--"Want trransport?"
--"No."
--"You like watch?"
--"No."
--"Konnichiwa."
--"Bukan Japanese." I'm Chinese. Not Japanese.
--"Wherre you frrom?"
The scruffy brown street-touts don't really care where you're from. They just want to know your currency and buying power. The amount you can be fleeced for then changes accordingly. Prices will be higher for Americans than Malaysians.
From the moment I landed I could not escape the army of individuals constantly coming to me, feigning care in a shallow attempt to separate me from my money. Business in Bali is small, but it's frenzied. Legian's narrow streets are jammed with hastily-built concrete-brick shops, and there are so few empty alleys that it's like a breath of fresh air to find one. I cringed at first, walking down Jln Padma, trying to ignore the barking locals. People everywhere else tend to leave you alone. Here, your foreign currency turns you into an object of attention.
I felt similarly self-conscious on the plane to Bali. All the passengers were forced to watch a promo on Adelaide, South Australia; my home. It was all swooshing images of trade and industry, designed to charm the business-class passengers into setting up their 'global centres for excellence' in my back yard. Adelaide was pretending to be a global metropolis - something it wasn't - even though its citizens love it the way it is. If there's anything worse than not being something, it's being a try-hard.
Bali was supposed to be stretches of beach, with reserved locals - a chance to relax after two months travelling. Instead, I found it trying hard to be a tourist trap and, unfortunately, succeeding tremendously. Stall owners try to ram hideous batiks and artworks down your throat for ludicrous prices. I felt an urge to buy some of these horrors, if only to remove them from public view. I wouldn't have made a dent in this unsightly ocean anyway, despite my Australian dollar; and that I could have afforded acres of gaudy print if I bargained well.
I hate bargaining and I detest tipping. Tipping is a repulsive custom that I blame wholly on Americans. The practice of tipping is harmless enough, but not the expectation for tips it fosters. Service staff grow accustomed to that extra 10%-15%, and they're conditioned to be rude when they don't get it.
Bargaining on the other hand is pure greed coated in dishonesty. Its stickiness drags in both parties who soon become entrenched in a tiring price war regardless of the item or its actual market value. Bargaining over 5% is acceptable, but prices in Bali are regularly inflated by 300%. Even if you know the acceptable 'price', you're still forced into a long haggling match before sale.
Bargaining extends as far as simple goods like bottled water and crisps. The one safe stronghold is the 'Cirkle K' chain of convenience stores, which are run like 7-11s. There, the items are labelled and the prices fixed but reasonable, but I don't know how much longer they will hold out.
If I were to blame anyone but the locals for the bargaining, it would be tourists - especially Americans - for actually buying some downright ugly goods at ridiculous prices, which only become cheap once converted to the US Dollar. Have some consideration, you Seppos, and do some homework! Not all of us are rich enough to get consistently ripped off!
The local vendors are ultimately at fault. There is so much fast money to be made out of tourists that Bali attracts the type of shady person who has no problems making fast money out of tourists. These barracuda set up shop everywhere, second-guessing the paths a tourist might make on their walks and then plonking a stall there.
I guess I could sit here safely across the water and keep chucking rocks at the natives, but there's two sides to every tale. While the hawkers are vulgar, most visitors to Bali are uncouth and dressed (or undressed) in swimwear. It's hard to have respect for crowds of drunk Aussies wearing nothing but board-shorts.
I braved the crowd to walk to Legian beach, which wasn't very far away. I left it until evening, after most of the white people put their clothes back on and get off the beach. As the sun set I didn't notice that the sand was grey. I was too busy looking at how the beach and trees stretched all the way into the misty horizon. Even the tired hawkers, lugging their shocking oil paintings between colour-blind tourists, could sense I was in a higher state and left me alone.
So beautiful was the beach in the evening that I returned at night, when it was even more deserted, for a swim. A stone's throw away from home, the pull of the sea was inescapable, and I simply had to plunge into the warm water. The waves broke gradually along the gently sloping beach. Their crests foamed like white sea-dragons playing. Smoke from coconut husk fires burning inland danced in the corner of my eye, eerily spectral. Bali, I was warned, was 'heavily spirited'. Perhaps it was this that gave me the impression the whole place was haunted. The dark beach, illuminated only by moonlight, gave me the creeps after a while, and I returned to the hotel.
My hotel, the Legian Village and its staff, were great. They were friendly and helpful - even without tips. There are some people who'll go to Bali and have a great time without leaving their resort. But I'm not one of them, so no matter how nice it was, I had to get out of there. Reception booked me a (IDR$60000-AUD$12) return shuttle-bus ride to the inland town of Ubud. I didn't want a tour, just transport. Acquaintances of mine went on a tour where every extra step took IDR$10,000 (AUD$2) extra, no questions asked, no info given. To give reception credit, they didn't try very hard to sell me anything.
The shuttle-bus was so packed that a French girl sat on my face on the way to Ubud. She was carrying her backpack at the time, so it was probably as good for her as it was for me. I wasn't full, even after a face full of French ass, but I said I was to escape the hawkers selling transport.
