, that in my dealings over here, to not lose sight of the fact that we must always ask ourselves, what’s in it for me? The answer in my case, is the knowledge that even though the expats here are all fascinating people, I don’t feel like I am one of them. I relate more with the Balinese people, even though I am not one of them either. I don’t feel the need to be with Australians here, there are plenty of them to be with in Australia.

Monday 7th September 1992

Ubud

After Fabia left for work, I caught a bemo out to Bunutan. Suamba was at home, the kids about to go to school, except the little girl Nyoman. Kandru’s aunt was there with a few young girls helping out. Different people came and went while we talked. A girl from where Margriet is staying, arrived on a motorbike with gifts for the kids. A lady arrived, selling containers of skin balm, I didn’t want any, but Suamba bought one for me anyway.

Lunch was set up, someone must have brought it from a warung. Suamba, his son Eka, and I ate together. I was explaining to Suamba what Fabia and Margriet were saying, when Margriet herself arrived with a bag of more gifts. Suamba for the first time I can remember, seemed confused. Margriet said she would now go to what she called the pondok, which is Alex’s previous house built by Suamba, to meditate.

After Margriet left, Suamba told me that he regarded Margriet as a friend, and he would not want to stop her from bring gifts for the children, as they were now his only concern. He asked me to explain this to Margriet, that he must give 100% of his time to the children. He also wanted Fabia to visit because as he put it, they have already had such a big experience. Suamba told me years ago of his overwhelming love for Fabia, and Fabia had intimated to me that she felt the same. In my opinion, neither of them could bring themselves to give up anything they already had, but now with Kandru’s death, one of the “obstacles” has gone. A lot of Fabia’s past life is also gone, because she seems to be living a separate life to her husband, and has left the man in Thailand who is the father of Ari.

                      1983 Happier days. Fabia and Suamba at the then pondok, Bunutan, Bali


Suamba was amazed to learn that I had been to Mount Rinjani in Lombok. Ida Bagus Mantra and others including Suamba’s brother Ketut and his wife Komang, plan to go there on 12th for full moon, making a pilgrimage for Suamba’s now deceased wife Kandru. He himself can’t go because he can’t leave the village for 42 days, but wanted to know all my experiences there.

A boy gave me a lift on the back of his motorbike to see Margriet at the pondok. Margriet told me that a spirit with a dark face appeared to her about 12 years ago to warn her about her then boyfriend Madé. Margriet went ahead and built a hotel for him and his family, where she lived in one of the hotel rooms for a while, but is no longer welcome. The same spirit has come to her again with advice, and she will not ignore it this time. I told her how difficult it must be for Suamba now, and we need to find a way to let him adjust. She agreed that I had little time left in Bali, and if I wanted time alone in the pondok, she would only come for a short visit each day, and maybe stay the night next week. We walked back to the village, and stopped at Suamba’s sister’s warung for coffee and bread, which she wouldn’t let us pay for. I talked with a man who was just a boy last time I saw him. Margriet and I caught a bemo back to Ubud.

Do I choose now to stay with Fabia or Margriet? I will suffer the consequences either way, but it doesn’t matter, because I feel no real personal love coming towards me from either of them, they both love my friend Suamba. How can two friends want the one man? Especially when his wife has died just two weeks ago and has three kids to look after, plus they both know the lowly lot of a Balinese wife? It’s the mystery of love, or perhaps its woman’s compassion overriding practicability. As for Suamba, it should give him a boost to know that two comparatively wealthy white women are fighting over him. They can work it out between all three of them, I am not interested in the outcome.

Thursday 10th September 1992

Jogyakarta, Java, Indonesia

I guess the wonderful thing about Indonesia, is the realisation of how easy it is to be free. That is the moment when you realise the importance of your own well-being. I will let the people in Ubud sort things out for themselves, while I am far away in Jogyakarta. I am in a cheap place here, but it is quiet, and I have had a good rest after an overnight bus trip from Denpasar.

A few days ago, after returning from my visit to Suamba, I had a boring night with Andreas in the night market. Next day I bought some cloth in the day market, to make a divider curtain in the kitchen that doubles as Wayan’s room. Fabia was concerned about going into the kitchen while it was also Wayan’s home. She thought a bamboo blind would be nice, but Wayan and I agreed on cloth. Wayan was happy with it after we hung it up on a piece of wood he had found somewhere.

That afternoon I walked up the hill to see Alex. He looked done in after painting his cement rendered walls light green, but it looked better than the bare cement. The family there had also painted the concrete paths orange, and supplied Alex with a couple of laminex type tables. We shared a packet of nuts I had brought from Australia with coffee. Madé, the house owner’s son come home help boy for Alex joined us. He was dressed in fine temple clothes. Outside, everyone also dressed beautifully, heading to the temple, women with perfectly arranged stacks of offerings on their heads, and men beating the wooden gongs (kulkul) high up on the temple. 

We walked down the hill to the night market, past the procession. Alex treading carefully as it was almost dark, and he reminded me about all the falls he has had. We ordered a lot of food and ate it. Andreas turned up, but he didn’t want to make conversation, so we gave up trying. We walked nearby to “Coconuts”, a restaurant where they show western videos on laser disk. According to Fabia, this is the place where you can find out about the human dramas being played out in Ubud, that is if you are interested in that kind of thing. Fabia has told me that this establishment has been the scene of a recent cat fight between two Australian women fighting over the same Balinese man. Alex and I started talking to a Dutch tourist, Alex went home and I stayed to have another drink with him, he was pleased I think, to find out what he could do in Bali.

