| BALI STORY 2000 - Getting Back. |
| Bali Story 2000 - The Last Post. Sunday 31 September 2000. This is the final chapter of the personal diary of this trip. It covers the last minutes 'in' Bali and the flight back home. Erratum Day 16. I choked up yesterday, and forgot that I’d promised to tell the tale of the second time ‘ol blue eyes got taken for a ride this trip. It’s a salutary warning to all who might be tested at the time of their greatest vulnerability. Coming to or going from Bali, it seems that many Aussies tip the airport porters with gold coloured one-dollar coins. Some might think that this is a bit cheap of us so I’d better hasten to say that the tip is usually a handful of coins, to get rid of the weight in the pocket as much as anything I suppose. The porters are polite of course, and will not tell of the difficulty this places upon them as they cannot change the coins into local rupiah – even at the banks. The coins simply become a weight in their pockets, and a great one at that after a week or so - of no value at all unless they can find another Aussie who will swap them for changeable notes of the realm. So they ask outbound travellers to change them, often at a good rate of say six coins for a five dollar note, or twelve coins for a tenner. And ‘ol blue eyes was so approached. Now my young mate Chris always tells the Balinese whom he often engages in conversation, that blue eyes are no good because they wont work in the dark and therefore brown eyes are best. But I can’t really use that as an excuse because I knew about the scam and still fell for it. For those of you whom don’t know it this is how it goes. When you’re under a bit of pressure, at the check in with overweight bags, or trying to round up the kids, or filling in an immigration form, or simply tired or bored from waiting, anywhere that you might not be at your sharpest, he will appear at your side asking you to exchange coins for notes. If you hesitate the exchange rate will be increased with another coin added to the pile in his hand. Hell, eventually you weaken and do the swap. Good on ya! You’ve just helped a struggling chap who really needed it. And he probably did but he’s helped himself a bit more than you think. Even if you check the coins ten seconds later and find the almost identical Rp500 (10 cent value) coins at the bottom of the pile instead of the 1 dollar coins you expect, he’s already disappeared into the crowd. I didn’t press for a better rate and only got two dud coins in the exchange but I bet if I’d haggled, every extra “dollar” coin added to the bottom of the pile would have been another dud. So what do you do? I could only laugh and yell at his back, wherever it was out there, ‘You rotten bugger!’ :-) Day 17 – Getting back. 1.10 am. The Garuda Airbus Industrie A-330 rolled steadily along the taxiway of Ngurah Rai Airport, heading west towards the end of the runway extension that pokes out into the Bali Sea, and ending at the reef off the southern end of Tuban beach. Or is it the northern end of Jimbaran Bay? It doesn’t really matter because I’m catching my last glimpse of Bali through a starboard window towards the rear of the aircraft. The little lights of the fishing boats outside the reef appear first, bright against the absolute blackness of the night sky. The lights don’t appear to be moving but without a background against which their position can be measured that’s just an assumption. When we’ve seen them from the Pantai restaurant at night they seem stationary although they could be drifting slowly with the wind or tide. I’ve never really discovered what these boats off Tuban are catching. Someone suggested to me once that some, at least, net reef fish for tropical salt-water aquariums. As my window passed the end of the International Terminal this little vista of fishing boat lights expanded in a flash to encompass all the lights along the beaches and the narrow strip of development immediately behind them. Looking down from this elevation I’m sure that I could see the lights of the Pantai, flooding down onto the beach. The breakwaters along Tuban stood out in clear black silhouette against the flickering sparkles of the lights reflecting off the water behind them. Above Kuta the glow of light was like a street-lamp halo on a foggy evening, with the same tinges of colour at the edges, probably made by a few neon signs and the red tail lights of cars. Kuta is still raging. Beyond Legian the coastline faded into the black of the background night as the scattered lights of Seminyak marked the end of the developed tourist strip. I had a brief period of wondering what our various friends were doing. I doubted that the Pantai was still open, and the watch sellers Fast Eddy and Tony Marrone would be closed too. Shayaster and Setiwasa (whose spherical features are a constant reminder of the Bali Moon liqueurs he mixes so adroitly) may still be mixing them at the Inn, either in the Ratna Satay Bar or O’Brien’s. Yoyan at ENI tailors could be working if he still has orders to fulfil – I’m sure work comes before sleep. The beach