“
Twenty five years man. I’ve seen a lot of change.”
I looked across at Jack, Jack the Hawaiian, Jack the man—my idol.
“Bali is beautiful to this day, but 25 years ago it was a land of mystery. And before than… I can only imagine.”
“So what’s changed?” I asked, forking a slice of banana pancake into my
mouth. The fruity syrup hit my taste buds with explosive rapture.
Across the table from Laura and me, Jack hovered over an unshelled egg.
With a thrust of his spoon he chopped the globule in half. I expected
it to ooze a sinewy clear fluid and mix its yellow severed yolk, but
instead his shiny metallic weapon of choice proved breakfast to be
hardboiled.
Underneath Jack’s massive shoulders and large
Neolithic head, the egg looked like a small mite crushed in his grips.
He scooped the contents into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “Bali was
magic. It was a culture of intense superstition that led the day-to-day
lifestyle. Festivals, feasts, ceremonies—Bali was settled by the
artisans of Java’s fleeing royal court. And through all the cultures
I’ve traveled and their waves I’ve surfed, I’ve never known
a culture so mysterious as Bali on my first visit. And that’s what led me to stay… besides the waves of course.”
Jack went on to explain the mass degradation that tourism catalyzed. It
was an influx of Western trade and modernity. “But don’t get me wrong,”
he emphasized. “Tourism is wonderful for any culture, especially since
this island’s economy relies on the trade, but as far as the amount of
tourists and the type of travelers arriving more and more…” He paused
to breath. I could see his brain ticking behind those narrow blue eyes.
“You know what Bali needs, or what it needed ten years back?”
Laura and I looked at each other and shrugged. We each chewed another wedge of our pancake.
“Regulation. Bali needs regulation. There is no stopping the constant
assault of big western money that floods the Indonesian market. Who
doesn’t want a slice of paradise, and Bali is the perfect paradise.”
We couldn’t disagree, but regulation? I wanted to shovel further into his thoughts.
“Take Bhutan, for example. Bhutan only allows a certain allotment of tourism per year. Everything is regulated including where
the
tourist stays, the tour the traveler takes and the amount of money
spent each given day. And look at Bhutan. It is thriving and still
retains its mysticism. I would love to go, but there aren’t any waves.”
In the end we concluded together: what was lacking besides a
strict regulation was infrastructure. Under every culture is its
infrastructure. Unlike major SE Asian destinations like Thailand and
Malaysia, Indonesia (especially the island of Bali) does not have the
appropriate infrastructure to support the flood of global tourism. It
is tiny: 3.2 million locals on 5620 square kilometers of island. It’s a
speck on the earth lying directly east of Java, completely surrounded
by the Indian Ocean and Bali Sea.
Less Armpits, More Freedom As
we left Candidasa, Jack gave us a ride in his rigged van. Gutted on the
inside and armored with tinted windows and a technical alarm system, he
carried three surfboards of varying size, a mountain bike, a propane
stove and cooking ware, an amplifier system for speakers and electrical
outlets, a mattress for sleep, an indestructible safe, and a hammock.
Up front accompanying the bench seat for three was a stereo
hooked
up for iPod listening pleasure and an audio system feeding a set of
speakers, including two tweeters. We listened to a live album by
Anoushka Shankar—the twang of the sitar entranced in a rhythmical
raga—while Jack swerved around sloth-like lorries, dodging oncoming
traffic with the other cars and scooters.
“My philosophy,” Jack stated, “is
less is more.
Apart from my one-bedroom apartment in Nusa Dua, this van is all I own.
And it’s totally mobile.” Clearly, Jack was proud of his possession,
and I would be too.
“Did you buy this set-up in Bali?” I wondered.
“Yeah,
and the stereo system as well. I’m thinking of heading to Java in a
couple of weeks. I found a secret surf spot in the south, so I’ve got
myself a bona fide surf safari.”
Yes…without question this
man was my idol. Less is more, Jack said. He was an American after
freedom and freedom to him was the ability to have less and be as
mobile as possible. Here in Bali he discovered it, and here in the
Indonesian archipelago he continued his search. “Someday,” Jack
relayed, “I’d like to have absolutely nothing and start from scratch.