When I arrived back at Fabia’s I was surprised to find my door open, and the light on, with a stranger in the spare bed. A note from Fabia said she apologised for moving my stuff from my spare bed, and that Richard drove her up, thinking I might not be here, and if I was here, hoping I wouldn’t mind a roommate for a night or two. I started to get feelings of panic as I tried to sleep in vain with a man I have never met snoring loudly next to me. In the morning, I was relieved to find Fabia had calmed down, and I told her about my visit to Suamba. Different lady friends started arriving, and the place lost all sense of peace. I retreated to the refreshment of a shower, but then felt trapped by a long conversation with Richard, who had no idea of the state of my mind, so I don’t feel any animosity towards him there. Wayan the home help boy told us that Margriet had been looking for me, and Janet, a nice girl who is one of Fabia’s friends and married to Balinese, came over to tell us that the talk among the Balinese is that black magic was practiced to get rid of Kandru. That is how ridiculously superstitious they are, but I wondered if Janet could possible believe it herself?

Time for me to go again I thought. Fabia was happy about it, because she said she was worried about Margriet coming there if I was there also. I slipped away to Denpasar and booked on the bus leaving for Jogyakarta at 4pm. I met   a kind lady from Singaraja who helped me find the ticket seller, and bought a cheap watch from a hawker, a very Indonesian looking one, black with fake diamonds on its face. I talked with a bright faced boy from Java who was looking for work on the bemos, he showed me his certificates. I gave him some food and drink, he never asked for anything.

On the bus I met a sailor and his friend. He had been in Denpasar setting up an office for his company, and had travelled overseas with his work, living in Japan, so he had fun teaching me a few words in Japanese, which seems like a language that would be easier to learn than I had thought. As we crossed on the ferry or stopped for meals, they always bought me something, like a coffee or mandarine. In the bus he handed out packets of headache tablets to surrounding passengers, and gave me a fancy leather wallet. I didn’t want to take it, but he insisted I do, so I was able to tell him the story of how I had lost my wallet, and how good it was to be given one in return. He invited me to visit him at his home in Bogor. They were like men from heaven to me.

As dawn was breaking, we arrived at the Jogyakarta bus terminal. The becak driver took me to full rooms or air-con expensive ones, and then finally to here, the Mangkuyudan Homestay, which will do. I am hungry after a sleep on their bed.

Friday 11th September 1992

Jogyakarta

I felt better this morning, and at 7am started catching local buses to Borobudur. It was a nice temperature with plenty of people in the streets. Rock music was playing from big speakers at the foot of Borobudur temple. A Japanese film crew were on the monument making a movie, a light plane and helicopter were buzzing around. The crew took no notice of me as I made my way to the top, where the only other creatures there were some butterflies taking no notice of the chaos below. The rock music turned out to be the start of a bike race, with exciting commentary blasting through the loudspeakers. Young men strutting their stuff in fancy leather gear on some huge Harleys, BMW’s, Hondas and others. Despite all decorations of the modern world, the place still has plenty of messages for those who are interested in seeing those rough hot stones.

Back in Jogya, I ate lunch and walked to the Sultan’s Water Palace. Crumbling ruins of former glory, and so crowded by encroaching tenements that it was hard to imagine the old sultan drifting along on his barge. Nice and cool in the catacombs, and a fresh breeze on the top looking over the city. I stopped on the walk back for an iced orange drink, and have paid my bill here, will leave on the 7pm bus to Bandung.

Saturday 12th September 1992

Bandung, Java, Indonesia

I am sitting in a quiet and comfortable restaurant, which is part of the New Melati Hotel. Dusk is falling, and a glass of beer has arrived, somehow I feel I deserve it. It is like the turning point of my journey this time in Indonesia.

Last night in Jogya, the becak driver lost his way on the long trip to the bus station. Luckily I had a map, and felt confident in directing him. I had to get there because I had already paid for my ticket. After a while he saw a sign advertising the bus company I was booked on, but this was all wrong, and I had to be more forceful in telling him the way we had to go. The poor man must have been tired by the time we got there and he wanted extra. I gave him enough extra for a coffee, which when I think of it now was a bit mean of me, but he seemed satisfied, so left it at that.

On the bus I sat beside a rigid Muslim girl almost completely covered, but I saw enough to know she could smile. I slept better than I had on the previous bus ride, and arrived here at 4am. A taxi driver took me to a hotel that was not to my liking, so the owner said he would escort me to a “cheaper” hotel nearby. Not entirely trusting him, I followed him while riding along in the taxi just in case. The room down a back street was dirt cheap and would do I thought, to just get some rest until I could look around. “Reception” was a box-like structure with gaudy posters on the wall. A muscled young man dressed only in shorts asked me for my passport number, but he didn’t seem to have a book to write it in. He asked for money up front, which turned out to be more than what was quoted by the guide with the strange face who brought me there. My guide was still there, with a lot of other people milling around. Some of the crowd were women who were wearing far less than a hijab. It was then that I realised this was no ordinary hotel. A place that was this busy around 4am was no kindergarten. 

I went to pick up my bags from the room which had been allocated to me. A girl was already rubbing my arm and asking if I would be her friend. At the end of the laneway I caught another taxi to the Hotel Guntur, where I stayed last time in Bandung. It was full, so I tried walking, and found other places either full or locked up, so I headed for the nearby train station, where I was able to get a stimulating coffee at a warung outside the station. A group of locals were drinking beer and pretty full of it. They must have had a long session, as the time was about 5am. I had a chat with the big Indian looking man, before walking nearby to find much to my relief a room here, nice and quiet, at the back. The only problem was a few mozzies in there, which I drugged out by lighting a mosquito coil.