girls will surely be asleep, as they will be up in 4 or 5 hours. We turned the corner at the taxiway, onto the runway proper and the soft growl of those Rolls Royce engines rose quickly, the thrust pushing me back into the seat and the massive weight of the aircraft down the track at an unbelievably increasing rate. If you don’t enjoy any other part of a flight you must be impressed at least with this physical display of absolute power. The view through the window quickly changed to a similar one, though on a smaller scale, of the sweep of Jimbaran Bay. You don’t get much time to absorb the new view however. The aircraft rotates on its main wheels and almost instantly the judder felt in the floor and seats stops. That mechanical whine of hydraulic pumps seems to be felt as much as heard, and the wheels are coming up. It is 1.15 am. Physical contact with Bali ends. There are only visual, mental, and emotional ties remaining. The aircraft banks gently to the right, taking up the course for home. Through the back edge of the window I can see the outline of the long straight finger of Tanjung Benoa, the roads and the lights of the hotels in blocks. Further around there are fewer lights and the coast of southeastern Bali is etched in light beaches and the glistening of surf against cliffs, edging the dark softness of the barren and desolate interior of the Bukit Peninsula. The scene slowly disappears behind, too far to be seen even with my neck twisted as far around as it will go and my face pressed against the perspex window. Now visual contact is lost. Only the connections of the mind remain. It’s 3763 Km from Denpasar to Adelaide. We are flying at 978 kph at a height of 3,700 metres, 11,300 feet. The little aeroplane on the TV screen, flying along the red line shows that we will cross the Australian coast north of Port Headland, tracking south of the Olgas. Our ETA is 7.11 am. How accurate is all this I wonder? I slowly curled up under the blanket and went to sleep. When I woke up, or was I woken up?, there was a continent of rippled clouds underneath us, sectored by spaces which look like rivers and lakes. Through the other window the rising sun is in harmony with the idea of ‘the Red Centre’. A bright yellow sky, deepening through orange, rests on a fiery crimson horizon underlined by the black earth. It is simply spectacular! Chilled orange juice comes around and we have brushes and toothpaste to brighten up the fuzz around the taste buds. Somewhere towards the horizon, below the clouds that I can see through the right hand window, is the Transcontinental Railway and further still the Eyre Highway. Nothing is visible but the swirling clouds forming circular patterns that instantly remind me of pictures from space that I have seen in the National Geographic. As the sun rises higher the clouds begin to dissolve revealing increasing vistas of the earth underneath. There is a myriad of isolated and interlocking lakes, soldiering in long trails parallel to our path. They look wet but I’m sure that’s an illusion in this country. The right wing gently rises as I watch. A gentle turn around some unknown location on the track, so slow that with my attention focussed inside the cabin for a moment I am not aware of it. I look out again to confirm that our heading is still changing. There are lumpy brown hills, their eastern slopes alight under the rising sun. Roads that I imagine are pink spear through the dark, blue grey scrub. Rectangular checker-boards of cleared paddocks with parallel ridges of bare, red sand hills running along them – then more scrub, olive drab to offset the gleaming touch of sunlight. Later cultivated paddocks, still with the red sand ridges running across them, making bright lines against the dull paddocks. Looking away from our track the gaps between the clouds are hidden and the panorama of cloudbanks runs unevenly into the haze on the horizon. Suddenly the sunlight picks out a stand of gleaming white silos, the first sign of human existence to join the earth tracks. Perceptibly the nose of the aircraft lowers and the roar of the engines, that has been with us for so long that it is almost unheard, drops to a muted whisper, a relative whisper really. Conversationers are momentarily caught out by the silence and words escape across the cabin rows before voices drop in volume to a new level. We are approaching home. As the aircraft drops lower the view through the window is across the clouds rather than down through them. The new world becomes a tossed ocean of white and grey. Not as flat as it appeared before now that we are closer to it, but deeply divided with soaring crests that rise above us in the distance. The nose dips again and the downward angle now becomes apparent. Green fields appear when a break allows clear vision, a quarry, and then a coast. A township with more white silos in the distance, forming the tail feathers to the arrow of a T shaped jetty running from light green waters to a dark blue turning circle at the end of a distinct channel. The surface of the sea is flecked with white splashes on