Indonesia (Part 2a)

Nov 2000

Indonesian Background: The Lonely Planet summed it up as a "long chain of tropical islands offering a mixture of cultures, peoples, scenery, prospects, problems and aspirations unmatched in SE Asia". I'd agree with that.

It covers a huge area of 1.9 million sq. kilometres scattered over 13,700 islands (others say 17,000 islands). Parts of Indonesia are still vast, barely explored regions of dense jungle and many islands have extinct, dormant or active volcanoes. It offers a little bit more adventure than 'The Beach' movie. Draped over the Equator, it is hot all year round but has wet and dry seasons. I was here during the wet season. It is the fourth most populated country in the world with over 200m people, 60% of which are crammed onto Java which has only 7% of the land.

Essential language: Selamet Pagi; good morning, Apa Kabar?; how are you?, Berapa Harga?; how much?, Terima Kasih;thank you and 'Sod off, I don't want another Sari, thank you very much

Indonesia's national airline Geruda has a motto "It would take 46 years and 199 days to visit all our islands. Isn't it about time you started?"(yes, but not on Geruda). Personally, the only thing I knew about Indonesia was watching Mel Gibson's film "The Year of Living Dangerously" set during the political upheavals of 1965. 35 years later, we were still living dangerously.

Outside the ferry terminal at Dumai, Sumatra were posses of taxis, minivans, and bicycle rickshaws. As the only foreigner disembarking from Malaysia, I was hailed by a snowstorm of "Hey Mister. Where you from?", "Hey Mister. Where are you going?" ad nuseum. I kept my head down, ignored everyone, didn't say a word so they didn't know where I was from and walked bristly into town 3km away. I averaged a "Hey Mister" every 20 seconds during my walk.

Mission Impossible: To escape Dumai the same day of arrival. It was 6pm and I spent a boring 90 minutes trawling the bus companies/bus station for buses to Jakarta or anywhere south. I was met by blank stares, big smiles and "no bus until tomorrow". 99% of the population spoke no English. Everything was heading north or west. I was damned if I was staying in this place overnight. I'd rather chew my foot off. In the end, I jumped aboard a packed bus leaving for Bukittingi. Dumai was so bad, I'd rather sleep on a bus overnight!

As luck would have it, crammed onto the back seat with 4 others, someone spoke English and said we'd be passing through Juri in about 90 minutes. This place wasn't even on my map. Any Jakarta bound bus from the north passed through here and he was pretty sure there would be a night bus. Noone in Dumai had mentioned this. And, thankfully there was. At 9pm. I sat in the bare candle lit waiting room suffering from a powercut, chatting to anyone who spotted me and who thought I hadn't heard "Hey Mister. Where you from?" for at least 5 minutes. Everyone seemed to be a refugee from Aceh - the most northerly region of Sumatra, where independence fighters are stepping up the violent struggles and people are fleeing like rats. My bus would have started in Aceh on a 2000+km crawl all the way to the capital.

The bus rolled in one hour late at 10pm. Actually, it arrived on time. I only discovered, upon entering the bus that I had forgotten to put my watch back an hour. Oops. The bus would become my home for the next 42 hours! I managed to sleep on the first night as we crossed the Equator.

Until 4am, when the Muslim religious music was played over the sound system - droning on. Suddenly at 5.58am precisely, the tape changed to The Offspring The bus driver turned up the sound big time and we roared along with music blaring out. The old people on the bus, bleeding from their eardrums, stuck their fingers in their ears while the kids ran up and down the aisle. It was great. 25 mins later, normal service was resumed and we went back to Muslim droning. It was one way to start the day.

There were few highlights sitting on a bus for 2 nights and nearly 2 days. We had an army security check at Jambi, where everyone's bags (including mine) were searched thoroughly. Since most of the passengers were from Aceh, they were worried about arms being smuggled into Jakarta to stoke the recent riots. We got a puncture in the afternoon and got to watch a local jump up and down on the tyre in his bare feet to get it off and then hold the 2 inch nail he found, proudly in the air, like a trophy. That night, there was a never-ending electric lightening storm and torrential downpour, which I slept through. The scenery was your average Sumatrian - endless vegetation punctuated by dusty hamlets, chickens running around etc. The road surfaces varied, but the road never got bigger than a two-lane highway. If a bus or truck came the other way, we had to pull over into the dust.

We arrived at the southern tip of Sumatra at the port of Bakauheni around 7.30am on my second day on the bus. My bum was numb. Here, we drove aboard a massive car ferry called the 'Mufidahi' to sail to the island of Java. While we were docked in harbour, local kids climbed aboard up to the lifeboats and asked for money to take their photo diving off 100ft into the sea below. They soon got tired of this when they realised the only westerner on board wasn't going to stump up. I hadn't seen another westerner since leaving Melacca.

We sailed 2 hours across a smooth sea to the port of Merak. On my right, I think I saw the remains of the infamous Krakatau volcano (it looked like it, but I can't be sure). In 1883, this volcano self destructed and caused the loudest recorded 'bang' in the history of mankind. It didn't mess about. They heard the explosion in Sri Lanka and tremors were detected in Alaska and England. It caused a tidal wave that reached both South Africa and destroyed boats in Auckland, New Zealand. The 40km tall eruption tower sent ash around the world, causing psychedelic sunsets for the next two years. This was the closest I would get to see it. I didn't have the time or money to charter a boat around the sorry looking ruins.

Back on dry land and back into the bus. The traffic into Jakarta was backed up for miles in gridlock. Another monsoon storm hit the place. When I arrived at 2pm, the streets were flooded. I had been travelling non-stop from leaving Kuala Lumpur, the capital of Malaysia to Jakarta, the capital of Indonesia for 56 hours. Not recommended. But I got there in one go.

In true Indonesian style, I was not dropped at the western bus terminus (an obvious choice since we were arriving from the west). We skirted the entire city and got dumped in the middle of nowhere in the far North East. I had to walk through knee deep water along roads for 3km to find a main road and a local bus into the centre (because, inevitably, there were only taxis available from where we were dropped). The bus ride into the centre cost 4p.

