Gilli Trewangan 2 – Iziz

If you read yesterday’s Post, you may be wondering who (or what) is Iziz. (Or you may not care.) Never-the-less, I will continue the Gilli Islands Posts with Iziz. I don’t like that I left him (he is a man) sitting high and dry.

Iziz is 27, married with one seven year old son.

“Lombok people have many children,” he says. “Not me. I not want many children. Just one more. That is enough.”

It is Iziz who tells us there is plenty of rain on Lombok. The island is a bounty of rice paddies, tropical fruit and vegetables. Everything grows without effort – well, except for the rice paddies which are always work. According to Iziz, there is no need to import produce into Lombok, because everything good you could possibly want to eat is there. And the food is very very Cheap too, Iziz says.

“And do you have many rice paddies in Canada?” he asks.

“New Zealand,” I remind him again, and “No, no rice paddies – far too cold! No bananas or pineapple or mango, or papaya. We have apples, and potatoes, and green beans, and silverbeet….” but his eyes glaze over, so I finish.

He sits, his trays of hand-made jewelery displayed before us – me more than Don. He uses mostly cultured pearls and turquoise set into silver, and embedded into blue and orange nylon thread pretty coloured glass beads, and he has beautifully hand-crafted teak – the symbol of Indonesia – hanging by a thin band of brown leather. He makes multi-coloured bookmarks too, with little silky tassels hanging from the bottom.

Iziz and his friends – a score of other young men who walk up and down the long stretch of white sandy beach, folios filled with trinkets and handi-crafts all live on Lombok. They come from the same area and travel over to Gilli Trewangan together in the mornings.

“We are like family,” Iziz says.

These jewelery makers cum self-employed Artisans who wander seemingly casually day-in-day-out along the beach are incredibly intrusive, but you can’t possibly get mad at them. Not like you would at home. But here, the rules for entrepreneurial activity is different. They have no qualms about interrupting the climatic run of a novel, a peaceful lunch for two, or shut-eye behind dark sunglasses. They slide in and sit on the end of your Banana lounge, or the spare cushion under the thatched roof of your lunch house, and then they proceed to open doors with incredibly gorgeous smiles and friendly conversation.

At first, it is straight in for the kill. Folio opened, jewelery displayed, “you-like-this-one-or-this-one?” and so on. And they will not be put off with a “maybe tomorrow-not-now-no-thank-you,” – no, the conversation is never left there. Family and weather and where you’ve come from, where you’re going is discussed. As you converse, the jewelery is constantly fondled, the long strings of pearls worked through thumb and forefinger like rosary beads, intricately carved wood rubbed gently, trinkets lifted and swirled, and then, without you knowing how you ever got there, the conversation has been gently maneuvered back to the question of the potential sale.

Clever boys. Clever from necessity.

Written from Kuta-Legian.

Back to Ubud in one hour.

Gilli Trewangan (mostly)

So many days and places and events and anecdotes since the last writing of this Blog. More to report about Ubud, about our three days in Seminyak, three days in the Gillis, and now already we are back in Legian (Kuta).

So, I’ll backtrack a little to the Gilli Islands. We stayed on Gilli Trewangan – the main and most popular Island. To give you a reasonable idea of it’s size: the first morning of our visit, we walked, mostly on the beach, around it’s circumference, and it took approximately 1 and 3/4 hours. Enough time to get fried!

I’d slathered my top half in sunscreen, and tied a short-sleeve cotton shirt under my bikini top, and worn sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat to protect myself. I didn’t worry about my fully exposed legs and torso because we walked early – around 8.00am. I’d forgotten how quickly the sun here climbs to it’s zenith. Why didn’t I make the connection between how sizzling hot it is and the fury of the sun on my skin – I don’t know.

Since then, I’ve been trying to walk on the shady side of the street, and swim only in the shadows. With so many tourists here in Kuta/Legian sharing the meager strip of street with shop attendants, street peddlers, and parked motor-bikes, the feat is many times more difficult than you might think.

Back to Gilli Trewangan.

