A travel blog of sorts, I guess.
- FishHead Phil
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A travel blog of sorts, I guess.
Bali
I once had disdain for tourist ghettos like Kuta but I’ve softened on them a bit. I suspect this comes with being older, lazier, and wanting a variety of food options, reliable wifi, 24 hour convenience stores, a choice of live music and generally not having to go without much when traveling. I’ve lost interest in visiting the Northern India Himalaya, sweating through a climb up a Sumatran volcano, or furthering my cultural understanding of much these days. Increasingly, I just want an occasional beer and pizza in any strange warm land and I don’t care if Kuta is that place from time to time.
While the recovery of mass tourism in Bali’s southwest appears well under way, Kuta seems to be lagging behind its neighbors Legian, Seminyak and particularly Canggu. I wonder if we’re witnessing the “influencer’ effect magnified in this part of Southeast Asia with Canggu teeming with beautiful hip young things collaborating on their next digital project with their equally gorgeous travel partner they’ve just met in Ubud while trying to center their chakras over a half calf salted caramel hazelnut whipped cream drizzle latte with mango shaved blessings. The upside of Canggu now being the place to be seen is having the choice of where to sit on Kuta beach to watch the sunset.
I’m drawn to the eccentrics and oddballs of the world as I think they add a bit of color to the palette of life. Kuta has its fair share if you’re inclined to search them out be they local or otherwise. It’s a simple pleasure to chat over a beer into the small hours with those who see the world through a slightly fractured lens.
My room sits off a small alley running directly off Jalan Legian. At one end you have the gaudy mayhem of Kuta nightlife, yet at the other end in stark contrast you’ll find the street running parallel lined with rickety warungs, moto wash services, laundries, hardware shops and the everyday goings on of locals who live in Kuta. It’s good to have both options close at hand depending upon one’s mood.
Indonesian food is under rated as I see it, but whether you’re into the local cuisine or not it’s difficult to complain about the price. At $1.50 the fresh and tasty dish above of honey chicken (ayam madu), spicy boiled egg (sambal telur) stir fried vegetables (cap cay) with rice is delicious and I have it every day from a small warung run by a Japanese woman who’s a very attentive host. Keiko came to Bali on a two week holiday in the mid nineties and never left. I quite fancy her truth be known.
It’s a bus up to Ubud in a few days where the once sleepy cultural centre of Bali is now a booming tourist destination suffering under the weight of package tourists, vegan hippies, forty something year-old women in search of themselves, honeymooners, wannabe writers, digital nomads and anyone else looking for a tropical cosmopolitan new agey-ness splattered across the backdrop of Balinese animist hinduism. I’m told many of the expat old-timers are hitching their wagons and taking the trail to less soiled destinations. Where that is I’ve no idea.
I once had disdain for tourist ghettos like Kuta but I’ve softened on them a bit. I suspect this comes with being older, lazier, and wanting a variety of food options, reliable wifi, 24 hour convenience stores, a choice of live music and generally not having to go without much when traveling. I’ve lost interest in visiting the Northern India Himalaya, sweating through a climb up a Sumatran volcano, or furthering my cultural understanding of much these days. Increasingly, I just want an occasional beer and pizza in any strange warm land and I don’t care if Kuta is that place from time to time.
While the recovery of mass tourism in Bali’s southwest appears well under way, Kuta seems to be lagging behind its neighbors Legian, Seminyak and particularly Canggu. I wonder if we’re witnessing the “influencer’ effect magnified in this part of Southeast Asia with Canggu teeming with beautiful hip young things collaborating on their next digital project with their equally gorgeous travel partner they’ve just met in Ubud while trying to center their chakras over a half calf salted caramel hazelnut whipped cream drizzle latte with mango shaved blessings. The upside of Canggu now being the place to be seen is having the choice of where to sit on Kuta beach to watch the sunset.
I’m drawn to the eccentrics and oddballs of the world as I think they add a bit of color to the palette of life. Kuta has its fair share if you’re inclined to search them out be they local or otherwise. It’s a simple pleasure to chat over a beer into the small hours with those who see the world through a slightly fractured lens.