The streets were gridlocked. Honking traffic, exhaust fumes to die for, mopeds riding on the pavements, traffic lights ignored, rubbish everywhere. What a hellhole. This first impression of Jakarta never softened throughout my 3-day stay. It was like your average Indian city without the animals wandering around. It was also like Mexico City meets Cairo without the dust. At least I found a cheap 'losmen' (hostel) in the centre and was able to get on with my business.

I hadn't had a 'business' session since Bangkok, months ago. I had waited until Jakarta because I knew Indonesian prices would be cheaper. So I developed 20 films of photos, sent back a package from the post office (which only took an hour - spent mostly fighting off the offers of packing), bought some new glasses to replace the ones I had destroyed, bought a complete new wardrobe of clothes, checked out travel agents for plane tickets, and spent evenings on the internet catching up. Not exciting but necessary.

Jakarta is one of the fastest growing cities in the world. The 1945 population of 900,000 has mushroomed to 10 million plus and continues to grow at 200,000 a year. Jakarta originally meant 'Mother City' in Indonesian, but has now been retranslated to mean 'Mother of all Shitholes'. Even Delhi had a decent centre of old colonial buildings. Jakarta had nothing except traffic. It currently suffers from endless riots, which have apparently become an Indonesian form of community service. The American Embassy was under siege before I arrived and closed for 2 weeks while the Americans fled. They were still clearing up the debris as I walked past. Bombs go off all the time, but I only heard firecrackers.

A quick briefing on Indonesian politics: Post World War II, it was the tale of two men. Soekarno declared Indonesian Independence from the Dutch in 1945, which was granted in 1949. He took over, and in 1957 declared 'Guided Democracy" with army backing and channelled all political power through himself. There was a steady deterioration of the economy and an attempted political coup in 1965 was put down by General Soeharto who then pushed Soekarno out of power and took over control himself. He lasted until the late 1990s and the various factions are still fighting it out. I can’t remember who is in charge now, but the economy is still going downhill.

I know something is wrong with the economy when Indonesia has unlimited land and they are importing rice from Vietnam to feed the population. In the time I visited Sumatra and returned to Malaysia and back again, the Indonesian rupee had lost a further fifth of it's value against the English Pound. Cheap for me. Shit for the economy. Meanwhile, throughout Indonesia, anyone who has an excuse is going for independence. East Timor, backed by the Australians has achieved it (another new country for me to visit). The rest are hanging tough and kicking up as much fuss as possible.

This makes my sortie into Indonesia rather haphazard. I don’t know where I can get into or how safe it is. After 3 UN workers were killed in West Timor recently, that appears off limits. The Australia Embassy has virtually told all Aussie tourists to stay in Bali and Lombok because the rest of the country is too insecure. But the British Embassy had no information. "Check before you enter a region and use your judgement" they said.

There isn't that much to see in this city, the former capital of the vast Dutch colonial trading empire, and you can do the sights in a day. Medan Merdaka (Freedom Square) is the only place where you can breathe in the city ?a tatty park with the National Monument - ‘Monas' in the centre. This soaring 137m marble, bronze and gold torch structure was built in 1962 by Soekarno, as a poor man's Washington Monument. The monument is locally known as Soekarno's last erection. He obviously didn't look at the plans because there is only one lift holding 10 people at a time, resulting in long lines. From the top you can get a fine view of Jakarta which looks like a sprawling ugly city with nothing to promote it except maybe Mesjid Istiqlal, the largest mosque in S.E Asia. Built in 1978, it holds 250,000 people/rioters and looked like a multi-story carpark. Any riots in Jakarta usually get going in Freedom Park which has plenty of space for the endless bloody skirmishes that have occurred regularly over the last 3 years.

The National Museum just off the Park was established in 1778 and was like the museums that you remember visiting as a kid. Endless rooms of large wooden cabinets with glass panels full of unlabelled junk. The Rough Guide called it "a wide, eclectic range of items from all over the archipelago". To me, it was as if the Government had called upon their citizens to rally around to check their garages/ sheds/ basements for "any old shit that might represent our traditions". The place was full of rampaging schoolchildren who ignored any 'Do not touch" signs. But it was enjoyable to explore, just to see what you could find. There were wooden cases holding ancestors" skulls. I didn't fancy having granny's skull on my mantelpiece, but they do. There was also a vast collection of musical instruments. The best bit was the Treasury upstairs where 16kg of ancient gold artefacts had been discovered at the foot of a volcano in 1990.

I caught a minibus through jam packed streets to Kota (Old Batavia) - the former Dutch capital. Not much remains, but at the Museum Wayang, I discovered a museum dedicated to the Javanese art of puppetry. There were hundreds of Shadow play puppets and puppets with colourful costumes and very lifelike faces. A wonderful place to explore. There was even a Punch and Judy set of puppets donated from England.

I walked on to the historic harbour of Sunda Kelapa to find 34 massive schooner ships moored closely together along a kilometre of dock. This was the former Dutch port, still used by traditional ships. The working schooners were being loaded with wood or emptied of cargoes by ant-like lines of workers, walking up and down narrow gangplanks. It was very hot. I indulged in a strange local milkshake (20p) from a stall pushed by a small man. He filled a mug half full of shaved ice (shaved off from a block with a sharp knife), and poured in condensed chocolate milk, banana slices, jelly beans and then filled it with shaved ice and poured syrup over the top. As it melted, it became a wonderful milkshake. I ended up having a few of those, as you do.

And er?that was Jakarta. Not a lot. To really experience it, you have to walk around just to appreciate the incessant traffic jams, noise and exhaust fumes. It will convince you to get out of town a.s.a.p. Year 1 of the trip was up. Day 366. Now for the rest of Java.

Java is Indonesia's most populous island and it presents vivid contrasts of wealth and poverty. It is a long narrow island, predominantly Muslim. Whatever the guidebooks say, like Jakarta, you want to leave every city a.s.a.p.

