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Published: September 16th 2010
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(Wouldn’t it be nice to think that I was still in Indonesia? Instead, thanks to a combined lack of motivation and rupiah, this entry is coming to you post-jetlag, from a public library in Salamanca. But for the sake of this final post, I invite you to imagine I’m still in dreamy, honey-scented, dripping-in-green Bali - god knows I am.)
Early one drizzly morning, I packed up my things and bid Ubud an affectionate farewell, promising to return sooner rather than later, especially since according to some of the locals, I missed visiting the finer sights in the city - “Forget the centuries-old temples, I want to see the café where Julia Roberts took her banana smoothies!”
After a short ride to Sanur and a hop, skip and a wave across the Badung straight, I arrived in Nusa Lembongan, one of the three small islands off the south-east corner of Bali. The local boat we took was packed tight with produce and petrol and a couple of guinea pigs thrown in for good measure. This time we were crammed in underneath the boat (there’s none of that ridiculous, preferential and far too common discrimination between humans and cargo in
these parts, folks) but a few local kids next to me kept things merry, belting out a charming round of Indonesian pop songs.
We reached land none too quickly and once my accommodation had been arranged, I was free to explore. The beach, left exposed thanks to the low-tide, was covered in sharp coral and mounds of slithery seaweed which the locals were laboriously gathering into large woven baskets. Along the banks of sand, large sheets had been laid down with neat piles of the collected vegetation sitting out to dry. Seaweed is the largest export on the island as it is used quite frequently throughout the country in products like cosmetics, toothpaste and ice cream. It was a pleasant afternoon of absolutely nothing.
But the next morning, bright and early, I made my way down to the island’s dive centre, to have one last frolic with the fishies. There was an air of excitement about the place, with yesterday’s divers having seen a mola mola - disk-like fish with ugly mugs and large dorsal fins, whose length spans more than 6m top to bottom. But if Bali has now taught me anything, it’s to take offerings seriously
and not one of us that morning had offered up so much as a grain of rice to the mola mola gods. It appeared all my diving fortune had been spent on the four mantas in Komodo and so our dives went without a visit from these underwater giants. Nevertheless, the corals were spectacular and the sites full of activity. It was a fine finale to my underwater adventuring in Indonesia.
Having met some friendly people on the boat, I spent the rest of the day with new friends, lounging by their pool, eating good food and squeezing out of my meager budget as many Bintangs as I could. (There are no ATMs on Lembongan and the bartenders don’t take so kindly to empty wallets and sheepish comments like “I swear I have 50,000 rupiah on me somewhere…”)
By morning, it was back on the boat, across the sea, over some worryingly large waves and on to the deliciously under-rated Balangan beach. Known only to a few Australian wave-aholics, this beach was the kind of gorgeous that hits you unapologetically and head-on, like the pounding surf along the shoreline. Backed by cliffs, lined with palm-trees and a few
humble beach shacks, the water was clear and bright and the sand was virtually deserted. The view was hard to take your eyes off of, even to watch some impressive surfers brave the wild waves.
We had a bit of rain that afternoon which made for the perfect excuse to enjoy the lovely little bamboo bungalow I had in my possession for two short nights. The roof was thatched with straw, soft like the fur of a shaggy dog. The wonky wooden balcony railing was wound together with thick rope and there was a comfortable, L-shaped lounging area covered in colourful pillows. The bamboo bed was draped in silky mosquito netting and the pillows accented with fresh flowers. The white toilet, luminous in its western splendor, was approached by a path of smooth grey stones and the shower was a made from a bamboo pipe and spout where temperate freshwater rained down. (Most often, the cheaper accommodation will stretch its freshwater by mixing in a little saltwater, so this was quite the luxury.) It was faux-Robinson Crusoe at its best - rustic charm, but in a ‘perfectly manicured’ kind of way.
For my last few days in Bali,
this was a lovely spot to perch, and perch I did for almost two days straight with the exception of a short and very sweaty bike ride to the nearest ATM. (A little note to you, dear Mastercard, you’re not as widely accepted as you think you are!) This would have made for a pleasant venture through the winding peninsular countryside, were it not for the very steep incline and the hoards of crazy-eyed, barking dogs (who may as well have been foaming at the mouth) chasing after my tires - which honestly didn’t require much effort at the speed I was going.
As if my heart weren’t racing enough, I had the unfortunate occurrence of coming across the second snake seen in the wild to date. Granted his head was crushed in, most likely by a passing motorbike (those things will stop for nothing and no one, not even scary giant flying python snakes that will eat you in your sleep), so he wasn’t exactly slithering about, but this thing was HUGE. HUUUUUUUGE. And I’m not exaggerating. AT ALL. His body was as thick as my calf and spread out, he probably would have spanned the width of
the road. At first I cursed my luck at being alone, but once comforted by the fact that he was dead (I know, I’m horrible since he’s probably all rare and endangered), I was quite happy to see that there had been no witnesses - besides an advancing pack of rabid dogs - to my girly screams and frantic hoppings about. But after all that excitement, I was more than ready to be rid of my wheels and parked back on the critter-free beach where I belonged.
And then, as if being woken too early from a blissful dream, I somehow found myself whiling away the hours before my flight at a chintzy, close-to-the-airport-which-means-there’s-nothing-else-in-it’s-vicinity hotel in Jakarta. LP opens its Jakarta chapter with the line “this is one hard city to love,” and rather than try to prove the bible wrong, I took the verse to heart and thought it best to avoid the polluted mess altogether. Happily, I ran into a couple of Germans I had met on the boat sailing to Lombok at the hotel and so we shared a buffet breakfast and a few airport hours before our flight back to Doha. The journey was smooth
and quite comfortable (despite my 10 hour layover) and soon enough, I found myself back where I started, on the other side of the world amongst the zany Spanish and their lovely Salamanca.
It was one hell of a trip, for lack of a more articulate closing, and I’m happy I could share it with those of you who have been polite enough to put up with my rambling. Cheers to your endurance, overpriced internet and the star of it all - brilliant, succulent, wildly irresistible Indonesia.
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