No
back account. No money. No house, van or surfboard. I’d like to totally
trust and experience the universe to provide the sustenance I need for
survival when I need it. But at this point in my life, I’m not quite
ready. I wanna find this wave in Java first and foremost.”
I was ready to ask Jack if we could come along, but our destination arrived. With the
less is more
mentality, Laura and I entered the so-called armpit of Indonesia.
Properly named Kuta, the city is equivalent to Cancun for the Aussies
and Khao San Road for the Bangkok backpacker. It is a twenty-four hour
party; a DJ-bouncing strip paralleling the sands that cater a perfect
beach break for any surfer. Not too bad for an eight hour flight from
Sydney. And better yet, it’s dirt-cheap.
Parked in the
Hotel Lusa for US$11 per night (breakfast and wi-fi included), we were transported from the northeastern haven of
Pondok Pisang in Candidasa to Kuta Beach in the south just above Bali’s international airport.
But not bad, we first thought.
Streets line with shops, stalls, bars and restaurants. T-shirts with Bintang Beer logos waver in
the
breeze. Handbags, batiks, blouses and boardshorts hang from metal
pipes. In the road, a constant stream of traffic; taxis honking for
your attention, drivers calling out “Boss! Boss!”, those dune-buggy
vehicles called Things transporting locals and ex-pats, and scooters
galore toting everyone and everything from seven year-old girls at the
handlebars to surfers and their boards in padded racks. It is a flurry
of movement, a clash of noise, from 6am to 2am. It is the nonstop pulse
of the Asian backpacker’s ghetto.
And rightly so, it is
dirt-cheap. But wonderfully so, it is Balinese hospitality. It is
energetic and full of inexpensive shopping for anyone with a knack for
bargaining. To bargain is a game for the Balinese. They love it and
expect it.
For two days we wandered the streets and beaches,
offering half price and negotiating from there. We relaxed, watched
pirated movies, drank coconuts out of thick husks and ate more banana
pancakes for breakfast. We explored the alleys, observed tan legs below
bleach-blonde hair parade in designer wear while surfers took them by
the arm. At one point as the day darkened, we passed a familiar face.
The typical tan skin, the
bald
head and those deep blue eyes. He carried a new pair of Reef
boardshorts in hand and strolled down the broken asphalt in a pair of
floppy thongs. Our eyes crossed and once out of earshot I turned to
Laura.
“Guess who that was?”
She smiled and waited.
“Kelly
Slater—the surfing world’s greatest athlete. He was my high school
hero. Simon and I used to idolize him. Shit, and to know he’s only my
height. Hah!”
Later that night my recognition was reconfirmed
when we spotted him again. This time he was with friends who yelled his
name in a restaurant. They were suggesting he stop designing surfboards
painted with naked chicks.
With our bags slightly heavier—the
plastic buckles showing signs of stress like knuckles on a tightening
fist—we dashed the traffic, the haggling and pestering, the Balinese
selling fake Oakleys and knockoff Rolexes, and sought a hinterland
westward.
Emptiness is Closest to Paradise Another
typical day. I just polished off my second coconut milkshake as the sun
beats down and the waves blow out. The wind has risen since morning,
pushing down the surf as it flies in from off the sea’s
horizon.
If only it were a strong offshore, keeping the break tall, their face
smooth and cresting high, I would be back out. But at this point, my
belly is feeling queasy and the coconut juices are loosening my
intestines. So, it’s better this way I suppose. Instead of surfing, our
afternoons are spent reading, lounging by the river and investing in a
sweaty yoga practice—outdoor Bikram. With this schedule, the breeze was
welcome.
In the mornings I surfed, catching a clean left or right break, ate an Indo breakfast of
nasi goreng
(fried rice with a crowning egg sunny-side up), and then went off
exploring. Laura and I perused the beaches of Mejan in search of booty.