On the fast boat, it takes two hours to reach Gilli Trewangan. The cost is approximately US $100. We paid INR 980,000 each return. On the slow boat, it takes 6. Naturally the slow boat is many times cheaper, but a whole day is a whole day.

Unpopulated until 20 or 30 years ago, depending upon which story you choose to believe, because of the lack of fresh water. No water, no civilization. Fresh water is now constantly transported by boat from Lombok and emptied into various pipes around the Island. You hear the pump working out in the channel at the designated spots during the day and I am thankful that we have the opportunity to stay here simply because of this.

Iziz says they tried to make a rice paddy in the middle of the Island a number of years ago, but it didn’t work. The stems grew about 6 inches (12 – 14 cm) then wilted and died. Too much hot sun. No rain. No rain practically ever.

Unlike Lombok just over the channel. Lombok is so close I could swim there from the island – if I was inclined – or was forced to.

On our second day Don and I sat cross-legged on sky blue and tangerine orange cushions, under the thatched roof of a beach shack, and ate Gado Gado washed down with icy Bintang. And water. Lots of fresh water. This was the 7th of December – three days ago now.

Everything outside our lunch shack – dry and roasting, almost crackling under the sun. The sand too hot for bare feet, until you are nearly at the water’s edge. Then a slight breeze washes through. It’s so hot here that any little breeze is satisfyingly and revitalizing. It’s like a drop of water on the tongue of the parched. The one second of satiation happens in slow motion. Past and Future does not exist in the mind’s eye, you are fully immersed in the moment.

I want to write some notes – somewhere cool perhaps where there is a more steady supply of air circulation. I walk up the street past the Vendors, Travel Agents, Dive Shops, Restaurants and Cafe’s, and then stop at a Bar/Restaurant perched up on the little ledge above the beach. I order an Expresso with a glass of ice on the side, and a freshly squeezed Pineapple, Watermelon and mint juice. And I write notes. The notes I am transcribing now.

Some time next year these notes will be thought about, reordered and edited. Now is not the time – Don has gone back to the pool at “Three Brothers” (gorgeous!) – and I am sweltering – sticking to the seat in this apparently air-conditioned Internet cum Currency Exchange Office. But I really want to finish at least, this little update of our trip thus far.

The decimated coral twitters and clinks as it is lifted en-mass by the gentle splashing waves of the incoming tide on the shore beneath me. The coral music is an encore to the continuous Christmas jingle bells of the beautifully harnessed little donkey-size horses trotting and cantering past on the dirt road, tethered to wooden carts filled with either locals or over-sized tourists with packs and bags, or produce. The little horses, most dark Bay, some dappled grey, and one pretty little golden Palimino I saw, work the street up and down, back and forth, and stop and rest under the trees with the lulls of the day – always the middle fo the day when any slight breeze that may have existed disappears, and the sun chokes the life out of everything.

Yes. No such thing as a motorbike or car exists on this Island! It’s as close to the Gilligans Island experience as I’ve had thus far. With damn fine expresso!

And still, I have so much to write, but my bottom is stuck to this seat, and I am driven back to the oasis in the middle of the hubub that is Kuta/Legian. To the pool.

To swim in the shadows if there are any.

Rest, Recreation, a dash of Hedonism.

Our stay in Ubud is based purely around earthly pleasures. Already we have eaten a huge array of cuisine: Balinese, Indonesian, Japanese, Thai, Asian Fusion, and International Yogi Vegetarian. Every day we have slurped on delicious fresh tropical juices and the special health drinks which are served ice-cold at nearly every Cafe and Restaurant in Bali.

The soothing lushness of Ubud’s tropical flora and the picture-perfect rice paddies set amongst it, smooth out the fragmented edges of my mind. The heat of the sunshine has warmed my insides, and already scorched my skin. To cool down we swan around in the softly swishing and gurgling waters of our pool.

Our bodies have been fragrantly oiled, gently stretched, firmly rubbed, and thoroughly salt scrubbed by the expert hands of two petite Lady Massueses. We have sat in water-filled stone tubs, pretty red and pink and yellow and white tropical flowers casually bopping with the water’s swing. And here, thoroughly pummeled and scrubbed clean, the heady floral scent sends me away. To somewhere outer-worldly.