My room sits off a small alley running directly off Jalan Legian. At one end you have the gaudy mayhem of Kuta nightlife, yet at the other end in stark contrast you’ll find the street running parallel lined with rickety warungs, moto wash services, laundries, hardware shops and the everyday goings on of locals who live in Kuta. It’s good to have both options close at hand depending upon one’s mood.
Indonesian food is under rated as I see it, but whether you’re into the local cuisine or not it’s difficult to complain about the price. At $1.50 the fresh and tasty dish above of honey chicken (ayam madu), spicy boiled egg (sambal telur) stir fried vegetables (cap cay) with rice is delicious and I have it every day from a small warung run by a Japanese woman who’s a very attentive host. Keiko came to Bali on a two week holiday in the mid nineties and never left. I quite fancy her truth be known.
It’s a bus up to Ubud in a few days where the once sleepy cultural centre of Bali is now a booming tourist destination suffering under the weight of package tourists, vegan hippies, forty something year-old women in search of themselves, honeymooners, wannabe writers, digital nomads and anyone else looking for a tropical cosmopolitan new agey-ness splattered across the backdrop of Balinese animist hinduism. I’m told many of the expat old-timers are hitching their wagons and taking the trail to less soiled destinations. Where that is I’ve no idea.
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“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.”
― Charles Bukowski
― Charles Bukowski
Thanks FishHead. Like it. Keep the write-ups going!
- FishHead Phil
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Nyoman
Nyoman has the thick leathery hands of a man who’s spent a lifetime working hard. His forearms are sinewy strong and the sun polished skin of his face is carved with lines, many of them laugh lines, Nyoman likes to laugh. This charming sixty something year-old has joined me while I have a kopi in his small warung, him breezing through story after story of what it took for him to go from a simple field laborer with nothing to owning a house, car and land.
The man has been a coconut cutter clambering up trees all day from which he now has hip problems, he's been a cow herder, rice field laborer, fisherman, pig farmer, durian grower, kitchen hand, and in more recent times warung owner. Nyoman admits to me he’s tired now and approaching a point in his life where he’d like to return home to his village in Tabanan and enjoy older age. With two years left on the lease of his warung he thinks that time is getting close.
We spend an hour chatting with Nyoman buying me my second cup of coffee. We ask each other lots of questions about each other‘s life experiences, families, wants and dreams, then our conversation slows with us spending periods in quiet companionship watching the world go by on the Kuta street in front of us. I tell Nyoman it’s time for me to go walking and he invites me to come visit him in Tabanan when his work is done.
Nyoman has the thick leathery hands of a man who’s spent a lifetime working hard. His forearms are sinewy strong and the sun polished skin of his face is carved with lines, many of them laugh lines, Nyoman likes to laugh. This charming sixty something year-old has joined me while I have a kopi in his small warung, him breezing through story after story of what it took for him to go from a simple field laborer with nothing to owning a house, car and land.
The man has been a coconut cutter clambering up trees all day from which he now has hip problems, he's been a cow herder, rice field laborer, fisherman, pig farmer, durian grower, kitchen hand, and in more recent times warung owner. Nyoman admits to me he’s tired now and approaching a point in his life where he’d like to return home to his village in Tabanan and enjoy older age. With two years left on the lease of his warung he thinks that time is getting close.
We spend an hour chatting with Nyoman buying me my second cup of coffee. We ask each other lots of questions about each other‘s life experiences, families, wants and dreams, then our conversation slows with us spending periods in quiet companionship watching the world go by on the Kuta street in front of us. I tell Nyoman it’s time for me to go walking and he invites me to come visit him in Tabanan when his work is done.
“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.”
― Charles Bukowski
― Charles Bukowski
- FishHead Phil
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There wasn’t any need for todays alarm as one of the neighbors was generous enough to manufacture a billowing plume of acrid smoke directed at my room to leave no doubt I’d be up early enough to make my bus. Either the locals around here have evolved some mechanism to accommodate neighborly smoke inhalation, or they’re making karmic bank for when they themselves create an ear, nose, or eyesore worthy of such tolerance. I packed my bag and left expecting to see a lung as I went.