--"You want trransport?"
--"No."
--"Motorrbye?"
--"No."
--"Wherre you frrom?"
--"Take a guess."
--"Wherre you go?"
--"Padi fields. Ada padi dekat? Errm. orang tanam nasi?" I desperately
needed to see anything but shops. Main street Ubud was a slightly greener
version of Main street Legian. Rice fields would have to do. I'd have
settled for junk yards.
--"Ooo. Jaoh, tau? I take you." Apparently, they were very far away.
--"No thanks. Saya mau Jalan" I was determined to get there on foot.
-(pointing)-"Jaoh, tau?"
--"Sudah makan kenyang. Mau Jalan." I realised that being full was the
lamest excuse I'd ever come up with. I walked slowly away from the crowd of
hustlers and, when I was far enough, ran.
I took the first turn Northwards and kept walking. Much to my relief, the shops and spruikers rapidly died out after the first ten meters, leaving relaxed temples and houses. The few people walking around minded their own business instead of busying themselves minding mine. I was relieved to find genuine suburbia only a scratch under the surface.
Along the road, the cottages and temples slowly turned to padi fields and farmhouses. The air was clear and sweet and cool. The shopkeepers didn't haggle, nor did anyone try to sell me things. Those with any aptitude for hard-selling, I concluded, were strutting their stuff in town. I walked for half a day, along that peaceful road, and felt sad when I had to turn around and start walking back.
The bus from Ubud to Legian was late. I met up with some of the touts who'd tried to sell me transport when I first arrived. They hung around in case the bus didn't come, in which case they'd have the chance of a sale. One of them explained the curious black-white checkered cloth ('Poleng') that adorned the many roadside shrines and statues.
--"White: good. Black: evil. But together. Same. Cannot apart."
The good and the bad, the ordered and the chaotic. The difference was similar to that between genuine and the touristy. I'd had my chance at the real thing, so that night I indulged in the ultimate tourist experience: a beach dinner at Jimbaran.
I ate a whole barracuda as they sat us in front of Jimbaran bay, our backs to the restaurants. We sat facing the sea, a chestnut seller, and a band pumping out 70s songs. It was like a beach cinema or some kind of sandy schoolroom. The waiter who called himself Johnny Depp got mad when I refused to give him a tip, but I ignored his grunting and marched to the taxi.
--"Makan habis, mau chehweh?" I'd asked the taxi driver to wait for me
until
I'd finished eating, and now I knew the purpose of our earlier conversation:
--"Singaporre chehweh cantik, ka?" At first, I did not understand the
word
'chehweh' [girl]. He was asking me if Singapore girls were pretty.
--"Ya. Ada cantik, ada bukan cantik."
--"Bali chehweh cantik, ka?" As if he had to ask. Pretty girls are
abundant
in Bali. That is, if slim, dark girls, with big brown eyes and full lips
appeal to you.
--"Ya. Sini ada banyak perempuan cantik." I just had to agree.
And we left it there until after dinner.
--"Mau chehweh?" he repeated. The meaning was clear. Did I want a
girl?
--"Tak mau. Ini hari perrgi Ubud. Perrnat, lah." I wasn't lying. I was
tired
after the long walk and the big dinner.
--"Tidak ada kwat, ah?" He suggested I had no strength.
--"Ya. Betul." Whatever.
Still, I was curious and asked for pricing. Apparently, IDR$300,000-$400,000 (AUD$60-$80) would get you one hour of young chehweh. I didn't ask if there was a 'buy one, get 50% off the second' deal going. (Although my Singaporean nature compelled me strongly.) I didn't want him to think I might be interested. So I stayed silent until I reached my hotel, my room, and boiled some water.
I boiled a new batch of water every time I returned to my room. This way I survived the water - thanks to a simple heater element that Jim Sutter gave me in Lisbon. Jim's a soft-spoken Texan traveller whose rough voice reminds me of an old William S. Burroughs. Listening to Jim talk about his travels after retirement made me understand how Burroughs could bed so many people (men and women) on the strength of his poetry readings.
Using the element highlighted to me the discomforts of travel. The simple tasks we take for granted - boiling water, healing wounds, washing clothes - are variable when moving from place to place. It's only when you're on the road that you realise how much you've left behind. Then it's a sometimes dangerous game of catch-up. I risked my neck walking to Fourways mall in South Africa for washing powder and a nail clipper.
Yet, you can't take everything with you. You constantly throw away whatever you don't need. Every piece of baggage weighs you down and could mean the difference between successfully jumping onto the last metro to the airport, and missing your connecting flight.
In this way, I guess, each journey is like a lifetime. You arrive at your next stop with a frighteningly clean slate and start learning everything again. One destination is irrelevant to another. When in Rome. When in London. Near the end of your stay, you weigh up the good luck and the bad, hoping that it will all square out by the time you shed your burden, check out of the hotel, and expire your travel card on the way to the airport/afterlife.
