| BALI STORY 2000 - Day 5. |
| Bali Story 2000 – Day 5 – Tuesday 19 September 2000. Day 5. This morning I went to the little headland just off the beach to the south of the Sheraton beaches. As has been usual the tide was low and, of curiosity, I looked at the figures on the blackboard by the watersports lockup at the Laguna. It seems incredible that High Tide, due about midday, was shown as 21 feet or about 6.5 meters for residents of the non-imperial world. The headland is joined to the beach by a narrow but steep edged sand bridge perhaps less than 100 metres long. It must surely be washed away at stormy times of the year but now the sand on the top half is quite dry and loose. Walking up the slope of the edge reveals for the first time just how narrow this neck of sand really is, and how deeply scalloped and narrow is the next bay. At this stage of the tide it is almost cut off from the sea by the reef which seems to start at the next headland south. The enclosed area of this small inlet is perhaps four or five Aussie football fields in area and fairly flat across in general terms, made up of flat coral reef lightly covered with yellow sand and with shallow, sand bottom pools all around the beach edge. The light morning breeze sends little ruffles of cats-paws wandering across the surface for a short distance before they seem to become exhausted by the effort and vanish. Individuals and families, from what appears to be a local village in the coconut palm groves at the far end of the beach, are bathing, playing or apparently just socialising in these pools. Each group has its own pool and the only strenuous activity seems to come from the smaller children who run, jump and splash their elders, with evident glee on their part and complete tolerance on the part of the older children and parents. Many a ‘Salamat pagee Papa’ brings my response ‘Pagee. Apa kabar?, and their reply ‘Baik, baik’. - ‘Good morning father’, ‘Good morning. How are you?’, ‘Well’, or an occasional ‘Bagus’, ‘Very good’. To my left, in contrast, the sellers are on the hotel beaches, the shell and crab gathers are intently wading, doubled over in their intense concentration and the fishermen are tending their traps. On the reef, which stretches away as far as I can see in this direction, the ocean waves pound the outer wall and send up sheets of spray or booming, dumping waves depending on the depth of water over the reef I suppose. The ying and yang of the Bali Sea Demons are plain for all to see here. Beyond the reef large, fast, outboard powered jukungs patrol back and forth, sprouting the rods of sport fishing tourists hoping to catch Yellow Fin Tuna or Mackerel. From the sandy link I can see large waves break on the headland to the south then run across the reef of the little bay. They disappear behind the headland in front of me only to magically re-appear in a few seconds, running up the reef to the north. Eventually they become lost in the distant mist of the spray and the glare of the still low sun rising towards Tanjung Benoa and the port of Benoa further away still. It’s a scene that I think I will always remember. Across the sand bridge a few cut steps rise up to a recently laid cement path (it would be an unwarranted exaggeration to call it concrete) which seems to encircle the almost-island around its lower edge. A track in the dirt bridges the gap between the lower path and a series of low cement walls that follow the rising contours towards the crest. It is obvious that some efforts have been made to cultivate the flat areas between the little walls but the task has been abandoned. Straight ahead is a small compound enclosed by remnants of a bamboo picket fence and unchecked, rambling shrubs. A small, three-sided, low bale is set along the right boundary and there are carved stone altars adorned by fresh flowers and tattered black and white check cloth directly opposite the narrow entry gap. There are low trees to the left. Building sand and stone are piled at the entry signifying the intent to continue the restoration or new building works; in ‘Bali Time’ perhaps. Behind the altars the ground continues to gently rise and investigation along the wandering dirt paths reveals the abrupt edge of the cliff which drops down perhaps five meters to a narrow ledge just above water level at this stage of the tide. A leaking tap at the end of a partly buried irrigation pipe clearly show that more work and perhaps even planting is intended, or were intended. If completed the whole could be a very picturesque and peaceful place amid the roiling sea. On the northern edge of the cliff I look down on an old fisherman, and I mean really old with sparse, wind blown, white beard. He glances up from setting his trap and looks at me briefly before nodding and returning to his task, finishing one trap before picking his way slowly across the reef to the next. The drum type of split bamboo trap is tied by its closed end to a lump of dead coral or to an outcrop that can be encircled by his piece of incredibly knotted cord, like Jacob’s coat, of many colours. I suppose that this lets the open end face towards any fish that are swimming into the current. I can see no sign of any bait in the trap and wonder if the turbulence of the water just behind the end of the trap attracts fish to that area. Here the current would be less and a fish could rest a little before swimming forwards again, through the hole in the end and into the body of the trap. Further out there are now other fishermen with small hand spears and clear nylon throwing nets which sparkle as the sun catches the beads of water flung out from the circle as they are thrown over what it is obviously hoped will be a small school of small fish. The returns seems hardly worth the effort but I guess even small returns are better than no returns. Around the little headland I finish off the film that is in the camera and wander across the exposed reef in a shortcut to the Hotel beaches. It turns out not to be such a short cut but eventually I reach the path with wet and sandy sandals. I use one of the Laguna’s beachside massage tables to put down the camera, bag and tripod while I try to clean and dry my feet. The Security Guard comes along to check up on me and, deeming me harmless, sits down with me for a chat. He seems to think that I am from Italy and I have to bring out a copy of Chris’ little map showing the local world with Indonesian titles. He is enthralled and immediately begins an animated conversation in Bahasa Indonesian. I eventually convince him that my knowledge of the language is confined to the words and phrases that I have stuck to the back cover of my notebook and that I am not Italian. Although I insist that I am from Adelaide his concept of Australia seems bounded by, ‘Sydeney Olympic Games’. He bluntly confirms my thought that there are very few guests at the Laguna. He is concerned for his job as many of his fellow workers have already left. The old question re-occurs to me, what do you do when you lose your job in Indonesia? Hey! Its Tuesday confirms the waiter at the Lobby Bar. This is the day we transfer to the Holiday Inn at Tuban (now called the Bali Hai Resort & Spa). We are due to depart at 11.00 am. On Sunday I left the yellow plastic folder holding all my notes in the back pocket of the mini bus seat. I have tried to locate the driver, through the remarkably good efforts of the hotel desk staff, to no avail. I decide to be a bit pro-active and use the time left this morning to see if I can find his contact where we first met at the Galeria. This turns out to be a fruitless exercise and I return to the hotel only to find that he has returned it in my absence. I am stunned with my good luck. As a reward the others have decided to use him again to transport us to Tuban, with the bag of dog food that has not yet been collected. It costs the two of us Rp600,000 to check out of the Sheraton. This is made up of room service meals, drinks and laundry. $65 Australian each for living in a five star hotel for four days is, we think, not too bad. The rest of the day slides by with transport and settling in – and you, dear reader, should not expect another afternoon and evening to go by so easily in future episodes of this diary. 9.10.00 There are the usual links below if you care to scroll down to them. . |
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