I was a bit disappointed to find a new shiny minivan has replaced the rusted worn out hulking beast that once lumped you up the hill to Ubud - there was enough leg room in the old bus to rehearse a troupe of Irish dancers. My knees were now the closest they’d been to my nose since that one time in Bangkok in the nineties. My companions for the hour and a half long journey was an old Asia hand also making his return to the region after Covid, and a dreadlocked English lad who was so completely covered in leather ties, beads, braids and small bits of wood, we would have been able to fashion a survival raft from him if we’d crashed into a river.
Due to my lower socio-economic heritage and standing, one of the reasons Ubud is often included on my routes through Southeast Asia is its relative affordability. Five dollars a night has me a large room of balinese design with ensuite, hot water and wifi found in a quiet compound just off Monkey Forrest road in the heart of things. For an extra two dollars I’ve taken the breakfast of omelette, toast, fruit and coffee which starts the day well enough for me. Bali on fifteen dollars a day - what’s not to like?
There’s no real plan for my time here but I imaging there’ll be a walk or two through the rice fields accompanied by the occasional scooter ride in no particular direction with no destination in mind - hopefully there’ll be some interesting types to meet and chat with along the way. Seven days into this trip I’m starting to feel the familiar rhythm of life on the road returning and it feels like I’m reacquainting myself with an old friend who has been missed these past two and half years.
“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.”
― Charles Bukowski
― Charles Bukowski
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Just got home from Canggu, would never choose to stay there again for the reason FishHead Phil has noted .
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The man pictured above is 6’6, weighs three hundred pounds, and is one of the last old school bar owning expats I know in Bali. Jean started his bar in the days when five hundred dollars was enough to buy a few tables and chairs, get the locals to build a wooden bar, stock it with the basics and open the doors within a week. Over twenty five years later Jean owns one of the more popular venues in town, having become rather successful in the process.
We sat around into the small hours the other morning drinking and reminiscing about the old days and how things have changed. A great deal of time was spent retelling stories about some of the more colorful expats that had come through Ubud over the years, and we both agreed we were fortunate to have lived here in a time when character and personalty were found in abundance, as opposed to the homogenized younger versions of expats who seem to proliferate now.
Some of Ubud’s and Bali’s more colorful expats of the past included…
Arnie.
Arnie was forty years of age and used to sell all sorts of “things” in Spain until his partner told him he either give up his current occupation or she was leaving him. And so it was off to Bali to start a new life on the other side of the world. Within a short period of time Arnie had befriended a local businessman who had connections (and protection) to accompany Arnie’s money and the two began a business relationship together.
One New Year's Eve I sat in the back of a big shiny new black SUV, its lights, buzzers and sirens blaring as we weaved through traffic onto the next party. Arnie poked me in the ribs and pointed to the driver making me aware of the gun holstered at his hip - Arnie’s business partner, Adma, was never seen without his driver and minder, the man always lurking in the background if not behind the wheel. We entered many venues without having to pay that new year and were constantly made a fuss of wherever we went. Whenever I hung with Arnie and Adma it was almost an insult if I offered to buy a drink with a bottle of Johhnie Walker Black always appearing at my side wherever we were.
Over a short period of time Arnie and Adma quickly built numerous businesses including bars and accommodation houses. Arnie was always looking to turn a quick trick and more than once he’d be at Jean’s door late at night needing ten grand for something or other with the promise of having it returned with interest in three days. Three days later Arnie would be good to his word and have the loan repaid.
It was said Arnie had to get out of town quickly with those who saw him saying he was fearing for his life in his last weeks on Bali. It seems he got himself in a little too deep with some locals and needed to leave. But for the five years Arnie was in town there was always something going on, a lurk to be had, craziness to be a part of, and often the feeling you were privy to a side of Bali not many got to see.