After some sleep, I found a friendly man who took me to see Bagus, who had written to me with his new address. He was living in a better room near the university. He had a lecture at 9am, so I returned to the Melati. When he arrived, he told me he had to have a lot of time off with ill health, and he still has a bad cough. He was going to Jakarta that night and asked if I wanted to go with him, but I didn’t feel like it, even though it is only two and a half hours away. He told me he would come back next day to take me to the bus station. Yes I have decided to turn around here, and take the 23 hour bus trip back to Bali, Bagus said it really is not too bad, he has done it many times. It is always interesting to me to learn about another life, but it makes me more grateful to the life I have, the grass is not always greener on the other side to me. 

After he left, I walked past the pavement sellers and through a nice formal park in the middle of the city, stopping to eat cake and juice. I walked back to the Melati past people eating off push carts standing in the mud, real third world stuff. At the hotel I washed off the outside world with a cold shower. I don’t think I will venture out tonight.

Monday 14th September 1992
Ubud, Bali, Indonesia

Two days since I last wrote. I am back at Fabia’s rental. There was a note from Fabia explaining things, and suggested I could stay at Nadine’s while she stayed here, if I wanted to escape the intrigues. But I feel more secure here now. In 1985, I was helping an Australian woman whose son was in trouble with the local authorities in Bali. Over time, she began questioning my motives, and started hinting that I was the cause of her son’s troubles. This would give me pain in my stomach, which I told Suamba about. He gave me a kind of reflective technique to use against her, making myself a kind of mirror. The next time she spoke to me, she suddenly grabbed her stomach, saying she had a bad pain there, I didn’t. Remembering this, I have decided to make myself the same as I feel, like a fly on the wall. I don’t feel part of this drama, so why bother with it. I’ll be back in Australia soon anyway. 

Yesterday Bagus came back to see me to the bus station. I was able to ask him some questions, and he confirmed that some Balinese really do practice black magic to get what they want. I do remember soon after meeting Suamba years ago, he took me on the back of his motorbike to see a man who I found out later was a consultant in black magic. He lived near the sea in a house with deep cracks in the walls. Behind him as we sat on his matt, were curious objects. The ones I remember were big glass jars with small animals, reptiles, and their unborn offspring preserved inside. They talked of course in Balinese, so I didn’t really know what it was all about, however I was shown a book with drawings of creatures that seemed like some kind of mythical beasts. I noticed the man intently looking at me as I turned the pages, so I asked Suamba what was going on, and he explained that the man only wanted to see what pages interested me, which I interpreted as him gaining knowledge of my allies in the underworld, creepy stuff. Through Suamba, I asked him if his powers could work on an Australian, like me for example? No, they could not work across the water, he said. 

From there Suamba took me on his motorbike deep into a forest, and at a lonely looking house, I met a woman with the reddest eyes I’ve ever seen. Eventually the three of us sat on the floor at a low table, with a few chickens pecking around. Suamba would translate for me which object I was to pick up at various times. But getting tired of all this, I would for example pick up a banana, when Suamba told me to pick up a mango. This greatly disturbed Suamba. Soon after we left, his motorbike broke down in the mud of the forest. I felt I was being punished by the forces for not taking the ceremony seriously. Anyway, we never did anything as obvious as that again. Perhaps Margriet has been got at, and that is why she is so ready to part with everything including herself for some Balinese. Or maybe she has a wildly generous nature. I want to believe the latter. 

In Bandung, Bagus thought my room was smelly, he was not wrong. He asked me how much I paid for this? 21,000Rp I replied, 20,000 for the room and 1,000 for the mosquitoes. He rolled his eyes. Balinese have a different sense of humour, they can’t understand our self-deprecating jokes, and are a proud people. He went with me in the taxi to the bus station, which he insisted on paying for and I let him. He then left me there to go shopping he said, for cornflakes, and I suggested oats instead. Oh you mean Quaker he said, yes I said, I do mean Quaker. He needs building up.

It took 24 hours to get here, but considering the distance, it’s not too bad. I tried to talk with other people, as looking ahead was nerve wracking. One driver drove 12 hours overnight stopping only for fuel. Bagus was correct in saying “The Bandung Express” was the best, the seat reclined almost horizontally, and so I was as comfortable as is possible to be in that situation. We stopped at good food places, including a nice place for breakfast overlooking the ocean. We stretched our legs by walking around the ferry drinking coffee as we crossed the small stretch of ocean back to Bali. Easy to know we were in Bali when the bus stopped for fuel, the fuel pumps were covered in offerings of flowers, and the boy delivering the fuel was dancing to the music while holding the pump. I’ll rest now until dinner.

Wednesday 16th September 1992
Ubud, Bali Indonesia

Two days since my last diary entry. Yesterday I walked up to Alex to keep a promise of an attempted repair on his cassette player. He was at the front gate, and about to get his house owner’s son Madé to take him somewhere. He gave me the keys saying he would be back in an hour. I went to work but I started getting an upset stomach. When he returned, I heard the usual gossip. He went outside to have a fruitless discussion with Madé about the rent, a bit late for that I thought. He joined me again to tell me how much of his own money he had been spending doing things up, and what did I think? I told him it would be better to make arrangements with the owner before he does anything to the property. But I know he can’t help himself, always wanting to titivate things up.

I forced down part of an omelette Madé had prepared for us. Some pineapple and watermelon pieces were more palatable. I rested on the bed for about an hour, before finishing repairs on the cassette player. It is going better but not perfectly. I resisted Alex’s offer to go with Madé there and then to buy spare parts. Anyhow, Alex seems fairly satisfied with it. I told Alex I had to return to Fabia’s house and rest. He wanted me to stay a few days with him. I had to tell him that if I got any sicker, I had to stay in a quiet place. He told me he could be quiet, and how lonely he gets, but that is just sales talk, and he will cope alright without me.

