BALI STORY 2000   -   Day 7.
Thursday 21 September 2000.


At seven pages this is not really a long episode considering it covers our day trip to Lovina, which I found so visually different and fascinating that I did not take many notes. 
The north may not be ‘the real Bali’ as some like to claim but it is, without argument, a different Bali to that found in the south, and perhaps more intriguing because of the difference.



Day 7.

We eventually decided to do this trip which had been on and off the itinerary so many times it was looking like the magician’s rabbit.  We were to do it on the cheap, using simply a local driver rather than a specialist northern guide.  There was even talk at one time about going in two taxis, one to Git Git only and the other to press on to Singaraja/Lovina for those who wanted to go that far in one day.  How this would have worked out as far as cost is concerned I really don’t know.  As it was we used an 8 seater and driver whom we had used earlier and hoped that we got a cheap rate because of our more frequent use.  Because the driver spoke little English (supposedly none but this proved to be not quite true) his friend came also to act as a guide.  His depth of knowledge about the area outside Nusa Dua where we first met him was so little that we even had to tell them the way to Poppies II.  When it came to information about the north you can imagine how deathly the silence was at times!  There were only five of us, including our friend Margaret, so space was not a problem and the trip was quite comfortable. 

Our route took us north of course, but to the west of Denpasar through countryside that I must have travelled before to get to Tanah Lot on the central west coast, but which I could not remember.  The growth over the past few years in Legian and Seminyak on Jl Legian just north of Kuta was amazing.  So too was the traffic going towards the south, mainly people going to work we guessed as it was just after 8 am as we passed through these ‘suburban’ areas.  The Money Changers at Bemo Corner in Kuta was not even open as we passed through, that’s how early we were. 
Jalan Legian changes to Jl Seminyak and then to Jl Raya Kerokoban as we head north to the west of Denpasar.  This was logical progression as I would expect, but time and again, particularly as we searched in vain for street numbers, frustration set in as there was no apparent sequence that we could discern. 

Through Kerokoban, which I remember simply as a village linked to others but with a longer length of straight road.  Through Celuk, which is not the well-known Celuk of silversmithing fame which is about the same distance to the east of Denpasar as this one is to the east.  Through Tegeh, Kapal, Tambaksari (let that one roll off your tongue a few times), Muncan, another Kapal, past the cattle markets at Bringkit (not as in ‘bringkitere!’) and eventually Mengwi and the old ‘Floating Palace’ or Pura Taman Ayun.  (‘Pura’ means temple, or literally, a space enclosed by a wall.)  This is the large temple of the old Mengwi Kingdom, which collapsed about 1900 under an onslaught from their neighbours in Tabanan and Badung. 
It would be our first stop, about 24 kilometres from Tuban. 

The Floating Palace is surrounded by a rectangular outer moat about 20 meters wide and well over 100 meters long on the front, and shortest, side.  Hence the ‘Floating’ Palace.  The moat is largely open water but with some water lilies.  A wide, arched stone bridge crosses this and leads to a grassed outer courtyard perhaps 100 meters broad, with ponds and some small buildings.  Central within the grass area is the inner temple, surrounded by a grey stone and red brick wall, quite tall at the front, rising from the outer corners to a central flight of several steps.  A pair of massive wooden gates tops these steps, hung between two wide, symmetrical, carved stone and brick columns, the ‘candi bentar’.  Parts of the carvings are Raksa and Bhoma, ugly figures intended as guards to deter the evil spirits from entering the temple.  As a secondary safeguard there is a wall running across the gateway just inside.  Since evil spirits cannot turn right-angled corners this is an effective defence against those not frightened by the outer guards. 
The central bridge over the moat, the path across the grass courtyard and the inner wall that rises up to the towering gates are all aligned on the longitudinal axis of the temple which points towards Mount Agung as one enters and to the sea behind.  This symmetry gives the entrance perspective a sense of order and an elegantly simple design that I have not noticed expressed so strongly at other temples. 
The contrast between the simple bridge over the quiet moat with the wide grass expanse, gently rising up to the towering, intricate, forbidding gates is stark and extreme. 

The opposing forces of Ying and Yan? 

The height of the inner wall decreases quickly at the corners and from the simple dirt path that encircles the wall it is easy to see over from the sides and rear into the rectangular expanse of the temple proper.  Just inside this wall is another moat of less remarkable width which encircles the inner temple area.  Four, tall, eleven roofed ‘merus’ or shrines dwarf the many smaller buildings contained by the inner moat.  Balinese merus always have an odd number of thatched roofs which taper upwards, eleven being the maximum signifying a most sacred temple such as the Mother Temple, the nine Directional Temples or, in this instance the most important and central temple in the state.  Unlike many other temples the inner sanctum here is not open to visitors. 