Heaven perhaps.

Written at Serinande Hotel in Seminyak.

Ubud: stop one

Tip 2: Look very surprised when taksi driver quotes his fare. Make your eyes spring open to their widest, drop your jaw and exclaim very loudly:
“What!? But we are only going to …… No, no, that is far too much!”
Make sure you accompany this with wild hand gesturing. Naturally, the taksidriver will say something like:
“Yes, yes, this is right fare. (Place name) this is very far!
Look purposefully over the road at other taksi drivers.

I’ve discovered early this trip that I’m very good at this. However, there-after my negotiation skills fall a bit flat. It’s a great ice-breaker though – causes much laughter all around – and normally an acceptable fare for everybody. Fair.

Already as I walk up and down Monkey Forest Road with Don, the drivers across the street yell:
“Mrs Deeb-or-ah, Mrs Deeb-or-ah, you want taxi now?”
I wave and smile beneath my sun hat, and turn to Don like he’s the boss.
“Maybe later.”
Everybody smiles.

“What activities have you partaken of today?” Mega from Alam Sari asks as we return from our days in Ubud.
Neither of us can answer categorically. The fact is, we haven’t done much. Icy cold drink stops, lunch, a small spot of shopping – which so far is two ridiculous beach-slag dresses from the main Ubud market for me, and a nice soft day bag – casual but classy. Nothing for Don.

Four traditional Balinese dances are being held at the Temple. Every night a size-able crowd of locals and tourists pour into the temple to take in the spectacle.

We share the shuttle into town one night with an ancient French born now Abu Dabi ex-pat. Bali is a stop-off for her on the way to who-knows-where. Her sole purpose for being here is the festival. She is rather bemused we are going to dinner rather than to the temple. But the French lady doesn’t look like she eats anything except coffee and cigarettes. Quite possibly, she is a prime example of the French Paradox because the next morning while she types away at her lap-top (probably notes on the previous evenings’ cultural event I surmise) in the dining area, I see her scoffing a fresh croissant.

Don and I stroll down the road to a typically gorgeous looking Ubud Bar.
“Obviously we’ve totally missed the point of being here,” he says.
I actually feel no guilt that I have missed the event, and don’t even wonder if the lack of remorse is that I’m a total Philistine! I turn to Don, tough as a pumpkin.
“Oh yes, you’re such a cultural soul aren’t you. Not!” is all I can think to say.
Sometimes Don just likes to pretend that he cares.

Cocktails and World class food next blog.

Alam Sari Keliki

Tip 1. Taksi fare from Denpasar to Ubud – a good price is 180,000 INR. If you’ve got the goods with the Barter banter, you might get a ride for 160. Remember to negotiate the price before you leave though. Not even the official Denpasar Airport taxis are metered.

Alam Sari is a delightful oasis and perfect first-stop just outside the small village of Keliki. (K’liki) Keliki is approximately 7 to 9 ks from Ubud central – depending which way you choose to travel.

The almost classically kidney-shaped pool’s clear water sways aqua green and inky shadow of coconut palms, magnolia trees and a mish-mash of other tropical flora which frame it’s stony surround and manicured grass verge. Umbrella’d Banana beds set back on the grass verge in romantic sets of two beckon over-worked and weary travelers. High-backed Teak garden lounges sit pretty under coiffured leafy canopies engineered to shield the sitter from the midday sun. At 7 degrees south of the equator, Bali’s sun hangs mid sky for an eternity, and has a surprising bite.

We’ve slept less than 3 hours in the last 36 and feel vague – zombie-like, but who cares. We can sleep now under the magnolia by the pool.

We are on holiday. Long overdue.

Garuda Flight No: GA 715 HELL

Sydney Airport: Saturday 28 November 2009 10.00am

I thought it was a bit weird that our boarding time was set for a whole 1 hour before take-off. Until we arrived at Gate 24 that is.

My heart dropped with a heavy thud as we joined the chaotic line of teenage revelers all headed straight for Kuta Beach. Don and I, two small female Indonesian Nationals, the flight crew, and two Security Cops at the entry of the gate were the only “grown-ups” in sight. I hoped the Security Cops would board the Plane. But no such luck.