I caught an 'Executive" express train from the centre of town to Bundung about 3 hours south east. The carriages had waiting female hostesses to take you to your seat. On board, I found air-conditioned, luxurious seats, and an onboard meal service delivered to your chair. So comfortable after those long bus rides. It cost less than £3. I slept most of the way.

Bandung ('Another shithole" in Indonesian) is the third largest city in Indonesia (2.5 million pop) and was just as bad as Jakarta. Gridlocked traffic. Buses with no exhausts so you could fully appreciate what you were breathing. There ain't much here either, apart from a few art deco relics from the 1930s. The most famous art-deco hotel called Savoy Hoffmann (1937) looked like a London council flat with a plush lobby. The only thing Bandung had to offer me was a new set of baseball boots in my size. I had spent days trying to find large footwear. They looked at me as if to say "Its not our fault, you have feet like Donald Duck"

I may be being unfair on Indonesian cities, but as far as Medan and Dumai in Sumatra, and Jakarta and Bandung in Java were concerned, I'd use my old mate Dave Heaven's motto of "You can't polish a turd". The Indonesians themselves were generally laid back, but dare I say it, like your average Indian ignorant. They were living to survive and doing whatever it took to get through the day and night. If you could find someone who spoke English, you could get a lot done. But most of the time, you were an alien from outer space.

The population seems to walk around at half speed. So does the traffic except for the mopeds. Indonesians love playing their guitars. They walk around busking as they enter buses, shops and restaurants. Buses, boats and trains were full of food sellers yelling out their wares. There are a few passive beggars. They just seemed to sit around watching the world go by, like the rest of the population. Like the Pakistanis and Indians, people just seem to hang around the streets waiting for something to happen. Its easy to see how the riots get started. It breaks up the day and gives them something to do.

Early the next day, I left Bandung by train, for Yogyakarta. The platforms were not long enough for the trains, so I ended up walking down the track to my carriage (Business class this time; we would call it 2nd class; no hostesses, no a/c, smoking allowed, fixed seats), and pulling myself up 3ft into the carriage. I'd nearly done myself a cropper getting out of the last train. At least the headracks were big enough to hold backpacks.

Finally, I left the ugly urbanisation of Java and from the train window, over the next 8 hours, saw small villages with red tiled roofs nestling in lush valleys. Volcanic hills were shrouded in clouds. There were lots of terraced farming, saturated paddy fields and people drying their washing in-between the rail tracks.

Yogyakarta is apparently the 'Most popular city' in Indonesia. A tourist town, big time, except that it had few tourists during my stay. Recently, there had been raids on hotels to scare any American tourists away (“you have 24 hours to leave - or else!) and consequently, everyone was staying away. It is renowned as the cultural and artistic centre of Java, but in reality is another loud, gritty, traffic gridlocked city whatever the tourist brochures say. The town had bicycle rickshaw overkill, 95% of which sat around unused, offering you endless 'Transport mister?' requests. But late in the evening after a heavy rainstorm, it was quite pitiful to see these same people, crawling into their carriages to get a few hours sleep. They lived in their bicycle rickshaws day and night. It put a whole new prospective on how the poor lived in Indonesia.

You could tell that there were a lot of poor people here, by the number of portable food stalls. Per ratio, if you worked out these versus every other type of shop, you would conclude that Indonesians did nothing but eat, but they were just locals trying to scrape through. I had great respect for them. They were up before 5am cooking and still there after midnight. The food cost peanuts. But I had a problem with Indonesian food. I had eaten at market stalls throughout the trip, because it was usually cooked fresh in front of you. Indonesian food stalls cooked early in the morning and you ate the same stuff cold hours later. Rice and noodles were the main food mainstays and the market food was dreary (even for me). Nasi Campur (crap on rice) or Nasi Goreem (crap on noodles with a fried egg on top of the crap). Food was very spicy and you were given extra chilli sauce to cover up the blandness or kill off the germs. I would resort to Bakso soup (processed pork meatball/noodle soup) as a regular, but where I could, I tried to find a supermarket and live on snack food (Bob Food; all the main food groups;sugar, salt, fat, crisps, beer). I was getting tired of street food. At least the stuff they were living on in Sumatra/Java. It did get better later on.

Yogyakarta's cultural emminence revolves around two sets of 9th century ruins which lie outside the city. I headed first to Borobudar, 40km NW on local buses, past lines of women with conical hats, stooped over paddy fields planting rice. In one field, someone would be driving a pair of oxen through the mud, while in the next, someone pushed a mechanical tractor.

Borobudar, as the number one tourist attraction in Java, is "the greatest single piece of classical architecture in the entire archipelago"(Rough Guide) and supposedly "ranks with Bagan and Angkor Wat as one of the greatest South East Asian Buddhist monuments"(Lonely Planet). This was a little rich. It wasn't worth a comparison against those monuments.

Built in the 9th Century by a Buddhist dynasty on top of Hindu foundations after they had kicked out the Hindus, it was a colossal multi-tiered Buddhist stupa, 34.5 m tall covering an area of 200 sq. metres. But first impressions were of a squat, collapsed pyramid and pretty underwhelming. More astonishing was the $5 admission charge. Well overpriced. This was to pay for the UNESCO rescue mission a decade ago to stop it sinking into a swamp.

I walked around each level, past the reconstructed tiers of carved figures. By the time I had reached the top, I had apparently walked 5km. Didn't feel like it. It is a symbolic Buddhist cosmic mountain. The summit is Nirvana with a large stupa surrounded by 72 smaller ones all containing a Buddha. The Buddha count at this monument was 432. No sign of tins of condensed milk though. To be honest, I'd seen a lot better (and cheaper). I actually spent most of my time there chatting to Indonesian students learning English on field trips (i.e. the best practise is to head where the tourists are and talk to them). I was escorted around by gaggles of giggling Muslim girls in their clean white chadours and sparkling eyes and teeth. Very polite. They had only been learning English for 3 months but could hold a decent conversation. After the endless photo call (“you look like Elton John"), I was picked up by another group and then another. Their teacher who taped the conversation then interviewed me. It all got a bit repetitive and I eventually asked if I had one of those signs on my back that said “Please talk to me". Still, it was more interesting than the world famous monument.