It was a hot distressing walk back to Fabia’s. I bought a large bottle of coke on the way, hoping the fizz might make me feel a bit better. I took a few mouthfuls, and just make it to the toilet in time. Emptying my stomach was a relief. I took a shower and rested, getting up through the rest of the day and night to have another swig of coke after going again to the toilet. Today, Wayan’s sister brought back ginger from the markets and I have been making ginger tea. Late this afternoon I woke from a dream about food, so went out and bought cracker biscuits, so far so good. I am grateful things are quiet here. Wayan comes and goes, and asks me if I am ok.

Thursday 17th September 1992
Tirtagangga, Bali

Am writing from the Dhangin Taman Inn, Tirtagangga, where I stayed last time in Bali. Spring water gushes into pools nearby, the pure water and fresh country air making me feel a lot healthier. 

Back in Ubud, I woke just before dawn, but I went to bed last night at 8pm, after going to the market to buy take away of rice with veges. Wayan was studying, and I was glad to share the meal with him, and anyway I was not hungry. After a good sleep, I stepped outside into a cool breeze coming from the mountains in the north, it felt like a clean change was coming. I cut up a mango, ate a few biscuits, and enjoyed a cup of coffee, which I haven’t been able to enjoy for a few days.

I called in to see Alex, who was just about to go to Denpasar for a session with “Imigrasi”, the immigration department. He was all dressed up and nervous, hoping to see the man who had extended his visa previously. Last time Alex visited Imigrasi, that particular officer was in Java, so Alex was not game enough to see anyone else. He whispered to me that he has “had it” with Madé and the family there after being unable to come to an agreement over the money he (Alex) owes them. He was telling me all the reasons why he has to move again, just when he has made things comfortable for himself there? Apparently an artist with “plenty of money” has offered him some rooms “gratis”, as long as Alex does them up for him. Alex loves this idea, but this translates into buying all the lavish furniture he can afford from not having to pay rent. “All it needs is a coat of paint” according to Alex.

Madé was hovering around, waiting to take Alex to Denpasar, while Alex told me he had two fruitless trips there with him, so a parting of the ways is being prepared in his mind, and may actually be mutually beneficial. But I wonder what the immigration status of Alex is right now? Overstay of visa can mean imprisonment.

Two doubtful characters arrived, while Alex, still munching toast, introduced me to their limp handshakes. I made my escape, promising to come back on Monday to work on another cassette player which Alex hoped to get back from a former home help boy. I quickly caught a bemo to Gianyar, another to Klungkung, then another to Amlapura, where I waited a long time for the bemo to Tirtagangga to fill up with passengers, two and a half hours from Ubud. The passengers on this last bemo looked like impoverished farming people. A wiry old man told me he was 93 years old. We were sitting in the now stopped bemo, with a clear view of Mount Agung, the biggest volcano on Bali, looking cloudless, a rare sight to me. He remembered the 1963 eruption which killed thousands. I asked him if he had been scared? “No”. Meanwhile all around us were huge boulders that had been blown out of the volcano.  Suamba once told me of his experience at that time. He was a boy in his village, which like all Bali was covered in ash, collapsing the roofs and destroying the crops. Things were getting desperate when one day a truck managed to reach the village. The men were throwing out big bags of food. I asked Suamba what was in them, and he said oats, and on the bag was stamped the word “Australia”, his first contact with my country.

The old man in the bemo told me he could do massage, price up to me. When we arrived at the losmen, the room boy remembered me from my last visit, which is one of the welcoming things about Bali. The old man got to work with what looked like a mixture of oil, tobacco and brown reeds. He cracked fingers, neck and torso, walking on my legs, and working on my stomach after I told him of my sickness there. 

After he went, it was good to look in the mandi and see pure spring water ready to wash off the oil mixture. I had lunch and went over to the water palace where some tourists and Indonesians where swimming. This time I had my mask and snorkel. I could see a few fish, and on the bottom of the pool some small crabs. Little local kids were leaping about in the shallow pool.

Suddenly getting stomach cramps again, I had to rush back to my room. The massage might have helped get rid of the garbage inside me. I fell on the bed and into a deep sleep with vivid dreams which I had to tear myself away from. I took a little walk up the road to where I could see nice vistas over waving rice fields to the ocean and the big island of Nusa Penida in the distance. I stopped at a warung where a man was playing a bamboo gamelan, and drank coffee with a banana, and then walked above the water palace to see the view. Back at the losmen, I asked the boy who remembered me, Gede (pronounced Gidday), where I could walk tomorrow. He said he would show me on a map in the morning. Night is falling fast, and I think I will sleep well with the sound of water running into a pool of fish outside my room. 

6.30pm I was talking with one of the workers here, Wayan, about his family living in Sulawesi scratching out a living growing soya beans under the “transmigrasi” scheme, when suddenly he jumped up saying “procession”. I followed it to a nearby bridge, where people in ceremonial clothes were throwing gold paper covered towers into the ravine below, then piercing them by throwing down decorated bamboo poles. No sooner had the last of the towers been tossed over the side, and with a few laughing “goodbye”s, the crowd almost instantly disappeared into the silence of the night. It was as if they said that’s over, and now let’s get on with life.

Friday 18th September 1992
Tirtagangga, Bali

Last night I was troubled by stomach cramps. I waited for the dawn, and then had a refreshing cold shower. I ate black rice pudding, found out about some hiking trails, and headed off about 7.30am. Across the brilliant green rice fields, a naked young woman was showering under bamboo pipes sticking out from an embankment. The track left the rice fields and went into a light forest past dusty plots of land growing sweet potatoes. From behind some coconut trees voices calling from their hut asked me if I would like coconut juice. The path sometimes separated in different directions, but it didn’t matter which way I guess. My path ended in a stony creek bed with women collecting stones to carry in baskets on their heads. I found a bitumen road that I hoped would take me to a lookout, but it was never found. An occasional warung asking me to stop for a drink, and a school kid telling me I must be strong because I had a long way to go to the “puncak” lookout. A few more barking dogs later, I found myself on the main road back to Tirtagangga, where they were cutting down a fine avenue of trees to make the road wider. Just as well the progressive people who planted them are not around to see it. Some old women were gathering the cut wood in open weaved baskets, so guess the destruction is not all for nothing. Across the rice fields was a small temple with two huge and very gnarled frangipani trees, the oldest I’ve ever seen.