One night after a couple of bottles of Vodka and whiskey we were sitting around a bar owned by Henri The Bird Man when Arnie decided he was going to try rent a local boat because leaders from around the world were flying in for the APEC summit in Bali. Arnie wanted to sit off the runway on the water at Ngurah Rai airport to watch Air Force One and the other planes land while having a drink. Arnie was a larger than life expat out to have a good time while making a quid and happy to drag you along as well if you were game. Arnie was a raconteur and more than a bit of a rogue, no doubt about it, but then many of the interesting expat characters of the past were.
Henri The Bird Man
(To come)
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“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.”
― Charles Bukowski
― Charles Bukowski
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Mr Loba Loba
The days in Ubud roll on one day little different to the next in a rhythm very conducive to peacefulness……or laziness.
I wake up at 9am-ish each morning to a kopi, omelette, toast and a bowl of fruit kindly made by my host, Nyoman, the delightful matriarch of the small Balinese family I stay with. I sit in the middle of the kampung (enclave of rooms owned by the family surrounded by a wall) under the pagoda and chat with the family members as they clean the few rooms they rent out of their home and prepare for their day. Watching the canang sari morning ritual of burning incense and the making of offerings while eating breakfast is a pleasant way to start the day.
After breakfast I take a kopi to my room to sit on my little balcony where I’ll check social media, news etc before strapping on the sandals, pack and hat to head off on a walk. I try to walk ten kilometers each day - it’s a thing I’ve been doing for a few years now and I feel anxious if I don’t at least spend a few hours walking.
This first week in Ubud I’ve mostly been visiting old Ubudian friends each morning, some I haven’t seen in over ten years. They’re always surprised by the visit and pleased to be remembered. Sadly, I discovered two older Balinese men I’ve known a long time have passed on - one being a painter who I was particularly fond of. He was a talented artist and we’d often sit and chat together in the mornings when I stayed with him in Penanstanan.
After a few hours walking it’s time for some Padang food for lunch which I have at the same warung every day. I always have the same food of ayam pedas (spicy chicken) Nasi putih, (white rice), tahu goreng (fried tofu), telur (egg), sayur (vegetables), sambal (chili sauce) and curry sauce (kari). I’m addicted to spicy Indonesian food and Padang food is my favorite.
I’ve also found by returning to theses small local warungs each day often the portions get slightly bigger over time. Relationships are important to the Balinese which I wish more people understood when staying in Bali - their holiday would be a fuller experience if more time was spent with the locals, I think. Of course, people can spend their holidays however they want, and if your desire is to go no further than the pool and bar…you do you!
After lunch it’s a walk to another little warung in the back streets where I’ll have a kopi and cigarette on the footpath and just watch the street life or chat to whoever is open to it - there’s no rush at all to the day. By now It’s about 2pm and I’m ready for a nap, so it’s a trundle back to my room, turn on the fan and have a sleep for an hour.
I’ll wake up, have a kopi, go online, go for another walk, eat at the same Padang warung for dinner, have a kopi and cigarette somewhere, and on it goes. Later in the evening I might see some live music for an hour or two if the mood takes me, or I’ll stay in my room trying to finish that damn screenplay. I’m usually asleep by 1am.
The days aren’t terribly enthralling and I’m not sure they warrant writing about, but there it is.
“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.”
― Charles Bukowski
― Charles Bukowski
- Phuket2006
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Love reading ur stories, thanks
I was in Bali in July 2018, rented a motorcycle, circled the island staring in Kuta via Negara, Cekik, Lake Buyan, Singaraja, lake Batur ( loved it there) Amed, (another really nice spot), Candi Dasi, Ubud, Back to Kuta before flying back to Phuket
This was my 1st visit back since 1999, and will be my last< I imagine its great there now, BUT when i was there it was so busy and traffic was really bad, Chinese have replaced the Australians as the number one visitors and we all know what that means> Sunset as Tanah Lot was a mad house and anytime after 11 am the traffic in Ubud was the worst i have ever seen
Spas, coffee shops, ice cream parlors and so many small shops selling stuff it was amazing. The tiered rice fields are still amazing and i was there before the bus's arrived.