Back to Yogyakarta and out on a bemo(minibus) to the other set of ruins at Prambanan, 17km north east of town. The bemo was packed solid. The young conductor hung off the side and rapped on the window with a coin to get the driver to stop. More lovely scenery of locals in the paddy fields. This was reputedly the most dangerous road in Java for accidents and people drove like drunk drivers with no road sense whatsoever.

Prambanan contains the largest Hindu temple complex in Java, completely different from Borobudar, but not the admission price which had tripled in one year and was now also $5. I decided to climb over the fence and avoid the charge. By the time the guards caught up with me 15 minutes later, I’d seen all there was to see. Back in the 9th Century, there were originally 30 temples built but only a handful have been reconstructed ?like ancient, rocket shaped, skyscrapers from hell, covered in carvings. The largest one, soared 47m. But I had seen better. I realise that $5 isn’t much for a western tourist to pay, but the dual pricing was frustrating (Indonesians paid 30p). Sri Lanka had had the worst case of it, ($15 a site), but at least the sites warranted a day’s visit. I spent more time getting to and from these sights than I spent at them. I suppose you have to see them if you have come all this way to Java, but don’t go out of your way if you don’t have the time. Like me, you can do them both in one day.

That evening, I visited the ‘Sonobudoyo Museum?to see a Wayang Kulit (puppet shadow play) performance. 38p for a two hour experience of the best culture I’d seen in Indonesia to date. The rain fell so heavily outside, it nearly drowned out the band. How do you explain Wayang Kulit which is traditional storytelling and the epitome of Javanese culture. First of all, you have a Gamelan orchestra outfront, described as “One instrument played by many people? It was an ensemble of tuned percussion" mainly gongs, metallophones and drums, providing a “sonorous and ethereal?sound. There were 10 male band members sat at the instruments. Throughout the performance, they would smoke, drink tea, move around the instruments and go to the toilet. Two female vocalists sang high pitched warbling noises - like Yoko Ono meets Bjork.

The puppets were controlled by a professional puppeteer who narrated the story in Indonesian and moved the puppets around in front of a lit screen. The puppets were flat decorative affairs held by sticks and made of buffalo skin, intricately carved to see the detail under shadow from behind the screen, but colourfully painted if you watched it from the front. He would mumble the dialogue into a microphone and rap a wooden hammer to punctuate each sentence. He operated 25 puppets during the performance.

Your average performance lasts 8 hours! But this had been trimmed down to 2 for tourist attention spans. After an hour, the half dozen tourists present were already looking at their watches, but I was spellbound by the ambient music and puppet action. We had a leaflet to explain the 8 episode, 16-act story, but our ‘cut down' version only covered the first and last episodes. Basically, the story revolved around the evil king Rahwana trying to get his rocks off with a rival woman queen called Shinta. A lot of plot about how he would trick her. Then skip 6 episodes and we got the fighting scenes between his bad guys and Rama’s (Shinta’s husband) good guys. For the fight scenes, I watched it from behind the lit screen to see the puppets being moved rapidly around in shadow play. Memorable stuff.

The Museum also had an excellent visiting exhibition called “War Zone Photos taken around the world by Press photographers?over the last year, which was mostly war shots from Kosovo and the riots in Indonesia. One series of shots captured a East Timorian ‘independence?youth trying to plead with the Indonesian army and then realising he was in trouble and running away, only to be shot in the back of the head. 8 shots that captured the final moments of someone’s life. Sickening.

After that fun packed day, I managed to lose my room key - the first time ever on this trip. I was forced to doss down in another room. The next morning, a locksmith was called to take apart my lock and make a duplicate key. The bill, thankfully, came to £1.

The final sight in Yogyakarta was the ‘Sultan’s Palace' where a self proclaimed anti-Dutch warlord had holed up in the 18th century and his descendants were still there. The Rough Guide described it as “a masterpiece of understated Javanese architecture, an elegant collection of ornate kiosks and graceful penolopus housed within a series of spacious interconnecting courtyards? I disagree. I called it the “Don’t step on this" Palace, because every 30ft there was a sign which said exactly that.

Built in 1755, the best bit was the large female Gamelan orchestra that sat straight faced behind their instruments playing haunting music that enveloped the courtyards. There is no conductor. They are trained by ear so that they know when to bang or clink. Slow motion music that lasts for hours so they pace themselves. I spent most of my time listening to them. I will always remember Gamelan music as the backdrop to Indonesia. Very hypnotising. That, and the sound of Gecko lizards that would call out through the night “Gecko, gecko, gecko" n a strange high-pitched warble.

I had originally wanted to climb Gurung Merapi, a volcano north of Yogyakarta, which last erupted in 1996 and was still bubbling away, but when I called the hostel that ran cheap treks, they told me that the treks had been cancelled due to a lack of tourists. I got the same message about Mount Bromo, the most famous Javanese volcano in SE Java. It had recently started to spew ash out of the crater and had been closed down until further notice.

So I headed for the island of Bali. Here is a typical example of Indonesian mentality. I booked onto a tourist bus to take me from Yogyakarta to Denpensar, Bali. Cost: £6. I was supposed to be taken from near my losmen to the central bus station by the travel company to board a 3pm bus. A jeep took me to another hotel to pick up a Dutch couple on the same trip. But we were not taken to the bus station. We were told that the bus had broken down and that they would take us on to Solo, the next major town, 3 hours away, to meet another bus. The jeep was comfortable and it made a change from buses. When we boarded the Solo bus, we discovered the price to Bali was £4. They had spent 3 hours driving us to save one third of the bus fare, yet to me, a jeep was better because it was like a taxi. I couldn’t work it out. Especially as they then had to make the return journey of 3 hours. 6 hours of driving to save a total of £6 from 3 passengers. Gas is cheap in Indonesia, but the profit margin seemed negligible. In Solo, en route to the bus, we were given a guided tour of the burnt out and destroyed buildings by recent riots ?less than a month ago.