After ginger tea, I went for a swim in the top deep pool. It looks to be about the size of a standard 50 metre pool. A local kid had some Australian coins he wanted to change, and I promised to do that after my swim. He told me he got them from washing someone’s car, I don’t really care. When I did give him the Indonesian currency, he was amazed to find out how much money it added up to, a nice surprise for him. A strong looking man offered me a massage. He had told me he knew the old man who gave me the massage before, and he was no longer strong. Older people are usually better at massage, but this man was very strong so I gave him extra which he thanked me for.

After some sleep, I went for another swim, and then changed into my night time clothes and went for a short walk, having coffee in a warung. A young Swiss and Finnish couple who I had talked to last night about climbing Mount Agung came back with their pushbikes on the back of a pickup truck. They were done in after riding up and down the hills all day. Drinking a freshly cut coconut juice, they told me they were too tired to ride back here. I told them I have decided I am not well enough to climb Mount Agung with them.

I am feeling a bit better after the massage. The house girl has just tied a towel over the outlet pipe over the pool outside my room. I had complained that the never ending water noise was getting on my nerves.

Sunday 29th September 1992
Ubud, Bali

I’m babysitting Ari while Fabia has gone to the salon. I arrived back here yesterday to a party in full swing, about 30 of Fabia’s students filling the patio. Fabia had invited them up from Denpasar to celebrate her birthday. Snack foods, guitar playing and singing, and all in English. They are so keen to practice their English speaking, and the lucky few will be selected to go to Canada to further their studies, so the race is on to be the best. From families with money, all Islamic and from different parts of Indonesia, they asked me all the difficult questions such as “Please can you give me your impressions concerning the comparison between Indonesian culture, and the culture from your country”. Forget the usual hellos or where do you come from what is your name how old are you and so on. This was heavy duty stuff even down to “offering some refreshment”, “you must try Indonesian food, this is good for you” and so on. There was a big chocolate cake with candles, and in faltering tones, they all sang “Happy Birthday” to Fabia. A lady teacher friend of Fabia’s was helping out, with Wayan and his sister running backwards and forwards from the kitchen. Fabia was trying to redo the sandwiches, which she said were not right. By 3pm they had all trekked over to Nadine’s, where they wanted to find out more about Canada from a real Canadian. Fabia told me later they had questions such as “How does one approach the Canadian girl with an offer to go out together” and so on.

I had a shower and lay down for a rest, but then heard Ari crying, so I kept her busy with distractions until Fabia returned. Fabia had the news that a friend has been raped. As the story unfolded, the lady in question was showing a prospective worker through her apartments, a journey which led to her bedroom where the offence took place. However she has decided to give him the job? Fabia wants to go to her place and console her tonight. Fabia has also been to the village and seen Suamba. She has arranged to return today with offerings for the family temple and grave site, I will go with her.

Last night, after eating junk food all day, Fabia and I walked to Miros and had a big meal. Fabia wanted to pay, but I said I would pay as a kind of birthday present and thankyou meal for giving me a place to stay in Bali this time. We walked back and talked late into the night mainly about Suamba and the pros and cons of their relationship, and other difficulties she has faced and is facing now. On the way to the restaurant earlier, her friend Janet was outside her place next door, and invited Fabia to a special dinner of smoked duck with her other guests later. Fabia said she would love to, so I said I would look after Ari, but they both said I was also invited. However we didn’t go because we had eaten too much at the restaurant. Fabia said that after such a huge day she would only go to see her friend who had been violated, if someone happened to call and take her there, but no one came.

5pm. We are not long back from our visit to Bunutan village. We dressed in temple clothes, caught a bemo, and found Suamba not at home. We were told he was in his pondok (Alex’s old residence). While we were at Suamba’s actual house, Fabia went into the family temple to make her offerings, while I stayed with Ari and the people there waiting for her return, which took some time. Previously, Fabia’s therapist advised her to write a letter containing all her emotions and burn it. Fabia had told me she was unable to stop crying as she wrote it, and only a surprise visit from Nadine rescued her. Some boys came to tell me that Suamba found out we were at his house, and asked us to come to the pondok. When Fabia came from the family temple, she said most of the matches were used up, the letter being difficult to burn completely. I guess it was wet with tears.

We rode to Suamba’s pondok on the back of two motorbikes, I held Ari, Fabia was too emotional to take her. As it was a Sunday, the children were home from school and being ordered about their tasks by their father. He sent one of them off to the village to bring back drinks and coconut bread. Fabia was in such a state that she knocked her tea over. The boy brought another one, it too was knocked over. Fabia was left with no option but to drink some water from a bottle Margriet had left there, which seemed to disturb Suamba. There were ragged bits of conversation. A cool breeze was blowing in off the endlessly green rice fields. A bamboo wind chime clacked in changing tempos along with the varying breezes. Suamba explained that the wind chime was not only to scare the birds from the ripening grain, but it was music that assisted the rice to grow more strongly, especially at this time when they are “getting pregnant” with the seed.

Later, when Suamba and I sat alone for a little while on the concrete roof of the building that once housed the generator, he asked me what words had passed between Margriet and myself. He said Margriet thought I am too negative. Yes I thought, this could be because I don’t do want she expects. Margriet has been visiting the pondok, and Suamba said he didn’t want to come between her and her husband, but Margriet took off the ring given to her by ex-boyfriend Madé, the ring that the magic consultant told her was full of black magic. She picked up a rock and smashed it in front of Suamba. I can believe this because she told me herself that she had received special instructions regarding the destruction of the ring.