the country aside is still amazing thou
safe travels
I was in Bali in July 2018, rented a motorcycle, circled the island staring in Kuta via Negara, Cekik, Lake Buyan, Singaraja, lake Batur ( loved it there) Amed, (another really nice spot), Candi Dasi, Ubud, Back to Kuta before flying back to Phuket
This was my 1st visit back since 1999, and will be my last< I imagine its great there now, BUT when i was there it was so busy and traffic was really bad, Chinese have replaced the Australians as the number one visitors and we all know what that means> Sunset as Tanah Lot was a mad house and anytime after 11 am the traffic in Ubud was the worst i have ever seen
Spas, coffee shops, ice cream parlors and so many small shops selling stuff it was amazing. The tiered rice fields are still amazing and i was there before the bus's arrived.
the country aside is still amazing thou
safe travels
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"We are turning into a nation of whimpering slaves to Fear—fear of war, fear of poverty, fear of random terrorism, or suddenly getting locked up in a military detention camp on vague charges of being a Terrorist sympathizer." HST
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The Mad Russian.
Of the four rooms my hosts rent out the one next to mine has up until now been occupied by a fifty year-old alternative energy healing drum teaching highly strung Russian woman who is quite possibly certifiably insane. Well, she’s pretty weird - harmless, but weird. I enjoy the eccentrics but was becoming weary of her need to share every aspect of her existence with me each morning and her endless invitations to join her at the special river to play flutes and drums to heal our spirits.
A few days ago the she told me of an accident she was involved in with her hired scooter. The result of the bingle leaving the front right side of the fairing cracked from top to bottom which was no doubt going to cost her more to repair than it should once the scooter hire guys saw that opportunity coming. This morning eating my breakfast I see the Mad Russian coming down the stairs with her bags, drums and flutes to be told she’s moving to Canggu to be with friends. The damaged scooter still sits in the courtyard with broken fairing and no doubt will until the hire period is up and the scooter hire guys get the phone call to go collect it.
The new warung I eat at has a sense of humor.
Surprise, I’m not special after all.
After extolling the virtues of regular patronage to a particular warung so one might enjoy certain culinary and financial benefits gained from relationships forged with the establishment ownership, my favorite eatery I’d frequent twice a day decided today this bule/barang would now have to pay more than everyone else. Out of nowhere the same dish I’ve eaten twice a day for the last week increased in price by twenty five percent with locals enjoying no price rise. Expressing my disappointment at being singled out for the price increase I was met with a dismissive smile and repeated nod of the head which pretty much conveyed a “we’re sorry and understand, but too bad.” I now have a new place to eat.
My new eatery is Warung Garasi which appears to be an old scooter repair shop turned restaurant. The place is full of old scooters, tools, fairings and bits and pieces and is the backdrop to chattering old ladies who make cheap local food - it's a strange combination. A plate of noodles or rice with vegetables and an egg will set you back $1.50, and pretty much everything on the menu is priced the same. The food doesn’t quite have the same authenticity to its taste as other places and I’ll probably look for somewhere else.
Gordon's having a gay old time of it.
Gordon.
I met the mad Scottsman above (remember crazy Roddy from Sihanoukville who used to call for his beers over a microphone attached to his chair?) walking down the street the other day and had to stop him to chat because, well, I’m a lonely old man without any friends. Gordon was as positive, upbeat and chatty as you'll find and arrived on Bali a few days before COVID lockdown and apparently hasn’t left. I’m not sure how he’s managed to do this as I was under the impression all COVID gratis visa extensions and renewals were revoked. Anyway, Gordon was having a ball living as cheaply as he could - like a few of us do.
Urinal Vampires?
I’ve noticed the hanging of onions over urinals in a couple of bars with no idea what’s going on. I propose local Balinese have conjured some onion myth to keep drunk tourists from vomiting on their shoes. Or the onions have a secret power to keep tourists sober so they continue to spend their money rather than passing out. Anyone??
Of the four rooms my hosts rent out the one next to mine has up until now been occupied by a fifty year-old alternative energy healing drum teaching highly strung Russian woman who is quite possibly certifiably insane. Well, she’s pretty weird - harmless, but weird. I enjoy the eccentrics but was becoming weary of her need to share every aspect of her existence with me each morning and her endless invitations to join her at the special river to play flutes and drums to heal our spirits.