The luxury bus was the best I’d travelled on throughout Indonesia. Reclining seats, lots of legroom, 2 seats to myself and an all-you-can-eat evening buffet at a food stop. I may have been ‘ripped off?but I had no complaints.

We arrived in Ketapang at the SE edge of Java around 4am, a port where the boats sailed from Java to Bali. But we had a 3-hour wait to board the next available boat while they packed it with trucks and buses to breaking point. More kids were diving off the boat. The short boat ride took an hour, but we had to wait 2 hours at the other end to disembark because of the backlog of ferries. It took 6 hours to cross maybe 6 miles of sea. The Balinese hills were silhouetted and looked beautiful. It was day 370 of the trip and I’d reached the Australian version of a package holiday island.

Welcome to Bali. This small island, about 150km across and 8 degrees south of the Equator has long been Indonesia’s most popular tourist haunt. The Australians treat it like their own Majorca. It has an average temp of 28’C, has beaches and everything else they need at very cheap prices. The volcanic island is graced with endless fertile volcanic land, much of which is sculptured into terraced rice paddies.

The 3 million population (excluding the 1.5 million a year tourist influx) live in tight village communities with large extended families. Most villages have at least 3 temples: 1. ‘Pura Puseh?'temple of origin) which faces the mountain and is dedicated to the village founders, 2. ‘Pura Desa'(village temple) dedicated to the welfare of the village and 3. ‘Pura Dalem' which is aligned to the sea and dedicated to the spirits of the dead.

They follow the religion of ‘Agama Hindu Dhar-ma' a unique blend of Hindu, Buddhist, Javanese and ancient indigenous beliefs. Balinese life revolves around their religious beliefs and every day, offerings (‘canang sari' of symbolic food, flowers, cigarettes and money are laid everywhere before their gods and spirits to bring prosperity and good health to the family. Religious ceremonies seem to spring up everywhere. The island was a melting pot of cultures and traditions and was the most colourful I’d seen since Thailand.

Once I left the Java ferry at Gilimanuk, I had a pleasant bus ride past green fields, no traffic and a view of the sea, along the southern coast down to Denpasar, the capital that was another hellhole of gridlocked traffic. The Balinese are used to the tourists and can smell the money coming. At a ‘bemo'(public minibus) terminal, they tried to charge double for my pack ?the first place to try it on. I argued away, held out and eventually kicked up so much fuss, they gave in. A ‘bemo' took me to Kuta 11km south, the tourist capital. It was like being stuck in a London traffic jam with no exhaust pipes. Battling against this ‘den of thieves' would become a daily ritual.

It took a while to find an affordable losmen (£2 for a double room) where everything was inflated to exploit the Aussies. Kuta was your bog standard tourist beach town full of hotels, western restaurants, ‘happy hours' travel agencies and crappy souvenirs. Most of the locals seemed to sit around yelling “transport mister" at every tourist passing by. It got tiresome. This was not the Bali I had come to see.

After checking my email, I discovered a message from Jana, the infamous Chech girl, I’d left in Kuala Lumpur. She’d got a visa in Bangkok and was flying into Kuta in 2 days. Her travel mate Billy, had met Irish friends in Bangkok and decided to go to Cambodia with them. This was good news for me. We’d be able to split transport/hostel prices. The best things about Kuta were a decent food supermarket and 50p a pint bottles of ‘happy hour' beer which usually ran from 5-8pm. Early start. Early night. It was also, outside Jakarta, the only place where you could get any organising done ?banks, flights, visas etc.

The worst thing about Kuta was that it took at least 2/3 ‘bemo' journeys just to get to the outskirts of gridlocked Denpasar to escape the place (unless you booked onto the tourist buses at 4 times the price). The bemo rides were cheap enough - about 12p a throw, but it took so long and if you looked like a novice, the sharks would be upon you trying to get you to charter a bemo like a taxi.

On the spare day before Jana’s arrival, I caught 4 separate bemos out to the coast to see ‘Tanah Lot' This is a small Hindu shrine, dramatically marooned on a craggy wave lashed rock with the roar of the ocean all around. It is one of Bali’s top sights (mainly because it is so close to Kuta and therefore a cheap tourist excursion). As one of Bali’s most holy places, we infidels weren’t allowed on the small island. Instead, we had a choice of paying to see the ‘holy snakes' in a small cave, pay to drink the ‘holy water' from a spring or walk along the glistening black sandy beaches for wonderful sights of the island. The tourist literature tries to sell the sunset here, but anytime of the day looked ok to me. It was a lovely place to visit.

I decided to walk back 12km along the main road to Kerini past the paddy fields and locals stomping around the mud. It was a Saturday afternoon and ‘Tumpek Wayang' a religious festival, was underway. This gave everyone an opportunity of hanging out at a temple and chanting/singing/lighting incense/laying trays of offerings outside every house/exchanging the local gossip. The stray dogs seemed to enjoy the offerings most. They would turn up, eat what they could and decide they couldn’t consume a cigarette. Bali is known as the ‘land of 10,000 temples' I’d call it the ‘land of a 10,000 stray dogs' They were in packs everywhere barking loudly at traffic/ tourists/ the air. But I never saw a dead one, though they all seemed to sleep on the roads.

I picked Jana up at Kuta airport on Sunday afternoon - only a 3km/8p bemo ride from the centre. Back to the English-Czech phrase book for communication. She told me how a ‘lady-boy' had conned $500 off her in Bangkok. I never completely understood exactly how this happened. I tried not to laugh. Here was a girl, first time away and she didn’t even have a guidebook. She had been ripped off, messed around by bureaucracy and pestered by people throughout her trip, but she was still hanging tough. I think she was relieved when I said that I intended to rent a moped and tour Bali over the next week. Did she want to come? I would be her tour guide.

We rented a 100cc scooter for a week for £15 (inc insurance). Very fair. We left most of our gear at the losmen. I had a pack on my back and Jana hung on at the back. Business first. We checked out the Oz Embassy and then headed for the UK Consulate which had just moved to Sanur ?a beach resort 15 km east of Kuta. The traffic came at me from all directions.

