Bali, Indonesia. Day 2. February 25, 2016.

---

Bali Day 2

I have become convinced that the mutts of Indonesia have exhausted all genetic variety and have now formed their own breed of small, peculiar-looking, slow moving, nearly hairless purebred.

Ah, today. Today was a most excellent day.

The ship got over the sandbar yesterday while we were roaming, and we returned last night to find tenders were now unnecessary. That meant just walking off the ship unrestricted, and we found our new guide with little effort.

Authentic Bali Tours came through in spades today. Mario was our stellar guide, with a reasoned, careful answer for every question, and he was a font of interesting information about each place we visited. Driver Arnawa was thankfully highly skilled at piloting the huge multi-passenger van around the twisting mountain roads.

Outside almost every home is a tall bamboo pole curved at the end, like a shepherd's crook. These are decorated with flowers, or curls planed directly from the wood, and tipped with brightly coloured streamers or paper lanterns. The population is 90% Hindu, and 10% Christian, Buddhist and Muslim. Here, the diverse religions live in harmony and mutual respect. Mario taught us the three salutes. Hands pressed together as if in Christian prayer, pressing the thumbs against a bowed forehead is obeisance to God, a less pronounced dip of the head with the hands pressed together at slightly higher than heart level gives respect to fellow humans, and the hands pressed together below the sternum acknowledges the environment, the spirits of the animals and the elements.

An interesting Balinese tradition is the celebration of the New Year in February. The communities through which we travelled were preparing for this period when, to be closer to the gods, Balinese shut down all activity for 24 hours. No shopping, no transportation of anything or anyone, no work, no tv, no going out - a complete blackout of activity. The only exception is hospitals.

Finally we were out of the urban coastline area. It seemed that no coastline we had seen remained undeveloped. Although there is little true wild country outside of the federal parklands (which are huge), the gentle change to vast terraced rice fields, dramatic volcanic hills, and cloud and rain forests sprawling deep into the interior was most welcome.

On the way to the first temple stop, we pulled over to watch people working the rice fields in the traditional, manual way. In some areas through the islands they use a sort of tractor. These are basically large tricycles, powered by a gasoline engine mounted on the front wheel, looking like a rickshaw powered by a large whippersnipper. The engine can have attachments which are hooked to the power train - augers, earthturners, conveyor belts and the like. Here, though, they still do things the old backbreaking way, hunched over and hacking with machetes.

The character of Bali is different from other parts of Indonesia we've seen so far. We had felt this the previous day, but today Mario has put it into words. Part of Indonesia, but retaining its own very individual history, character and identity. Rather like Newfoundland; an integral part of Canada, but with its own unique personality. Balinese first and always, Indonesian second.

Next stop was Pura Taman Ayung, a grand Hindu temple built in the 16th century. Oddly, the first thing to grab your attention past the entrance is the more-than-life-sized depiction of a cockfight, the two handlers at opposite corners releasing their fighting birds, which are stalking each other warily. The painted statues are lifelike in an overdone way, the handlers and onlookers swarthy and muscled, and the roosters looked less like fighting birds and more like feathered dinosaurs intent on levelling Yokohama. Statues of goddesses and yoked cattle watch over the proceedings. Bizarre subject matter, but nevertheless, an impressive presentation.

Local villagers come and work in the temple grounds, weaving baskets and whittling satay sticks, which are then sold on up the line to help fund the temple expenses.

A small building off the main gardens contained some dramatic works of original art - paintings of Ganesh and Shiva, scenes of rice paddies and cloud forest, and a magnificent sculpture of a benign demon, horrifically ugly but a protector to those endangered by evil.

The central temple itself was closed to nonresidents due to a local death. They were preparing the grounds for the farewell ceremony and nonbelievers were banned for three days as they would pollute the purified grounds. We could easily peek over the walls, though.

The walls and gates of the temple were festooned with sculpture and bas-relief depicting warring and loving gods, demons and guardians, heroes and maidens. The grounds were gorgeous, with statues and pristine gardens and fountains all over and we could have easily roamed around for some time, but tempus fugit and we had far to go and much to see.

A long drive took us up the mountains and into high valleys, and Mario delivered us to the Pacung restaurant with dramatic views of the low valley and its rice terraces and semiactive volcano. The last eruption was 1960 when the valley was covered with the nutritious ash that feeds the plants so well. The views, lush greens of the terraced fields surrounded by the thick rain forest, were stunning. We tried, but our photos failed to properly capture the view.

A varied buffet lunch was available. I have been eating a lot more fish on this tour, mostly because I can't tell what's under the crust or coating or sauce, I can't read the language, and questions to the staff are mostly met with a beaming smile.