There is a large travel group at the temple.  At least 40 or 50, from Central Java, not just Java mind you, but, they emphasise Central Java.  They want us to use their cameras, and finally mine Claire insists, to take photos of them with Phil, who absolutely dwarfs them all, up and down as well as across, and fair-haired Claire who also stands out by at least a head amidst the dark haired throng. 
They would be a portrait photographer’s delight as, without bidding, they fall into a rectangular mass with the smallest to the front and no face in the rear ranks covered by another in the front.  They are perfectly attentive and react immediately to a brief hand gesture bidding the right and left extremities of the group to close in a bit and then move back out a modicum, those behind automatically doing a little shuffle to clear their faces anew.  All join in singing “Old MacDonalds Farm” as I conduct and lead them, and finally all count down, ‘Three – Two – One!’ as a single chorus. 
It shames me to admit to this unnecessary manipulation but I think they would perhaps have taken great joy in their performance even if they had been aware of the senseless directions.  Maybe they made up for it afterwards when every man Jack of them and every woman Jill too, insisted on saying ‘Thank you’, shaking my hand and bowing. 
My back was killing me. 

EVERYONE BACK ON THE BUS! 

On to Bedugal, Lake Bratan and Pura Ulun Danau just a few meters off its shores.  Almost at the peak of the east-west range that divides north from south Bali, Bedugal is a small vegetable growing and farming village that just happens to find itself on a growing tourist route but is perhaps not quite sure yet what to do about it.  The same cannot be said for some obviously rich developers who are in the throes of massive constructions on the most scenic ends of prominent ridges.  The Suharto family is said to be one of these developers.  Artists seem to flourish in Bedugal, which is not surprising given the scenery of mountain ridge, plunging valleys, forests, vegetable fields and rice terraces evident even from the roadside.  Little ramshackle stalls line the road selling drinks and paintings of great diversity, price and quality. 

From Bedugal the road winds down into the extinct volcano now filled by serene Lake Bratan.  Roughly rectangular, 2 Km by 3, Lake Bratan this morning is a peacefully calm, an almost mirror surfaced sheet of grey, reflecting the misty overcast, but with a distant, narrow line of green reflected from forests along the far shore.  This is a transient illusion however, as a loud speaker barks from what looks like a barracks or convention site far across on the southern shore and echoes around the caldera.  As if this is not sufficient affront to the Gods an outboard powered speedboat takes off from a small landing just around the point from the temple, followed by an unstable Jet Ski.  Thankfully these obscenities are intermittent, but the canoes quietly and slowly leading arrowheads far out in the lake look far more suitable for the area. 
From the vehicle park the path leads past the ticket box (Rp500 from memory), past the showmen with their assortment of captured wild animals, birds and reptiles with which you can be photographed for a fee.  Then into the grassed gardens of the outer temple area where an enormous Banyan tree seems jacked up off the ground by a thicket of roots and dominates the space.  To the side here there is a Buddhist stupa containing two freshly dressed and flower bedecked statues.  With the main Hindu temple not 100 metres away, just off the shore by a stone’s throw, this site is a prime example of the pluralisms which sit happily within the tolerant Balinese way of life. 
This is a smaller temple that predates Taman Ayung at Mengwi by over a century.  It has a single main meru with eleven thatched roofs and three on another meru, much smaller.  The split gateway has no doors, perhaps because the temple sits on a small grassy island only a few metres larger than the temple walls themselves, and this isolation is seen as sufficient protection. 
On to Git Git Falls, up the side of the caldera again and into the mountains.  Here the road winds along the sides of the steep valleys, climbing, falling or turning as the terrain demands.  There are no bridges, little or large, over the heads of these valleys, nor cuttings through the ridge crests.  Just the natural fall of the land that takes the road around hairpin bends in the depth of the jungle forest or out around a reflex angle on the edge of nothing as it passes around a ridge.  The mist lowers and rain begins, gently at first but the drops get bigger and denser as we go higher.  Occasionally, through a lift in the overcast or a brief space between the showers I can look across a narrow valley and see the road we have just traversed apparently a little over an arm’s length away. 
On the way down we are slowed as we approach an accident, a sort of half-way-head-on meeting between two vans.  Its not hard to imagine each being unseen by the other through the rain, perhaps a windscreen wiper not working as it should or a somewhat bare tyre losing grip and allowing one vehicle to slip outwards on a sharp corner.  The drivers’ side of each is crunched, on the smaller one almost right back to the door pillar.  There are no apparent injuries and a group of men are trying to bounce the van back to the side off the road. 

I find myself wondering what sort of trees are these?  I try to imagine meranti, luan, and even teak, but my knowledge is deficient and I can only wonder.  Frequently, along the side of the road, there are stacks of timber billets, probably firewood, either tied into bundles of carrying size or staked into consecutive heaps that are perhaps small truck-size loads.  Under the bark the timber is predominantly white which does not help my efforts to identify it. 