At junctions, you are allowed to turn left on a red light. I didn’t know this and stopped, while mopeds rushed past honking at me. A couple of minutes later, I was pulled over by a traffic cop on a motorbike. He indicated to follow him back to his kiosk. After inspecting my passport/driver’s licence, he told me about the left on red light rule and said I’d broken the law. Did I have a ‘present?for him? I argued that I had stopped at a red light, therefore had broken no law. I wasn’t even speeding when he flagged us down. “You can’t fine me if I haven’t broken the law? He let us go, with directions for the UK consulate. Other tourists told me later that I’d been lucky. Usually when you argued back, they doubled the fine on the spot. We found the new ‘consulate?on a back road between two shops. I left my passport and paperwork for a new UK passport from Jakarta. It would take a week and cost £58. My last one had lasted a mere 3 years and was now completely full of stamps. We finally escaped Denpasar.

The road to Ubud was lined with stone carvers and acres of statues. Then the rain started and we got soaked. The water ran off the paddy fields and across the road. In some parts I was riding through a foot of water. Then the road deteriorated into rough un-surfaced, potholes submerged by the water. It was not fun. I was wet and pissed off. We arrived in Ubud like drowned rats, but found a comfortable cheap losmen in the centre with a temple within the quiet garden (apart from the endless gecko lizards) and the biggest spider I had seen in years. It was 8?across laying in the middle of a 6 foot web, which it had spun across our patio.

Ubud is a major tourist attraction due to its traditional cultures. The place is full of painters, carvers, dancers, musicians, and religious spectacles. Nevertheless, it was just another non-descript tourist town. At least the locals yelled “Transport Boss??which made a change.

In the evening, we went to the atmospheric Ubud Palace to see a ‘Legong Dance?performance. Colourful spotlights lighted the temple/scene and a large Gamelan orchestra (at least 30 male musicians) sat with their instruments on either side of the dance floor. The performers would come through some doors and down the steps. We watched 6 dances and listened to 2 mesmerising orchestra recitals over the next 90 minutes.

The ‘welcome?dance had 4 colourfully dressed women in their saris and headwear who did a strange synchronised dance with frozen facial expressions. Eyes bulging and a look that said “Has someone broken wind in here??One man did a traditional Balinese ‘warrior?dance in a multi-layered costume. His eyes stared out and rolled around. 3 women did the ‘Legong Kraton?dance portraying an ancient tale. They flew around each other in mock battle. The ‘Taruna Jaya?dance expressed the changing moods characteristic of Balinese youth. More eye staring. The ‘Bumblebee?Dance, had a couple fluttering around each other dressed as bees, symbolising a courtship ritual. The woman’s headwear kept slipping and she’d be forced to turn her back to us and re-pin it, while she mouthed to the orchestra “just keep playing, the tourists don’t know this isn’t part of the dance? Finally, the ‘Topeng Tua Mask?dance had someone dressed as an old man wearing a very expressive wooden mask, limping around like an old man. The mask looked stunning. It was a really enjoyable evening. Highly recommended. The music was awesome. They do different dances during the week so you can see more than one type if you want.

After the performance, Jana spotted an English couple she recognised in the audience. She’d met Steve and Kate (from Ross on Wye) in Kuala Lumpur weeks ago. They were on a yearlong tour. They had Vicky with them. She was a sporty 24-year-old English girl who’d quit her IBM job to travel for a year. She’d met them at Kuta airport after getting off the same plane, when she’d been unable to change money. They came to her rescue and the 3 of them had ended up renting a jeep to tour Bali. Over late night beers, we started exchanging the usual travel talk and all got on like a house on fire.

They had just come down from the crater lakes/volcanoes north of Ubud and recommended that we make a visit, so Jana and I did a day trip up to Danau Batu r. En route, we passed a massive religious ceremony. Hundreds of people dressed in white sitting by the side of the road, listening to a Gamelan band and making offerings to their deities. We pulled in, and as the only tourists got a lot of attention. Great photos.

Soon after, it began to pour with rain (it arrived dead on time at 1pm everyday). We got soaked. At Kintamani, we found the most aggressive souvenir sellers in Indonesia. They were practically dragging you off your bike. 5 polite refusals by me over a cheap chess set were ignored. It all got very wearisome.

In the overcast, drizzly weather, we headed down to the crater lake Danau Batur, in-between Gunung Bator and Gunung Abang, both shrouded in mist. Danau Batur is the largest inland lake in Bali (about 8x3km) below the volcanoes. The road along its edge was rough and ready and full of trucks coming the other way. At the dirty hamlet of Songan, a pig was being carried by two men, tied to a stick by its legs, ready for some sacrificial slaughter/hamlet knees up. The locals have Gunung Batur sewn up. They won’t let anyone up with a guide. But it was wet and misty and I wasn’t going to shell out on a climb where I could see the path and peak. Besides, there was a taller one on Bali. Still, there was lovely scenery in this area.

We returned through the pouring rain arriving back in Ubud like drowned rats again (we had run out of dry clothes) to meet Steve, Kate and Vicky and pop outside town to see the flocks of white herons fly in for sunset. But the rain was lashing down and we sat around and drank beers on their patio instead, while a foot of water flowed around us. The herons flew over us anyway.

Steve offered to drive us all in the jeep to Besakih the next day, so we climbed aboard for a ? go mad in Bali?day out and thankfully a day off the scooter. I navigated while Steve drove through the Mickey Mouse driving techniques of the Indonesians with me yelling “Where did you get your driver’s licence? In a lucky dip bag??lt;/P>

Besakih temple is the most venerated religious site in Bali. It is situated on the slopes of Gurung Agung, the holiest and highest mountain on the island. They wouldn’t let us into the temple complex without sarongs and we had to haggle at a stall to purchase them. The Besakih complex consisted of 22 separate temples, spread over a 3km site. We weren’t allowed to enter any of them, but could peer over the walls and look at the religious ceremonies going on. The largest, central, and most dramatic temple was Pura Penataran Agung, built on 7 ascending terraces with carved figures lining the stairways.