As we walked through Business Class I reminisced about the time my friend Andrew shouted me a return trip to Melbourne in BC courtesy of his airpoints, and suddenly wished I were rich. Rich enough anyway. We trundled on to seats 30 and 31.

By 11.15 all passenger were loaded. Not a spare seat in sight. At least our seats are close to the exit and the toilets. I thought.

As it turns out, the toilets are a party hang-out all of their own. Drinks served about half an hour into the flight and the Bar was open nearly the whole six hour flight. Good times for all and an entire plane load of over-stimulated bladders. I considered ordering a real drink but decided the discomfort and inconvenience of being forced to join the never-ending toilet queue would outweigh the benefits of joining the party. Very grown-up.

I pat myself on the back for buying a good stock of earplugs for the trip. Bloody good move.

The aftermath of 100++ students making the most of free Booze – mostly cans of Bintang and some stronger liquor mixed with Coke – was horrendous. I sound like a stuck-up-stuck-in-my-ways old person now. But as we disembarked it was impossible to ignor the state of the cabin. Garuda Flight GA 715 looked just like a Tornado had ripped through it. I actually felt a bit embarrassed. But, what connection do I have with a bunch of young Aussie Uni Students through the eyes of the Indonesian Flight Attendants? Would their youth behave in a similar manner? I doubt it.

Anyhow. I don’t know why these young chicks insist on dressing like Slappers. Breasts and bra straps bursting out. Flaunting voluptuous burger-fed hips and thighs which have already spent plenty of time down on Bondi and Manly beaches. Over-indulged (not just indulged) kids-about-to-be-adults, and who knows; Entrepeneurs, IT workers, perhaps Polititians, Frock shop and Restaurant Owners, PA’s, and the stay-at-home wives of men that really know how to bring home the Bacon.

Middle class. The right upbringing in the right society, access to a decent education, opportunity and worldly Contacts to take advantage of – these kids have the keys unlock the world. They are the lucky ones. But I wonder if they truly understand what this means. In the big picture. Because as a group, these bronzed Lords and Ladies of the world appear to have little grasp on the reality of others.

The aircraft barely docks before the group is jammed up against one-another in the aisle. I hear a Sydney accent exclaim, “Yeah, Bali isn’t like Sydney man. It’s a third world country – don’t expect civilisation!” She laughs. Very very loudly. It’s the girl who drank the most Bintang. A flicker of anger and annoyance flash across the face of a patient Flight Attendant. As Bintang girl shuffles passed her, she says something in Balinese or Indonesian. Nice touch. Some redemption maybe. The lady Flight Attendant nods and returns the salutation with a professional smile.

I don’t know “goodbye” in Balinese then. (No excuses!) I smile and say goodbye in English. The FA speaks English well.

The five “Visa on Arrival” lines are fully loaded with the Aussie Students and an undetermined number of other new Denpasar arrivals. Our Passports are already Visa’d. Yay!! It’s a relief to disembark straight into the short queue at Denpassar Customs.

“Om Santi Santi.”

Mission Bali

I stand under the shower and the remainder of the day’s energy drains away with the soap suds.  The last of the seedlings planted and the garden watered at least, but still on my to-do list is dinner – easy: a large salad, and this blog. 

Post shower, I manage to pull a singlet over my head and then colapse on the bed. My eyes shut out the whiteness of the ceiling. But I don’t want this day to be over yet. Sitting up and crossing my legs, I make an attempt at deep what-does-it-matter-anyway breathing. Half-arsed. I slump forward, elbows on knees, eye-sockets pushed into the palms of my hands.  I find comfort in the darkness of covered eyes. 

The likely reality of 2010 sets in like concrete feet, dragging me down below the surface of feasibility. Panic overwhelms me, rises up out of my deep nether like puss pushing its way out through corrupted skin.  Then I sit so still. Inanimate. And I let the black hole support and soothe me. 

