The Chaos of Kuta

Pure Chaos
Hearing stories and seeing pictures were no preparation. It was abundantly clear there was no way out, I was in the midst of it. I emerge from my five star motel to see masses of people in every direction; the place has a reputation for making your heart race and rightly so. Thousands of scooters fill the streets of Kuta like ants making their way through a maze, each local unafraid to risk their lives to get where they’re going. Buses and cars go head on in a vehicle version of the game chicken, both intent on squeezing their way through the narrow alley hoping to shave minutes from their travel. I survey my options and decide to jump over an open drain filled with rushing water rather than tackle the chaos that is crossing the road. I pass restaurants and bars whose entrances are blocked by burly security guards even in the harsh light of 11am. The Bali bombings left no room for mistake the second time around, and no option for visitors to feel unsecure with the dwindling tourism rate.
Glare catches my eye and I turn to see rows and rows of Absolut vodka bottles perched on what looks like a home made wooden shelf. An old woman sits in the shade of her store sign protecting them from thieves and the amber liquid inside is a clear indication this is not vodka at all. Even fuel is sold cheap in Indonesia and it’s in that moment I both wonder where all the vodka went, and realise how scarce petrol stations are. The fine lines in the woman’s face show she must be at least 60 years old and I wonder also how long she’s worked for, or for how many years she must continue just to maintain a steady lifestyle for her family.
A stray hawker on my left offering me ‘good morning price’ (which of course turns to ‘good afternoon price’ beyond 12pm) is the first indication I’m entering the markets – they are like birds; once you feed one they will all come. Hundreds of market stalls are packed into the next few metres. Handbags, hats and wallets line the walls, are piled on tables and hang from makeshift rooves desperately hoping to be sold to a traveller.
Waiting isn’t the game of the Balinese and an elderly stall owner is lapping at my heel before I can make sense of the blur of fake Louis Vuitton, Dolce and Gabbana and Guess. His frail hand touched mine in an effort to make a personal connection and assess my likelihood to go home with his product over the sea of duplicates just down the lane.
A combination of his pushiness and the uncomfortable temperature outside which feels close to that of the sun wills me to keep moving, leaving the man to prey on his next victim while he should be at the stage of reflecting on his working years at that age.