Vicky, Jana and I took off to attempt to find the route up Gurung Agung behind the complex which was a lovely walk up through the forests. At 3014m, the superb conical shaped Agung is the spiritual centre of the Balinese universe and it is believed that the spirits of the Balinese people dwell on the volcano. They must be fit spirits because the climb got steeper and steeper, up through dry river gullies. In some places we had to haul ourselves up by tree roots. Vicky had just spent nearly 2 months trekking around Nepal so was very fit. It was a sweltering day and after 3 hours, we thought we could see the top. “Bugger that?Vicky said. “Its too hot. We’ll wait for you?

I took off for the final slog, which turned out to be the worst. The track turned into volcanic rubble, filling my boots all the time. Then I reached sheer rock faces, which I had to ascend, and then a final killer 45?angle climb up a dusty trail to the top. There was no crater. It looked very similar to a Welsh/Scottish mountaintop ?but the climb was extreme. Coming down was even worse. The ground was ‘fresh?lava, being weathered and crumbled under my feet. I slid down/or crawled crab like to descend. The clouds descended. If I didn’t get it right, I’d go over the cliff edge. In the end, I descended to the next valley with smaller cliffs and climbed back up to the trail. I re-met Vicky and Jana two hours after leaving them, who had got sun burnt.

We then had the long walk back that took 3 hours. En route, we picked up leeches. One was on Vicky’s wrist. She didn’t notice it, until her watchstrap wrenched it off, causing a bloody wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding. I discovered mine on my wrist back at the caf?where the others were waiting. I used the caf?owner’s cigarette to burn it of. Its long black tentacle withdrew from my wrist and it dropped off. The wound immediately closed. When I stood on the leech, there was a large puddle of blood. It had taken me 8 hours to get to the top and back. I estimated a 25km round trip. We were exhausted. The others had had an interesting day watching a pig get slaughtered and its intestines removed (as you do). I managed to eat nearly everything on the restaurant menu that night.

Considering that we had spent 3 nights in Ubud, we hadn’t actually explored the town. I met Vicky early the next day to go and find a ‘Durian' fruit from the market which none of the gang had tried. Denied. Out of season in Bali. Jana, Vicky and I took off for the Neka Art Museum (‘Fine Art inspired by Bali?. Located in a beautiful garden setting overlooking a river, it was a lovely tranquil place full of wonderful Balinese artwork ?puppet style painting, Ubud style painting and Batuan style painting. The works were very detailed, colourful and graphic. Hundreds of characters involved in lots of activities and some pretty gruesome scenes. It was the most comprehensive collection of Balinese art on the island.

We also paid a visit to the ‘Sacred Monkey Forest Sanctuary?which was full of tourists to see the vermin. Balinese macaques are apparently very important to Balinese culture, but I’d seen enough bloody monkeys. The small, brown, flea-ridden pests ran around looking for handouts, quarrelled, screeched and made a lot of noise. The others were attacking one monkey. One had its teeth around the other’s tail. The victim sat on the wall afterwards with its teeth in a pained expression that said “Bloody hell that hurt. What did you do that for??

Even walking around the town all day to see the sights was another 13-mile trawl. I was sweating off pounds. It was scorching. That night, the 5 of us had a farewell meal and headed for the “Jazz Club"where a small Indonesian jazz combo with female singer were excellent. Lounging around comfy cushions and low tables, it was a great night out. Remind me never to offer to buy the girls drinks again. They were the most expensive in Bali.

Ubud had provided excellent activities and great company, but Jana and I had to drag ourselves away to see some more of Bali. My laundry cost 35p at the losman! We headed east, through miles of backed up traffic to the major town of Gianyur. We headed north along a quieter road. The problem with Indonesian traffic signs is that they only indicate the next villages, not the major places, so you end up stopping to ask at every junction. But the great thing is that you never know what is going to turn up next. There are daily religious ceremonies everywhere. One place is preparing for one, another is having it, and a third is clearing up the mess. All so very colourful with people wearing traditional dress (lots of bright pinks, oranges, white) and headbands, women carrying baskets of fruit on their heads and offerings in their hands, and the haunting sound of Gamelan bands.

We stumbled across the temple of Pura Kechin ?rising steeply from the road above terraces lined with religious statues, all covered in black/white square table clothes (to keep them warm in the 30’C heat?). We entered to find women weaving grass baskets and the men erecting decorations. There was to be a massive temple in a week’s time. People stopped to chat and smiled.

Up the road, we came across the end of a cremation ceremony by a river. They set light to, and then pushed a huge bamboo structure, covered in decorations, into the river. I didn’t know why, but later discovered that they had already spread the ashes into the water. This was the symbolic “goodies?needed for the afterlife. We passed through small villages and the best rice terracing in Bali. Some tiers were 30 tall following the contours of the hill. Locals bathed in the river, others did their washing. The lifestyle was relaxed and slow.

As the sky became overcast we pulled into a small caf?for tomato soup, spring rolls and chicken satay (both dishes smothered in peanut sauce), rice and iced tea (£1 for the meal). Just as we’d finished, a massive procession came up the road ?men banging drums, women carrying fruit baskets, others carrying colourful umbrellas and 3 boxes of whatever hanging down from sticks being carried by pairs of men. Two bands. Bright colours everywhere. At least 300 people. A marvellous sight. Another Kodak moment.

We reached Amed by the coast, a sleepy fishing village, where the wooden boats had faces painted on the fronts with large noses. It had just started to catch on to the tourist market and the accommodation is rapidly spreading. But it was still quiet and relaxed. We checked into the only hotel in town which was empty and even had a swimming pool ?only my third on this trip. (£:2 each including breakfast - bargain!).

I had come to dive (again!). My Indonesian Dive Master, Muddy fitted me out at the dive shop and we drove up the coast to Tulamben in a 1976 wide wheeled Toyota with booming sound system. The most famous and popular dive in Bali is to see the ‘Liberty?Wreck which was torpedoed in 1943. “The wreck lies almost parallel to the beach, on a sandy slope about 30m offshore, completely encrusted with soft coral, gorgonians and hydrozoans (whatever the hell they are), providing a wonderful habitat for over 400 species of fish?(Rough Guide).