"Is this fish?"

Big smile. "Yes, sir!"

"What kind of fish?"

Bigger smile. "Yes, sir!"

On to Pura Ulun Danu, the Floating Temple. This is a very busy place, and locals flock to pray and worship, and tourists flock to see. Indian, Indonesian, Balinese and western garb co-mingle throughout the lush gardens leading to the central temple. The heightened security is everywhere in these busy areas, with more armed guards in evidence, and security screen scans the underside of each vehicle with mirrors.

Once inside, the garden grounds and statuary are, again, beautiful but odd. Great stands of bamboo along with orderly lines of slim, tall pine trees. A giant strawberry sits alone in the center of a field (they do actually grow strawberries in this region, but they are not at all sweet and plump like those in North America). A giant green frog raises its right front leg in a Hindu blessing. White and scarlet demons guard gateways. A crouching, laughing Balinese done in grey rock flashes an enthusiastic thumbs-up, flanked by a seated old woman with dugs bouncing off her knees, doing the same. Figures of a giant owl and a falcon flank the pathway, the statues consisting of painted head, neck and outstretched claws as if the birds are stooping for the kill. The body itself is made up of bushes, trimmed topiary approximating the bodies of the birds. A large central cage contains a herd of local deer, small and calm nibbling on their corn leaves. Further along is a photo opportunity with colourful parrots, large and sullen fruit bats, small and large owls, and an albino python. The birds are chained to their perches and the bats will fly away only at dusk, to return to their table of fruit at their comfortable hangout for daylight hours.

Along the shore of the lake, multicoloured dragons pull themselves from the water onto the stairs and grass. Tigers pace them, the big cats wrapped in black and white checkered sheets of fabric representing yin and yang.

The centerpiece temple itself doesn't actually float: when the rains come, the lake it sits in rises to a height that makes it only appear so. The lake has not been filled by the rains for some months, and the temple sits enclosed by stone walls, at the base of which sprout plants and bushes which clearly show the unseasonably low water levels and the fact that this sucker doesn't, indeed can't, float. However, it is a work of art in itself, a huge shrine surrounded by lower shrines which themselves sit apart in the lake seeming to also be as floating islands, companions to the larger temple.

Mario expertly took pictures of us as couples in front of the temple, and we noticed Indian and Indonesian tourists also snapping pictures of us, and having pictures taken by their friends or family and maneuvering themselves so as to include some of us in the background.

A very large young man who I took to be Samoan because of his uncommon height and girth, let out a laugh as he saw me, and fairly ran over, "Sir, sir, excuse me sir," clearly the extent of his English, and brandishing his selfie stick and camera phone, asked, "Selfie? Selfie?"

"Sure!" He took me in a huge one-armed hug, and crushing me against his soft chest, happily took his shot. "Thank you, thank you," he beamed, taking my hand in an unexpectedly limp handshake.

We are all getting more used to this tourist-as-celebrity stuff. Martin, the very tall and very smiley casino dealer, told me of his three weeks in Taiwan, where, he said, he felt like a movie star as everyone smiled at him everywhere, wanted to stand by him, take a photo, buy him food or drink, and generally just get a piece of him. I now have a better understanding of how odd they find my anti-UV clothing, my grey beard (even more odd combined with my dark hair), pale skin and blue eyes. No different than us wanting a shot with a Thai in full costume, or a Burmese monk in purple robes or an Indian in formal dress, especially if one were to appear on the corner of Bank and Sparks Streets back home.

We got back on the bus to head for the souvenir market. As we got off the bus, the heavens opened and we had a mountaintop monsoon for about half an hour. To the shopkeepers, this meant a captive clientele, and they competed heavily for our attention. We had been told that an okay deal was usually about half the asking price, depending on your bartering capabilities. Jane was doing well in her discussion on local 'elephant pants,' but I screwed up her bargaining position when I barged in with my Ganesh tshirts, not understanding how well she was doing up to then.

Some of our group bargained hard, while others, feeling tourist guilt, simply paid the asking price, to the enthusiastic appreciation of the merchants. For the former, some good deals were gained, and for the latter, their guilt was mollified.

Leaving the tourist areas, we ventured deeper into the mountains, arriving at a deep valley where villagers had formed another coop to grow rice, tea, strawberries and myriad fruits. Lookout points show grand vistas of terraced fields, and a complex series of canals and sluices provide water on demand to each terrace. Balinese rice is different from common white rice in that the seeds are larger and the crops produce more, but grow more slowly, so that there are only two harvests a year. Thus balinese rice can cost twice as much as its more common cousin which can be harvested three times a year, but it is much lower in carbohydrates and in glucose content.