Betwixt long stretches of black sand, the sea’s crustacean pearls shone
like gold among rock. Shells of intricate color and exquisite design
caught our eyes. We pillaged. We examined the hightide line, filling
our hands and pockets with treasures. In our scourging tracks, we left
the famed toothpaste mollusks and shoe-piece shells, along with the
fish-head carcasses from nearby fishing villages as well as the
occasional dead dog. The latter protruded out of the sands like a dark
castle in the
miniature
fantasy world of crabs. The body ballooned belly up, legs wide and
stomach bloated to a point of bursting. I could only imagine what would
happen in a matter of time if the tide didn’t flow quickly enough
underneath the sultry sun of the tropics. We carried on with our booty
like pirates fleeing a superstitious omen.
Yet this was not
the end of our animalistic endeavors. At the cliffs on the local beach
Laura heard the cries of a feline. Tucked in a niche as the waves
threatened with its frothy claws, a kitten a mere few weeks young
crouched against the rocks frozen in fear.
“We can’t just leave it,” Laura pleaded.
“Well I ain’t gonna touch it.” To be honest, I’m not very fond of cats. Survival of the fittest in this circumstance.
“No, we’re taking it. You grab it Cameron.”
“Me? It could be feral!” I proclaimed.
“It’s a kitten and it’s going to drown if we don’t do anything.” Laura looked at me and wasn’t moving as I slowly crept away.
Turning around, I raised my eyebrows in question, realized
I
was going nowhere without her, and then walked back over to the
cliff-face where the grey and white kitten hissed. As I reached out to
offer a helping hand, the beast struck.
Eventually, it
surrendered and with saving grace, Laura brought it off the beach to a
home where three other kittens wished for another sibling to fight for
scraps. It cried the whole walk back, but a few days later we saw it
again, cleaned of its sand facemask and plump with food beside its new
mates.
Other wildlife beckoned. We spotted a 6’ python in
the grasses between banana groves, equally-sized water monitors
splashing into the water off the river’s bank, and a dying gecko
uttering its last bark just before falling from the ceiling and
disappearing between the cracks of the floorboard. Then, of course, are
the Third World dogs. In a way, they’re not even dogs, more like
canines of a whole different breed of species. Mangy? Yes. Rabid? Most
likely. Feral? Most certainly.
Found in the busy streets of
larger towns, these beasts are hairless, tumored, three-legged pieces
of civilization that snarl as they hobble like defeated outcasts.
It
is hard to witness as locals continue their business blind to the
animal’s suffering, but it is a fact of life—the bottom-suckers in
every culture. Often, these varieties of Indonesian mutts can be found
feasting on the scant Hindu offerings left by humans.
So we drink our
botol besar
Bintangs (they’re large and in charge) and shoo away the begging puppy
from hopping up onto our table and munching slices of our vegetarian
pizza. We sit by candlelight at twilight and eat a fresh grilled fish
with more massive Bintangs. As a vegetarian, I can’t help but eat the
eyeballs and say
Terima Kasih to the sea, eventually offering
our puppy-friend a bony savor. And there in paradise, full as the
tailored dogs of Bali wearing their flashy collars, we watch the sunset
at our secret hideaway. Come to
Pondok Pisces if you dare.
Imprinting the Mystical We
were hoping to see Jack again while we spent eight nights at our oasis.
I wanted to have the chance to surf with him and reassure him that Bali
is indeed magic. From Candidasa down the roads into Kuta Beach and then
westward along the Indian Ocean
to
a famed surfbreak, local mysticism was alive and well. Every morning we
witnessed the locals attend to their altars and deities, presenting
offerings in square banana-leaf boats containing flowers, victuals and
incense. Watching them, they acted in praise and devotion. They
appeared to put their hearts into the sacred rituals of their mystic
Hindu faith and allowed the peaceful or tumultuous surroundings to fade
away. In their trace, a floral scent lingered in sweetness, filling the
tropical humid air with sanctity.
Bali is magic, and the
people are rooted to continue to appease the mystical, whether above on
the mountains or below in the sea. And so after two weeks, Laura and I
proceed with our Indo explorations, open to the vastness of this
mystical universe. Our minds are broadening. Each of our bodies loose,
the muscles of our bones soaking up the 10 massages in just 14 days.
Bliss.