To lighten things up, I told Suamba about my experience with the prostitute coming into my room in Bandung. Suamba said I should have told her I was a priest, and she would have quickly left me alone. We just had time to say all this when Fabia joined us again.

I left Suamba and Fabia to have some private time together while I stayed with the children, a welcome change of pace. The kids had made a parachute from a plastic bag and stone, throwing it in the air to watch it drift down.  As Fabia and I walked back to the village, Fabia told me of the emotion that is still between herself and Suamba. We caught a passing bemo to the graveyard. My hands were shaking as I tried to light the incense. It was peaceful there as we placed our little flower offerings over the mound of earth. I spoke a prayer of thanks and remembrance for Kandru. A few little drops of rain were falling, as if the gods themselves were shedding a tear for Kandru. The drops stopped as we reached the road, and I felt more at peace.  Almost straight away, a kind driver also stopped and took us back to Ubud. As soon as we were home, I had a shower. Fabia bought fresh bread from her friend Janet’s bakery next door, and found it hard to stop eating it. She wants to go to a party somewhere tonight to release some tension, but in the meantime, she has gone to visit Nadine. As for myself, I am more at ease. I feel I have made all my goodbyes and peace with Kandru. This has been a special time for me to learn more. I don’t want to rely on others again, and try to do things on the cheap, there’s always a price to pay. I remember the advice given to me by my mum long ago, never put yourself in a situation where you are beholden to anyone.

Monday 21st September 1992
Ubud, Bali

Last night I kept Ari busy with games until Fabia returned from the party, apologising for her late return. Nadine had kindly walked back with her from Penestanan. Fabia was getting into bed when she remembered that she had forgotten to pick up Ari’s milk from the supermarket, but Wayan the home help boy was out again. Luckily Fabia had an umbrella and torch. Ari had broken my torch that day, which I would have told Fabia about if she had asked me why I needed her torch. I think I did what was expected of me, but as I walked through the pouring rain and slippery mud, I felt at a low point in my life. Dark thoughts began to fill my mind. No one else was stupid enough to be out, and I began to feel like I was the only person left alive. A realisation dawned that I had allowed myself to become just another house boy, a servant. As usual, the only way out for me was to run away again, this time to Australia. What would I do if I couldn’t escape, I might actually have to face reality instead of always avoiding conflict. I was relieved to see the lights of the supermarket still on while everything else was dark. It was as if something was still alive. By the time I got back, the lights were off and Fabia’s door closed, so I left the milk outside her door with her torch and umbrella, washed the mud off my legs, and went to bed.

This morning there was a bit of a rush to get Fabia and Ari to the main street, just in time for her lift to arrive. Wayan and I got Ari and the bags in. Fabia said goodbye and gave me a big hug, telling me I always had a place to stay with her in Bali now. On the way back, Wayan said he couldn’t understand what happened there with the public hug, so I left him wondering. Relationships are clear cut and simple for the Balinese. They don’t have friendships with the opposite sex.

I walked up to see Alex, his face was a little swollen. Yesterday he went to the doctor because he couldn’t speak, which would have been catastrophic for him. He blames the MSG that is sometimes added to food in the markets. A young man named Oka arrived to say he needed to visit Bill, who is another expat Aussie living in Ubud. Bill has Parkinson’s disease - a very off-putting sight according to Alex. Oka is supposedly owed 50,000Rp in wages from Bill, who also owes money to Alex. Bill apparently has “thousands” of pot plants, so I suggested to Alex that he take out his debt in them. Oka said his wife needed to go to the doctor but they didn’t even have any food in the house. Alex told him he was already heavily committed, and asked me if I could lend him money. I said sorry, but I am about to leave for Australia, and I need the little that I have. Alex said he had to go to the bank anyway, so he would get the money for Oka then.

Alex said Oka lives in the village where the radio repair shop is, so would I mind taking apart the cassette player again, so we could get the required spare parts. I said it would have to be done now, or never. I took the worn parts, and Oka gave me a lift to Ubud, and then he went back to Alex. I bought some groceries and went back toward Fabia’s, where I met up with Wayan the home help boy, and asked him to help me find the cheap cassette shop where I could buy the Indonesian music he had told me about previously. Once there, I met up again with Ketut, the tour diver who took Robert, Carrie and myself around Bali last year. He has since married, has a baby girl, and left working for Suamba’s brother at Ananda for the upmarket Amandari Cottages. Good to see him doing well.

After listening to music at the shop, I headed back up to Alex, who wasn’t back himself. When he arrived, he said he had been to Oka’s house, clean but indescribably poor, the walls were turning black. His wife looked not so sick, but Alex bought them food and gave them money anyway. They have a baby there. Alex told Oka he must press Bill for the owed money. Later Alex showed me a book of poetry written by Bill depicting a romantic Bali, how different from reality I thought. Anyhow, Alex had brought me the spare parts, so I fixed his cassette player as best I could.

In the meantime, with the aid of some cooked rice bought nearby, Alex prepared a tasty lunch with all the trimmings, even napkins. He was so grateful to me and wanted to give me money, but when I refused to take it, gave me one of his pastel art works, unfinished, but said he would finish it in time. We enjoyed listening to music on the fixed cassette player, and had a nice talk, only slightly interrupted by a man cutting coconuts from the trees outside, and some children running around the garden.