The dilmema of working full-time, keeping fit and healthy, and writing my book hangs, bloated, black, and heavy, over my head. Something I am not quite in touch with betrays me. And this body through which I have the opportunity to live, lets me down. I let it down.

This is my mission in Bali.  To discover how to meld my physicality with my mind and spirit, so that I am limitless.  And I can do, what it is I am meant to do.

Last night my spark snuffed before I could make it to this blog.

 

Crazy Daze

 I forgot how taxing getting ready for a holiday is.  So much organisation.  Even though we’ve only booked accomodation for the first four nights, and from there on in everything will be impromtu.  Until Don leaves that is.  I’ll be in Ubud then – staying somewhere quiet and pretty.  I hope. 

Still.  Everything must be in order.  Official paperwork, suitable clothing and accessories  - I know it’ll be warm, but it’s the wet season – how wet – umbrella or jacket? plus good walking shoes, going out and casual shoes (I’m taking two pairs all up), reading glasses, sun glasses, hat(s), et cetera,  toiletries, first aid,  plus camera and camera stuff,  notebooks, pens, books – on Bali, the phrase book, (disgraceful that I haven’t got one yet), maps, zip-lock bags, a calculator… the list goes on. 

Last weekend was the last weekend in town.  I spent it shopping and shopping. I forced myself.  And I’m still not done. It’s not that I had to get a huge amount of stuff for the trip – it’s that I needed to make sure the item(s) were exactly what I wanted.  Hell.  Money’s hard to come by and I’m not wasting mine on throw-aways!  

Luckily I’ve taken Friday off work, just to finish the final extras.  Damn it.  Relaxation will begin at 6am Saturday morning when we loose contact with the tarmac.

Work.  This morning I walked down the hill  in winter leather boots and raincoat, leather cap perched on my head – so my mascara’d lashes don’t get rained on - and new orange Osprey Courier Bag thrown over my shoulder – the bag I bought to replace the broken Day Pack.  It’s the never-ending winter here in Wellington!

My legs knew the way to work, and walked without the assistance of will.  Over and over, like a mantra I repeated the words: three days at work to go.    But no matter how much repitition,  three days still seemed like too much.  Too much work, too much energy to give away,  too much standing up action,  too much looming deadline.

But here I am, at days end.  Garden watered and body freshly showered.  I’m in a bit of a daze but yes, once again I survived the day with plenty enough energy to moan about the lack of it.

 Don is cooking dinner. 

The CSO Christmas Dinner was  very enjoyable.  Normally it’s held a bit closer to Christmas, but it was earlier so I could go.  (The rumour was true.)  I am touched.  Nice to be loved at work.  Loved why?   I have no idea.  I’ve been a grumpy bitch for months.  However, I also know how to take the piss out of myself and how to have a good laugh.  Perhaps those qualities make up for the former less endearing one?

It was the first time Don had met the crew – seen and got the vibe of it.  I imagine the spectacle would be a little intimidating for a first-timer.  We are a tight-knit bunch.  Interesting how the dynamics of the group strengthens when working as part of a team in a relentlessly hectic and demanding environment.   The adventurous I-love-life-and-want-to-be-right-in-the-thick-of-it part of me thrives on it.   This every-day hype is exhausting too.  Frequent (or lengthy?) escape is necessary.

We were home by about 10pm.  However, many stories were to be told of later goings-on.  Put it this way:  the beer and wine tab was sizeable.  The shenanigans made me reminisce about an old life once upon a time ago, I have long since left behind.  The stories made me feel old.  Not that I would be interested in going back in time.  Which is a lie. 

Of course I’d go back in time if I had the opportunity.   But, only with the advantage of hind-sight.  I’d do it so much better.  I wouldn’t piss it all away.  I’d live my life with focus.

Like I do now.

Two work days to go.  I can do this.

Yeah, Right.

Saturday morning.  My grand opportunity to go for a run.  Am I going?  No.  It’s raining.  The wind is up.  Every muscle in my body is stiff and aching -  has been for weeks (or is it months?) on and off – mostly on.    I’m so damn tired, that I just don’t want to push my body – don’t want to get rained on, or forge forward into a head wind.   Maybe later.