The stony beach was deserted when we arrived and I made my first ‘beach entry? We swam out underwater to the wreck. It was a huge structure, now broken up. We descended to 25m for a 45-minute dive to explore the bow. There were large shoals of fish that came right up to you. Five massive ‘Bam Head Parrot Fish?were the largest fish I’d seen underwater - about 4 foot long and 2 feet wide. Muddy told me later that he hadn’t seen them for 2 months. Enormous shoals of silver school fish swam in our faces. I was given a banana to hold and this was attacked piranha-like by any fish in sight. A strange experience. Visibility was very good. I saw many fish I couldn’t identify and we ended up following a blue spotted stingray with its long tail and ‘warning?white tipped tail. It was a memorable dive.

Back on land, the beach had filled with scuba divers. After a break, we made a second dive to explore the stern. Not so many fish, but we were able to swim in and out of the deteriorating structure. Clown fish played amongst the coral. I felt like I was exploring the ‘Titanic? A great morning of diving and thoroughly recommended. $50 for 2 dives. While I was diving, Jana was hanging around and stumbled across a group of Chech divers including someone she worked with in Prague. Small world. She arranged to meet up with them in Kuta and talk normally again.

That afternoon, we made a gruesome journey down the coastline south of Amed. Dogs chased us long the road, which deteriorated, into rocks. The worst road I’d ever taken a scooter on. It was so bad in parts that we both had to get off and walk pushing the scooter. I have no idea how we escaped a puncture. Later that week, I discovered that Steve and gang had barely done it in their 4-wheel jeep. “You prat?he concluded. Considering that it was so isolated, it was a shame to pass through isolated hamlets where the kids would yell “Pen mister? Money mister??The first such cries I’d heard in Bali. Yet your average tourist would have come nowhere near this area. You couldn’t get a bus through it.

On our final day, we roared along the northeast coast of Bali, through non-descript scenery all the way to Lovina. This place sells itself on the ‘dolphins? At dawn everyday, tourist laden boats roar off to chase the same load of dolphins which usually bugger off sharpish. Boy, was this an ugly town. It had originally been on my itinerary, but I was glad that we had stayed in Amed.

To get back to Kuta, we decided to head south and climb the volcanic hills for some scenery. Big mistake. As we ascended, with the poor scooter growling up the steep inclines in 1st gear, the mist descended and visibility was reduced to zero. I could only see oncoming traffic (not a lot but enough on a single road) if they had their headlights on full. We were getting drenched but had to push on since there was no shelter anywhere. I had to fully concentrate on just getting the bike up and down the steep hills without sliding over.

Eventually I turned to Jana to say “Guess you won’t be taking many photos here?to find that she had disappeared off the back of the bike. How the hell could I lose her off a moving bike? Oh Christ, she’s fallen off. I backtrack through the mist for 10km! And find her on the back of a local’s moped heading towards me. As we were crawling up a steep hill very slowly, in the freezing mist, she had said “toilet?to me, but I was too busy concentrating on the road. She had jumped off, only to see me disappear into the distance. Since I had the pack on my back, I didn’t feel her getting off. She wasn’t worried. “I would have got back to Kuta somehow?she said, but not in such fluent English.

The conditions were foul and she was shivering in her T-shirt and we were on fuel reserve. There had been no roadsigns as we pulled into the village of Mundak which was an oasis. I was able to buy two plastic bottles of petrol (there are virtually no pumps anywhere in Bali), give Jana my dry clothes to change into and drink hot milky coffee and banana fritters at a stall at local prices (no haggling!) while we waited for the mist to clear. Just for this, I’d rate Mundak as one of my most favourite places in the world! The mist cleared, and thoroughly refreshed (considering that we’d been on the scooter for over 6 hours already today), the road led down to the valley to join a good main road all the way to Denpasar.

The scenery improved dramatically (well it would, now that we could see it) past scenic rice terraces. I tanked it big time until we got caught behind a 15 vehicle wedding convoy that were really moving but still hogging the road. It was me against the Indonesian driver.

How do you explain Indonesian driving? They drive like children with no road sense. Officially, they drive on the left (like any civilised country), but they never learn left/right in school so they drive in the centre of the road just to be sure. So to overtake you either choose the right side and nearly get killed in the process if something is coming the other way or inside on the left. Either way, you end up on the dust by the sides of the road. They also either drive like bats out of hell (kids on mopeds) or grannies unable to work out the gear changes. Noone looks as they pull onto a main road from a side road. Other traffic apparently doesn’t exist to them. They are the poorest drivers I’ve ever seen. Never give an Indonesian a 4-wheel drive. They know how to use the gas pedal, but not the gears or the brakes. I felt like Michael Schumacher against them with a modicum of road sense and ability to look ahead. But dogs were an unknown hazard. They were everywhere - crossing the road, fighting in the road, shitting in the road. It was difficult to react to them and on a couple of occasions we nearly had a flat pooch beneath us.

Heading into Kuta, the traffic was unbearable. Gridlocked. They have a crazy one way system that never takes you to the road you want, so every moped uses side alleys. I discovered the reason for the gridlock which was another minor accident. Someone had backed out onto a main road without looking. How I laughed as I overtook miles of frustrated idiots.

That night, we met up with Steve, Kate and Vicky who had also returned to Kuta. Everyone was exhausted with the traffic. Vicky was due to fly to New Zealand at the end of the following week. She had a few spare days and wanted to visit the Gili Islands off Lombok (the next major island). I also had spare days waiting for my passport and said I’d come to the Gili Islands then back to collect my passport. Having visited the Tioman islands on my own in Malaysia, I knew how boring islands could be on your own and would appreciate the company. The others wanted to lie on the beach at Kuta and relax for a few days. I arranged to meet Vicky early the next day. I didn’t know it then, but 72 hours later, I’d have one of the most dramatic incidents but also the worst moment of my life.