By 5pm, when Alex was about to put on the 2nd Rachmaninov Concerto, I suggested it might be time to go to the gallery Alex had earlier recommended, as I must be home by dusk to avoid being bitten by the street dogs. Just down the street behind a decrepit entry, was a big building full of outstanding Balinese paintings. When the owner, Wayan Arka, said goodbye to an American visitor with an “Aloha”, he listened while Alex told him how wonderful his paintings were, and how much was this one and that one? The owner was doing a bit of a hard sell on me by saying how this painting can be lowered from the normal US$400, when I told him I didn’t have that kind of money, and Alex had only brought me there to show me what a nice gallery it was. Alex surprised me by getting straight down to business, saying I the one who wanted actually to sell a painting, and I was the very one right here, whom he had told Wayan Arka about previously. I had in fact previously discussed with Alex the possibility of selling the Wayan Sadia painting I bought in 1981. Gallery owner Wayan Arka wanted to know if in fact it was a genuine painting by Sadia, and I explained that I actually saw Sadia paint if over a three month period. This gave me the feeling that I had something valuable. He told me he might buy it for himself, even though I told him I had paid $1,000 for it 10 years ago. He agreed that if I bring it to Bali, we can work out the price at that time. I got the impression that Wayan was not only a gallery owner, but genuinely loved good art. 

I left Alex there, promising to meet him tomorrow for lunch at a midway restaurant. On the way back I bought a new torch which I used straight away as it was already dark. I bought bread at Janet’s door, and then shared a few slices with Wayan the home help boy and his friend before they took off to watch “televisi” somewhere. 

A light shower of rain is now drifting down, and all is still, a perfect temperature, frogs and crickets, and the distant sound of some dance performance with gamelan orchestra interspersed with the growls if the masked performers. Just a few mosquitoes, I am getting better at killing them. Alex did get his visa extended for 2 months, and it didn’t cost too much, so he is very pleased. 

Wednesday 23rd September 1992

Kuta, Bali

I am writing in a restaurant near Bunut Garden Losmen Kuta Beach, where I left my bags. Yesterday morning Margriet visited me at Fabia’s house, she had been looking for me several times already, but this was a special visit to invite me and a friend to join her and Ibu Dewi, her lady spiritual adviser, and others, for a ceremony at the high temple at Besakih leaving at midday. I told Margriet I had promised to have lunch with Alex, so I went to his house to tell him I was going to the ceremony. He was trying to finish the pastel artwork which would be his gift to me, and asked if he could join the ceremony. A boy arrived with a message from Nadine requesting Alex’s language cassettes, so I got a lift back to Fabia’s on his motorbike.

I changed into better clothes with sarong and sash, and met up again with Alex at Margriet’s house.  We had a cup of tea and a chat with the family while Margriet changed into her temple outfit, and then joined the others in three cars to take us there.

About an hour later in the company of two petite girls, one for Spain and one from Australia, both learning dance in Bali, we went down a stony track in the foothills of Mount Agung, the holy mountain. Some of us, not including me, bathed partly covered, in the “female” holy place where the water was springing up from a hole in the ground. A Balinese woman with an interesting face started to go into trance in the water, rolling in the shallows, her long black hair matting around her white lace undergarments. She began digging into the stones, and pulled up a fat one which she fondled lovingly. The other Balinese women were helping her. Meanwhile, Margriet who was resting on her back in the water, began shaking and crying. The women there also helped her out of the water, and covered her while they stripped off her wet sarong. At a shrine next to the water, a group of local kids in rags was waiting. The moment the offering containing money touched the shrine, the kids began grasping for it. The Balinese lady snatched it back and threw the notes in the air, forcing an unholy fight between them as they grabbed at the money. This amused our group, because for the Balinese, it doesn’t matter what happens to an offering once it has been made.

We walked about a kilometre from there further upstream to the “male” shrine, where water was pouring from bamboo poles sticking straight out of the verdant cliff face. It was so peaceful, the priest was mumbling the sacred words, and we sat with our individual offerings of flowers and incense burning right in front of us. I fell into a meditative trance surrounded by the quiet warmth and safety of the Balinese. I didn’t want to let it go, and the Balinese were putting their arms around me to rouse me out of it. I felt a bit shaky getting up and a strong looking man helped me for some of the distance to the cars.

From there we drove to the Besakih temple area. We sat in the grounds of a temple with a kindly looking priest anointing us with sprinkles of holy water, which we had to drink three times then place over our heads. The holy water was like nothing I had tasted before, so pure, but then again I was probably thirsty by then. In the background, the same woman who went into trance at the stream, was dragging her body across the grounds of the temple.

We went to a nearby warung, where we Westerners, except Margriet, had coffee and snacks while we waited for the Balinese to come back from another temple. Perhaps they thought we needed a break. As for the Balinese, they are a resilient people and kept on going. The night was coming on, and the clear sky began filling with stars. Our driver Nyoman, a favourite of Ibu Dewi I believe, told me with his beaming face how his parents are close to the gods, and certain abilities come to him without any training.

Alex was becoming impatient, and sent someone to buy him some arak. He made shandies and drank quickly. He told me that I would have no idea what love is like, as I hadn’t even been married. I wouldn’t know the difficulties of bringing up four children, and to suffer the pain of separation. I let him finish, and then told him he was only upset because he wanted to be free like me, and that he wished he had not gone through it all, “pure jealousy” I said. He looked shocked, and then admitted I might be right. He was soon hugging me, drunkenly telling the Balinese how much respect he had for me, and that he loved me and hoped I felt the same way about him. “Of course I do Alex” I said.

Our group walked up long steps into the high temple ceremony. Many closely situated buildings draped in brilliant yellow satin sheets, large colourful umbrellas, and priests with the divine objects in front of them. A tiny gamelan orchestra was tinkling in the corner. There was a powerful feeling of connection with infinity, looking up at the black thatched tiered roofs reaching into the star filled sky. I will never be as close to God as I am now, I thought. My body started shaking as the priest incantations, the incense, the music, the love of the Balinese there, all began to feel like a heavenly song. I felt the comforting hand of Ibu Dewi on my back, where tingling vibrations of energy were surging up my spine. When I opened my eyes, the others were getting up to go. I felt privileged to have been admitted there with the Balinese, like a family. 