The car park at Git Git has an adjacent restaurant, which is fortunate, as the girls decide the climb down, and up again, coupled with the rain is bad karma and the drink house looks fortuitous.  The path leading down is sort of paved, with a variety of surfaces.  The scenery is varied also, grassland changing to rice fields and to terraces.  Further down ill formed steel tube handrails with angular unjoined ends lead past sheer cuttings on one side and equally sheer drops on the other.  Every possible site contains stalls for clothing and crafts.  Little children, much less than 10 years of age and perhaps only half of this, offer bracelets and necklaces with slick patter and financial aplomb.  At the bottom of the falls is a pool with some hardy fools swimming, and a small roofed shelter.  I try hard to get some photos but, with the rain coming down and the spray coming up I really need wipers on the lens.  At the choicest shooting site Phil and a tour guide try holding a towel over me and the camera, but its hopeless.  I try shifting under the roofed shelter but facing the spray rising off the falls immediately coats the lens with trickles of water.  I desperation I face downstream into the falling gorge and snap off a couple of shots.  Later, one turns out to be a gem.  So much for skill! 
It’s a long climb down, but its even longer climbing up when your shorts are sticking to your thighs and the towel covering the camera is so sodden its leaking down your back.  Not that you can feel it running down your back but the steady stream falling onto each rear-most calf is telling.  Still, I suppose it’s a long way up even when it’s dry.  The girls are quite happy when we finally arrive back.  They’re dry on the outside and damp on the inside. 

The old Dutch capital of Singaraja is next and as its early afternoon the first stop is a fair sized, open sided restaurant right on the beach facing the ‘Laut Bali’, the Bali Sea I think.  There are sellers there of course because this is a common stop for bus tours, but they seem to have an agreement with the owners and do not encroach past a low line of stone fencing which evidently marks a boundary.  The sand here is a very dark grey, near enough I suppose to justify the commonly used phrase, ‘black sand beaches’.  The sea is calm, different from the south, just an occasional low swell heaving itself up the beach with a tired sigh, and, despite the rain back in the mountains which is clearly visible from here, the black sand is hot and dry. 
The food at the restaurant is good, or maybe we’re just very hungry as by now its early afternoon.  The chicken and corn soup is particularly tasty, as is the sticky rice pudding with coconut milk.  Phil declares the Spring Roll disappointing but I notice that it takes nine over two servings to reach this conclusion.  Where oh where in Bali can you get good, tasty and crispy spring rolls? 
Just behind the restaurant there is a series of rice fields and in the lower one a farmer is ploughing with his water buffalo.  The temptation is too much as I think of an old friend who was enamoured of a similar photo that I took last year.  I wandered along the narrow banks between the paddies, being careful not to tread on the small peanut plants atop the banks that looked a bit like young beans.  The farmer saw me coming with the camera and stopped the ox at a point close to my position.  He then moved around to the side of the nearest animal and pushed it into a striking pose with one front leg stretched way forward.  He then took up his own preferred position with a pose like a triumphant ringmaster, one arm held high and the other outstretched towards the animals.  I tried to get him to move on but he simply urged the beasts into another pose and changed his own to the rear of the plough, still with the same arm positions.  With a sudden brilliant flash I cranked my hand in the motion of an old time movie camera man and he suddenly nodded vigorously and returned to his ploughing, waving happily as I packed up the tripod to go back to the bus.  A real third world ham.  I wonder what he told his friends that night? 

Through Singaraja too quickly, and the Lovina beaches, to ‘Air Panas’, the hot springs.  A beautiful setting along the side of a steep gully, with tall coconut palms silhouetted against the blue sky.  Equally colourful was the water in the baths, a dull lettuce green.  I tried to convince myself that this colour came from some sort of chemical reaction with the sulphur content of the hot-warm water, like a large-scale school chemistry experiment.  The first footstep on the stairs leading down to the top pool belied this hope, however, as the surface was like liquid Teflon underfoot.  Despite the embryonic soup of neophytic slime and Lord knows what else, no one seems to get sick because of it.  A group of German youths defied all common sense though, I thought, by diving in from the sides and engaging in all sorts of underwater highjinks with members of the opposite as well as the same sex.  The colour of the water in the pools was one concern before entry and the colours of the toilet equally so after exiting.  The only toilet that was worse was, I think, at the Ramayana Department store in Denpasar.  It still pays to heed my old mum’s frequent warning – go before you leave home. 
As it was getting late in the afternoon by now we accepted that we were not going to see any hotels in Lovina, to pave the way for an extended stay here next year.  Nor did I get to see the famous statue of the soldier looking out to sea on the foreshore in Singaraja, the Independence Memorial I think it is called.  The trip home got faster and faster the further we went.  Phil became convinced that the driver was on a promise when he got home, or at least another job that he was due at some time ago.  It seems, however, that the speed limits (if there are any) do not apply after dark if you don’t switch the vehicles light on.  If Phil had spoken his mind I would certainly have agreed with him even though I was in the back seat, not the front where it was even more hair-raising.  We survive however, up the mountains one side and down the mountain on the other.  Across the plains at the highest speeds, on the remarkably straight (for Bali) road back to Mengwi.  From there we were forcibly slowed again for the more normal bends and corners, and the evening traffic, as we got into the outer ‘suburbs’ of Denpasar; Seminyak, Legion, Kuta and finally Tuban and the friendly Inn. 



13.10.00



The usual links are below.
- and now for the links.

Back to the Home Page for a change of direction?

To the other,  larger photos?

Back to Day 6?

On to Day 8. "Oleh-oleh" from the beach girls,
                      Hero's Department store,
                      Denpasar shopping,
                      the pool
                      and dinner at the Kin Khao
                        Thai restaurant.