dark ridges as the cloud thins to an occasional fluff throwing purple shadows onto the dark green sea. The cloud rises up to meet us with grey mists that whip past the window. The view is instantly matt grey with narrow gaps through which, eventually, another coast appears, lined with creeks and swathes of mangrove swamps, their edges sweeping in towards the coast here and darting back towards the fields in little prongs that follow creeks. The sunlight reflecting up through the trees is like the flash of a mirror racing along with us. Little houses with grey rainwater tanks. Salts pans and black roads with visibly moving cars and trucks. Almost instantly, across a broad and sandy shoal water, appear buildings, side by side, displacing the smooth mat of bright green. We bank steeply to the left, seemingly away from where I now know our destination lies. As we level out the familiar forms of the Adelaide Hills slide across the window. The foothills, another quarry, much bigger this time, a power distribution station, a reservoir and strings of little dams joined together by shimmering lines that wriggle crookedly along bright green valley bottoms and cross tree lined roads. An enormous, water filled quarry appears and disappears in an instant, so close after the previous panoramas that I have become used to that it seems I could just step out onto the edges. A long, even steeper turn to the right, the engines just a murmur in the silence of the cabin. This must be the approach over the Modbury Beacon. With ever increasing speed the taller buildings of the northern Adelaide suburbs begin to flash by under the trembling wing as we sink lower. Intersecting roads, round-a-bouts, tennis courts, a swimming pool. Factory roofs. The mechanical whirring again and the flaps depress along the trailing edge of the wing. The wind noise rises in volume with the tremble through the floor and seat. Flatter ground with more factories, narrow tree-lined streets with regular spacing of house roofs, red, green and white replacing shining green as the dominant colour, dual highways, lines of cars stopped at intersections. More mechanical noises and vibrations as the wheels come down, with the feeling of that comforting ‘clunk’ as they lock. The familiar sights of Henley Beach Road, my old school, our own roof and the clear panels on my workshop. Marion Road is a sense rather than a sight, the boundary, the bitumen in sharp lines streaking back from under the wing. Bump, rumble, serious engine roaring and forward pressure against the seat belt. We’re 4 minutes after the ETA predicted when we left Ngurah Rai. It’s 7.15 am here and a ¼ to 6 in Bali where another day is also beginning, but without us. It might as well be a universe away. Immigration, Duty Free, Customs. We have all of our wooden purchases packed in one cotton bag with a draw string top. Claire puts it on the bench and the Uniform looks down, then up at her. She smiles. Each piece is unwrapped and minutely inspected, a small torch illuminating the hollows of bamboo and deeply carved pieces before they are wrapped again. Finished at last. I looked up to follow Uniform’s gaze along the line that is forming behind us. His gaze swung back to Claire. ‘Any more?’ he asks. ‘Isn’t that enough? she replies. ‘OK’. Uniform looks at me and I swing the Duty Free bag up to the bench. Uniform shakes his head and waves me by. I don’t blame him I’m relieved to be through and really ready to go home. Emma is waiting. Hugs of welcome and then hugs of goodbye for the other travellers. ‘Trolleys Ho!’ into the car park. As I approach the car I can see Maxie’s head silhouetted against the light of the back window. As I get closer I can see it is fuzzy around the edges and I know his tail is going at nineteen to the dozen. Talk about the tail wagging the dog! I open the door and he springs out, so excited he can’t make up his mind who to go to first. Around in circles, around the car, just around on the spot. Briefly I wonder if there is a dog in Bali that would behave like this at the approach of humans. It’s only a short kilometre drive home, five or six minutes. When the car door is opened Max is out, racing laps around the back yard, only stopping when Priscilla rouses herself from the billbergia patch to roll on the concrete drive for a tummy rub. It’s nice to go away, as an old friend says, but it’s nice to come home too. The end. Really. 25.10.00 |
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| LINKS - Well, there's no-where to go forward to as far as the Bali Story 2000 is concerned, but you can go back to our Home Page for a different Bali story or an earlier set of photos. You could also let us know what you really thought of the story - warts and all if you want to - through the E-mail link under our photo. Whatever you decide, we'd like to thank you for being interested enough to have persisted this far. If you've never been to Bali we can only say, "GO!". If you're an old Bali fan then you know why it gets to us, deep down under our skin. |
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