We walked down long steps holding candles, and through a gorge between the rocks we entered a large cave. There were shrines built against the back wall, plants growing out of the cracks. My eyes followed the plants on the back wall upwards into the gloom, until I could see the stars, framed by trees growing out of the opening far above. Alex was staggering around, the Balinese trying to keep him away from the sacred areas. He began whispering to Margriet to keep away from Suamba, “I’m telling you for your own good, keep away from him”. Margriet was moaning, not from Alex but some kind of trance. It made Alex more strident with his message, the Balinese trying to pacify him. A woman began sobbing and calling out in Balinese, throwing herself around, the women trying to help her. I felt sorry for Margriet, who would realise by now that it must have been me who told Alex about her closeness to Suamba. However, on the way back to the cars, Margriet held my hand and had only nice words to say. She invited me to go with her today and see Ida Bagus Mantra, to get a greater understanding of where she is in her quest. I told her how difficult I found it seeing Mantra, and instead I invited her to come to Kuta after her visit to Mantra if she had time, so far today no sign of her.

We arrived back in Ubud from our Besakih temples ceremonies about 1.30am. Ibu Dewi talked to me a lot about the experience, and how she would write to me and pray for my family. She told me the car would be back at 9am in the morning to take me to Kuta and it was. I fell into bed feeling totally at peace, and following a night of vivid dreams, I woke at 7am. I showered, packed, and had breakfast. Wayan the home help boy was talking with me, when Alex arrived with his pastel artwork, complete with a chicken drawn in the foreground, which he asked me if I liked, I did. Alex has depicted his backyard, and so there is real meaning in it for me. I just had time for a little conversation before the car arrived. I gave Wayan some things as appreciation for his kindness and work, and hugged him goodbye. Alex nearly crushed me with his couple of bear hugs, telling me what a great friend I was, making me feel that I have not always been sincere in my thoughts and words to others about him, but my intentions were always to help him. He relies too much on others to like him, a waste of time in my opinion.

                                                        Alex’s pastel artwork which he gave me

We called in at Ibu Dewi’s. I left my address and some clothes that I had missed giving to Kandru, as they had been in another plastic bag. The clothes seemed to mystify Ibu Dewi, but she took them anyway, and walked back with me to the car expressing the regret that we had not met earlier. On the way to Kuta, the driver invited me to stay at his place in Pejeng next time. He said it is quiet there, a Spanish man built it for his Balinese stays.Arriving at Bunut Garden Losmen, Kandru’s sister-in-law Komang made me coffee, and told me how she was washing herself in Bunutan when Kandru’s spirit came to her, and she was unable to find her clothes. She thinks Kandru was broken hearted about Suamba, but we don’t really ever know what goes on in a marriage, and neither do I want to. Fabia had asked me to phone her from Kuta and tell her of the spiritual tour with Margriet, which I did. And now I feel like a swim.

Thursday 24th September 1992
Between Bali and Sydney

Its 1am Bali time, we took off using the new airport facility at 11.30pm, and should arrive in Sydney at 6.40am, 2 hours ahead of Bali time.

After my last diary entry at the restaurant, I walked back to the losmen and found Margriet with Nyoman, my driver from the night before, both waiting for me there. Margriet rested on my bed while Nyoman and friend walked to a warung, Margriet had already eaten. She talked emotionally about the night before, deeply touched and loving it. She praised ex-boyfriend Made’s father, and how she wanted to make a special trip to Thailand to see him, as she believes he has extraordinary knowledge and could help her. She seems to have an insatiable spiritual hunger.

Komang’s husband Ketut arrived from Ubud, and we joined him on his patio. Margriet had been talking about Alex, and saying that even though he was “unsuitable”, she could never turn a student away. I suggested that it is the student who should be seeking. She posed questions to Ketut such as “If you had $1,000 and someone begged you for $500, would you give it”? Ketut said he would if it didn’t hurt his family.

Ketut excused himself from further questions by saying he had to leave again for Ubud, and Margriet asked me to go with her to the sea for cleansing. We eventually entered the water at sunset. In the water Margriet told me that early this morning she was creeping around Frog Pond Inn, the hotel she paid for, where ex-boyfriend Madé, wife and family live. Margriet was confronted by the wife, and to defend herself, she said she held up a bottle of holy water, while the wife called her a Leyak (witch) and ran off. Apparently, the wife’s son laughed when he saw what was going on. Margriet had only been there to sprinkle holy water on the family temple, sort of innocent and provocative at the same time I thought.

Margriet told me that Ibu Dewi has had a hard and dispossessed life, shunned by her family over some child born a long time ago. Ibu Dewi wants to make Margriet into a teacher who can bridge the gap between cultures, and establish teachers in other countries. Margriet was yet to visit Ida Bagus Mantra, she wants to ask him about the ring she smashed in front of Suamba, a ring she believes originally came from ex-boyfriend Madés father, and find out about the power the ring may possess. I will never know how that visit goes, if it happens at all. Margriet drove away with the Balinese admitting there was not much left to say, which I agreed with.

After a shower and final Balinese meal, I talked with Komang by candlelight, the power in Kuta had gone off. She was pleased with herself for being able to walk up Mount Rinjani, and laughed how she helped her overweight husband get there. When I climbed Mount Rinjani myself, I had no idea that the family pilgrimage for Kandru was happening around the same time. I felt good about that. Everything went smoothly onto the Garuda flight, somehow I knew things would go well today, I had a feeling of renewal.