 (Yeah, right.)

I haven’t been up to much in the thinking area this past week.  Bit brain-dead. Too worky for da man. Worn down, bedraggled, just want ta be lyin’ on a beach with a silly umbrella cocktail in my hand.  (Actually, just making that up about the yucky cocktail - but you get the picture.)

Brain Dead.  That’s what happens in this life.

It’s a Working Class dilemma and a Middle Class curse.  The former are too busy hunting-gathering-surviving, buying made-in-China poisonous plastic shit for the kids.  The more educated latter, has less excuse.  Busy is a catch phrase.  It’s the stock, standard reply to “How are you?”  As though busy adds meaning to life.  And Buying is the meaning.  The Middle Class love to shop.  Want Stuff.  Houses and cars and clothes, gourmet imported food, cotton and silk, made in China, by the hands of a slave who can only afford to eat rice and wear rags.  And we know.  Don’t want to think about it.  How it is incumbant on us.  Too difficult to grasp – the repercussions of it.    

Only the rich can afford to be ethical.  I could easily let that statement become a salve on my conscience.  If I believed it.  But for us,  the truth is:  The road to Ethical Living is to be satisfied with less.  Unemcumbered by wants is the way.  To  freedom. To thy self.  To life.  Actual life.

What our  life really costs is time.  Because time is the great gift of life.  Time is life.  Life is for living.  And in living, we all have the potential to grow in knowledge.  To develop the power of critical thinking.   To develop qualities like understanding and compassion.  To become expansive.   To comprehend life.  What it is – and is not – is within all of our grasp. 

All said and done.

Today, I’m going shopping.  I’m not a shopper.  But I need stuff.  (Really!) For Bali.  Two cotton tees, One x  cargo pants, one light-weight zip-up jacket, one x yoga pants, and a day pack. (After five years of ownership, my current one has given up the ghost damn it.)  Will I be Green?  Will my new stuff be kosher?  One repurcussion of Globalisation is that it can be incredibly difficult to tell these days.  But I believe things will become more transparent and soon, we will easily know if we are shopping ethically.

(Yeah, right?)

Tonight I’ll be feasting on local and  imported food made by the hands of a peer – an underpaid kitchen slave.  Will the food taste of love?  Will the wine be merry?  Either way,  it’ll be good times for alll at the CSO Christmas Dinner. 

Live and let live. 

 

Death of a Laptop

My gorgeous laptop f….udged out last night.  I can’t see the screen.  Don fiddled around with it, unplugged it, took the battery out, and thought he’d fixed it.  But this morning it’s a no-goer again!

I’m writing this blog with an old desktop.  It hasn’t got a place in the house yet, (it’s only been a year!) so is sprawled out in the middle of the lounge floor.  It’s not set up properly.  Cookies aren’t working.  Doesn’t know I’m me.  No access to photo and art files.  And writing – at least 200,000 words worth.  Maybe more.  Bit freaked about the possiblity of loosing that.  And other stuff.

Just another time sink.

So.  No post last night.  And this particularly pitiful post today.  Not what was on my mind at all.

Ten minutes to take-off. (That’s jasmine tea drunk, teeth cleaned, shoes and jacket on, backpack on back, out the door.)

More money.  I’m the biggest non-consumer Comsumer.  It’s ridiculous.  I’ve spent thousands of dollars recently – on things I need.  Passport, Visa, Pack on Wheels, Camera, External Hardrive, (photo storage) Walking Sandles, Meds…and the list goes on….is going on.  More shopping on Saturday for the trip.  Just stuff I need – nothing excessive believe me!

 And now, when I get back it’ll be another laptop.  There’s a thousand bucks just like that!  On tick too.  My Credit Card is about to burst at the seams.  F u c k.

Today I’m training Kris – Chef training to be a Plumber.  And a bit of extra training for Michael this afternoon.  So.  Just another day in the Kitchen.  B I G.

No doubt I’ll be stuffed when I finally haul my arse up the hill tonight.

However.  It’s my last Friday of Slavery until mid January.

Over the Moon about that I am.  (As Yoda would say.)