Indonesian coffee, while very good, is not indigenous and was brought by the Dutch and Portuguese, a fact which segues nicely into our next stop.

This was a small farm hidden in the rain forest in the northern countryside. If you did not know it was there, you would walk right past the little cart path into the thick jungle. Organically grown vegetables, pineapple, chilis, teas and coffee thrive in small plots cleared out of the forest. Wandering the little paths, it would not be out of place to glimpse a jungle cat slinking or tapirs foraging along the forest floor.

We stopped at a little coffee roasting station. Bob donned a coolie hat left nearby and squatted next to the fire, stirring the roasting beans. Being Chinese, he did not look entirely out of place. After a little tour of the varied crops and farming implements, we went to the tasting room, a picnic table under a thatched roof at the end of a path through the rain forest. Here, we were offered many different styles and varieties of teas and coffees. Naturally flavoured teas, rice black Ceylon teas, and a few varieties of coffee lightly accented with spices or cocoa.

The most distinctive of Balinese coffees is called Luwak, and it wholesales in North America at US$350/Kg. At the trendiest Manhattan restaurant, we are told, you'll pay $65 US for a single cup.

Perhaps a conspiracy, perhaps pure bull, but Luwak is coffee made from beans which have passed through the digestive tract of a mongoose, the mortal enemy of the cobra. Or perhaps a civet, a type of cat. The translation was a little unclear, but the guide was clear on the latin name of these specific animals, Paradoxurus. There were three of them in small cages, looking unhappy. One chewed ineffectively on the chain binding its collar to the cage.

Whether civet or mongoose, the story is that the animals are fed the finest beans, still encased in the fresh, fleshy covering. The animal digests only the soft outer material, and the bean itself passes through unharmed, although it is hard to believe the digestive juices don't affect it somehow.

In any case, several of us paid about US$3.50 each for a cup. Strong as espresso, while it didn't stand out as superior, it was indeed quite good. We unoriginally dubbed the brew, "catpoopcino."

Now we had to head back south and west, headed for the coastline again for another temple at sunset. Today was yet another special Hindu festival. It seems that part of the attraction of being Hindu is the frequent excuses for parties.

Tanala, or Tanalot, is the Temple on the Sea, devoted to the ocean god Diwa Marana. It sits on a rock in a sheltered bay, accessible by foot only at low tide. People flock from all over SE Asia to attend, and families and groups of friends made a constant procession across the rocky beach to the isolated temple in the sea. Women in their best finery, accompanied by friends and family, carried on their heads traditional decorated baskets containing food offerings to the ocean god. Timing is important, as this temple can only be reached at low tide before the waves swallow the pathways from the mainland.

We shared another amazing sunset, with celebrating Hindus everywhere. As I was taking a scenic video, a winged cloud detached from the cliff shadows and I followed the flock with my camera before realising that it was an immense flock of bats, not birds, heading out for a night's foraging.

We posed for many, many photos - group of beautiful young Indian girls with their Balinese boyfriends, groups of schoolkids is school uniforms and Muslim garb. I am beginning to think there is a secret Indonesian competition to see who can get the funniest foreigner pictures.

We fragmented into smaller groups, some going to have a closer look at the temple, some interacting with the locals, and some just wandering and relishing where we were and what was going on.

The festival mood was infectious. We very much enjoyed being part of the happy crowd, and they seemed equally happy to have us there with them. The sunset was surreal in its beauty, and a relative silence descended on the crowd as the last rays of sun illuminated the clouds, the great orb slipped into the sea, and the ocean covered the pathways to the temple. We left happy, but regretful we could not have shared this unique experience for longer.

Wandering back to the bus, we collected stragglers and successfully negotiated the cliffside pathways, which seemed to have rearranged themselves now that the park was dark. We counted heads and had the correct total, then BB disappeared, to reappear after only a minute or so, happily lugging a clinking plastic bag.

(BB has become quite expert at finding ice-cold beer. He has shared the knowledge freely, including the annoying lesson that when he gets the tour bus to stop at a store (ostensibly for an ATM) that the Indomart (Muslim convenience stores) are to be avoided at all costs, as they of course do not sell alcohol.)

We took off, tired and happy but stimulated by the festival experience. The drive back to the ship in the dark was vey different, and as we reentered the urban area we could see the kind of shopping, restaurants and night life offered to the tourists. Many people who come today complain about how commercialised it has become, but Mario ensured that we experienced more than just the sights; that we were welcomed by the sounds and the smells and the tastes and the textures, and most of all, the consciousness of the people.

Balinese first, Indonesian second. An island unique in the world.

---