Fiddler Crabs and Farewells

We stood in the middle of the road in Sanur Village gazing sadly at the bright lights and buzzing restaurants. Through the open-sided pavilions the sounds of laughter cascaded out, rippling above the music from various bands playing in each venue.
The occasional Bemo or taxi would pootle by, beeping forlornly in hope of a fare. Couples strolled by gazing into the various shops and stalls that lined the pavement.
We turned, lumpen-throated, to walk into our hotel for the last time. Three glorious weeks had come to an end and now we must return to cold, grey Wales and come to terms with dreary normality.

We had ended our holiday in the simplest way. Yet it had still provided some real highlights:

During her last-ever swim in the Java Sea I persuaded Jan to wade out towards the coral reef. I stood patiently as she protested every single step of the way, moaning about the seaweed, the uneven bottom, the depth of the water - any excuse to turn back she could find. But then I got her to don my facemask and look down into the water beneath. She was ecstatic! A giant starfish in white and fluorescent blue, another in terracotta and purple and a lone sea cucumber were there at her feet. She had never before seen anything so colourful and she almost skipped back to shore … oblivious of the seaweed, the uneven bottom and the depth of the water ;o)

Then we strolled south, towards Benoa. The Sanur Beach is the last hotel bar one on this stretch and so we soon dropped off the beach and into a kind of wasteland. This quickly turned into swamp and then Mangrove! We had sailed to Lembongan to see the Mangrove, yet here it was less than a mile from our Hotel. Not only was it near, but it was also alive with millions of colourful crabs.

The majority of the crabs were Fiddlers and they spent most of their time involved in minor skirmishes, before scuttling back into their holes. I was fascinated to see that a small number of them were left-handed, which made conflict with right-handed crabs quite tricky (their claws don’t engage when they confront each other).

We eventually emerged on the Benoa road and headed back North, pausing to get a drink from a couple of elderly locals, before getting changed for dinner.

Our last three meals were each memorable for different reasons and, in a way, captured the flavour of our three weeks in Bali:

Firstly the Jazz Club. We had dined at the Jazz Club several times in 2007 because it was close to our Hotel. So once again we walked in and sat down. A waiter rushed over and said “You came here last year. I remember you - you always sat at that table. You stayed at Dewankara!” Wow! What a reception! The food was good, the lime sorbet between courses was worth the visit on its own, and the cocktails were excellent. Happy experience!

Next Spikes. We were looking for something different. Spikes is an American restaurant. Although the menu is mostly ‘Burgers and ‘Dogs it also offered some different dishes to brighten our palates. So, in to an empty restaurant we went and ordered our food and drinks from a charming Balinese waitress. And then we waited.

A party of Americans came in. The proprietor swept in, announcing “Hi, I’m Chantelle and this is my restaurant” as she greeted them. They ordered drinks and Burgers and were soon eating as another group of Americans walked in. This brought Chantelle rushing, squealing, from the kitchen. There followed some loud, gushing and embarrassing double-cheeked “Mwahs” . They ordered burgers and sat down.

Eventually our food arrived. Starters were bland and unseasoned, but edible. Mains? Jan had a “Chicken Pie topped with Breadcrumbs and Garlic Bread.” The garlic Bread refused to break and was impossible to bite,. You could have used it to replace the heat-proof tiles on the space shuttle! The breadcrumbs were like knee-deep aggregate, cascading off the plate in a dry, inedible avalanche. And the chicken? It was dried-out beyond any possibility of being digestible.

Chantelle sailed in and went to both of the American tables to ask how their food was. I waited, expectantly, with a very calm and reasoned explanation of why the food was unsatisfactory … and an unbreakable bread slice in my hand. But she retreated to the Kitchen without even glancing in our direction :o( So, sad, polite and uncomplaining Brits that we are, we left the food and left the restaurant.

Finally, The Mezzanine. This is a restaurant we love, with excellent food and a wonderful singing group (who sing and play so exquisitely I get all emotional!) The plan was to end our holiday with a meal on the terrace - the highlight would be getting the group to play “Leaving on a Jet Plane” to bring our holiday to an end.
Well, we strolled in to find …. The terrace was not being used, so we would have to dine inside. We went inside to find …. It was the group’s night off. There was an eccentric little old man hammering out tunes on a Honky-Tonk upright, in the best traditions of the Marx brothers and other silent movies.

Undaunted we sat and enjoyed a splendid meal. The climax? I got the waiter to request “Leaving On A Jet Plane” and, after a few exploratory chords he was away! I have never heard such a lively, upbeat rendition in my life before, but it summed up perfectly the haphazard but totally joyful experience our whole holiday had been :o)

The flight home was equally haphazard:

In Denpassar I completely forgot to take my camera rucksack off the X-Ray belt and only realised my error as we checked in. I rushed back in a panic, expecting to find the Bomb Squad about to blow it up. Instead I was confronted by a bunch of security staff laughing hysterically and slapping their sides with glee at my blind panic :o)

In Changi I was told to remove my trouser belt before going through the metal detector. Now, after three weeks of light eating, lots of walking and copious perspiration, this left my waistband’s grip a tad precarious. Emerging on the other side I was promptly trounced by a fierce looking woman who said “Come With Me”, trying to hurry me away. “Excuse me madam, would you mind waiting while I fasten my trousers…..” It transpired that my walking stick was a dangerous weapon and was being confiscated. Eventually it was agreed that it would be sent on as hold baggage.
Finally, in the comfort of the A380 cabin I had one last problem: My rucksack, which had fitted the overhead locker comfortably on the way out, now steadfastly refused to slide in. In desperation I tried whacking and squeezing while a sweet hostess implored me to hand it over for the flight. And then I suddenly spotted the problem! On the upper deck of the A380 the curve of the fuselage restricts the size of the lockers above window seats. I swivelled 180 degrees and found it slotted easily into the inboard lockers :o) And subsided into my seat for yet another excellent flight, cosseted by the utterly, utterly wonderful Singapore Girls.

We landed at Heathrow 30 minutes early and were swiftly re-united with my walking stick, through customs and heading back through fog, rain and motorway closures to our cold little house in Wales. And the most wonderful holiday in Bali was already fading into a distant dream……

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