Even sensations don't make it past the boarding gates, though our feelings do. I can't picture the roof of the Sistine, but I can recall my sense of wonderment when I saw it. And though it seemed the discomforts of travel would overwhelm the novelty, I came away remembering only the good bits. The Tower of Belem inspired a 'wow' from me, although I can't remember desperately having to pee at the time.
But by this time, the last leg of my journey, I was no longer a lightweight traveller. I had accumulated lots of gear, (some for those at home,) and looked at accumulating more.
I set out to Denpasar specifically for Balinese saroeng. Once again, a taxi driver offered me chehweh (this time from Sanur), but I declined. I did not expect scenery in Denpasar, nor did I get it. Denpasar is unashamedly a commercial centre, with workshops and shophouses and open drains. The driver and I followed an effete fabric salesman into a suspect looking block of shops. There I lost my cool with him, shouting down a 'saroeng halus' from IDR$150,000 to IDR$40,000. I didn't say much on the ride back to Legian. Haggling tires me out.
I was forced to flex my bargaining muscles again that day, losing my temper at a few watch vendors for trying to sell me an IDR$180,000 watch for IDR$500,000. (Haggling tips: Firstly, go to other stores and bargain until the seller walks away. You then know the minimum price. Secondly, if they don't give you a price you like, lower your price and tell them not to waste your time any more.) My angry haggling didn't just buy me the watch, but some respect as well. The peddlers offered me seats, drinks, and other goods for me to refuse.
--"Soketop!" (Soccer top)
--"Pafum!" (Perfume)
--"How much you glasses? How much you watch?" Some wanted to buy my
gear
from me.
--"Not for sale."
--"You give one prrice. Pleeeeaase. Forr good luck."
--"Maybe when I come back."
--"When you come back?"
Not bloody likely.
One of the dumber touts showed me a lighter against his hand. I haggled over his index finger. He gave me a price of IDR$1,000,000 (USD$100) - a figure beyond his comprehension. I watched him shit bricks as I ruthlessly counted out USD$95 from my wallet. His lucky day, I guess. Me and my box-cutter fully intended to make him personally liable for fucking up paradise.
And then it hit me that I'd gotten used to the place, like I'd gotten used to all the other places. On the streets of Bali, life is money measured in US dollars, and I was now a part of it. Needless to say, I didn't like my Balinese incarnation.
You can't help but be affected by the place you're in, especially if you're travelling light. All is chance - weather, metros, schedules - and you have so little insulation that all of 'you' is stripped away. You are no longer your bank balance. You are no longer your business card. You are a film for capturing human sentiment. I felt the desperation of a French beggarwoman as I watched her being thrown out of the Jardins des Tuileries. She had nowhere to go.
I went back to the hotel bar, and dissolved my brain with Bintangs and Arak shots. I listened to the barman whinge about how rich the Indonesian Chinese were, and watched some pretty girls do some pretty dancing. As soon as I could, I took a Bali-taxi (Metered, Light Blue) to the airport, nursing the beginnings of a massive hangover while planning my assault on the duty free shops.
Airports are the only constant in this diverse world - a world that is slowly becoming homogenous thanks to the wonders of globalisation. There, you can drink the water, use the toilets, and speak to people in English without fear of reprisal. The final surprise was a IDR$100,000 'departure tax'. No questions asked, no info given, hitting travellers and tourists alike.
Some people make a distinction between travellers and tourists, but I don't anymore. Travel is not like choosing a TV channel. Whether you take the package deal, or whether you cross your fingers and grab a backpack, you will have an experience wholly different to anyone else's. I will see the alleys of Venice differently to you, or anybody else on this planet. In short, there is no 'beaten track' to wander off. You blaze your own trail. You cannot buy certainty. As much as you plan, the moment departure date comes round, you're on your own, buster.
So why? Why expend all that effort, not just to plan but to also do? (I told you I'd leave my motives till the very last.) Why suffer the discomfort, the doubt, the lost wages? Why miss the love at home, or your stake in office politics?
Sometimes things are just meant to be. Sometimes we have to do things we can 't explain, for reasons that only come to us after the dust has settled. I' ll let you in on a secret: we don't have to justify it before or after. Life does not require us to write business cases or post mortems. If the world worked reasonably then we'd all get around in public transport, and tram drivers in Lisbon would hand out feedback cards every time they were blocked by a badly parked car. If the world was rational then madmen wouldn't fly planes into buildings, bringing airfares down and, yes, inspiring me even more to travel.
'Because I can' is a perfectly good reason for doing things. The math said the trip wouldn't kill me and that should be good enough. Even if I was wrong and it did . well, it wouldn't really matter now, would it? If life is suffering, then 'the end' is 'release' with a different name.
Release came in the form of QF132 at 1:50 am. To Darwin, then home. (Adelaide, South Australia, Global Centre for Excellence. Not.) Home is but a stone's throw from the next destination, wherever that may be. But I'm happy that for a little while, my longest journey will be from one day to the next.
And no, I do not need transport.