A few days ago the she told me of an accident she was involved in with her hired scooter. The result of the bingle leaving the front right side of the fairing cracked from top to bottom which was no doubt going to cost her more to repair than it should once the scooter hire guys saw that opportunity coming. This morning eating my breakfast I see the Mad Russian coming down the stairs with her bags, drums and flutes to be told she’s moving to Canggu to be with friends. The damaged scooter still sits in the courtyard with broken fairing and no doubt will until the hire period is up and the scooter hire guys get the phone call to go collect it.
The new warung I eat at has a sense of humor.
Surprise, I’m not special after all.
After extolling the virtues of regular patronage to a particular warung so one might enjoy certain culinary and financial benefits gained from relationships forged with the establishment ownership, my favorite eatery I’d frequent twice a day decided today this bule/barang would now have to pay more than everyone else. Out of nowhere the same dish I’ve eaten twice a day for the last week increased in price by twenty five percent with locals enjoying no price rise. Expressing my disappointment at being singled out for the price increase I was met with a dismissive smile and repeated nod of the head which pretty much conveyed a “we’re sorry and understand, but too bad.” I now have a new place to eat.
My new eatery is Warung Garasi which appears to be an old scooter repair shop turned restaurant. The place is full of old scooters, tools, fairings and bits and pieces and is the backdrop to chattering old ladies who make cheap local food - it's a strange combination. A plate of noodles or rice with vegetables and an egg will set you back $1.50, and pretty much everything on the menu is priced the same. The food doesn’t quite have the same authenticity to its taste as other places and I’ll probably look for somewhere else.
Gordon's having a gay old time of it.
Gordon.
I met the mad Scottsman above (remember crazy Roddy from Sihanoukville who used to call for his beers over a microphone attached to his chair?) walking down the street the other day and had to stop him to chat because, well, I’m a lonely old man without any friends. Gordon was as positive, upbeat and chatty as you'll find and arrived on Bali a few days before COVID lockdown and apparently hasn’t left. I’m not sure how he’s managed to do this as I was under the impression all COVID gratis visa extensions and renewals were revoked. Anyway, Gordon was having a ball living as cheaply as he could - like a few of us do.
Urinal Vampires?
I’ve noticed the hanging of onions over urinals in a couple of bars with no idea what’s going on. I propose local Balinese have conjured some onion myth to keep drunk tourists from vomiting on their shoes. Or the onions have a secret power to keep tourists sober so they continue to spend their money rather than passing out. Anyone??
“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.”
― Charles Bukowski
― Charles Bukowski
- FishHead Phil
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My laundry lady.
Personally, I consider Balinese women the more attractive of the Southeast Asian female gender. I find the mouth, eyes and nose ratio or aesthetic subtly more appealing than other nationalities, and the demeanor of local women seems a little softer and perhaps more demure than others. Of course there are beautiful people everywhere, and this a very subjective opinion, but I find Balinese women quite beautiful.
To be young again.
Another person who found Balinese women irresistible was an expat named Henri, Henri The Bird Man.
Henri The Bird man was forty years of age and maybe the best looking man I’ve ever seen. The Frenchman’s first Indonesian wife died with the restaurant they ran together quickly folding as Henri struggled to deal with her death. I called him the Bird Man because he was obsessed with women, and with the passing of his wife, Henri had an endless array of beautiful local women on his arm and was the envy of many.
Financially, Henri was a mess, just hanging on, just keeping it together to stay in Bali with his fascination of the opposite sex also becoming his main source of income. Henri would take up with well-to-do Indonesian women holidaying in Bali, they blinded by his good looks to hand over generous amounts of money to keep him afloat. He’d have numerous women on the go at any one time - Henri coordinating their visits to the island to keep them apart and unknown to each other. One woman was particularly smitten - let’s call her, Putri.
Putri was the only daughter of a wealthy politician who yielded some power in the eastern parts of Indonesia. Henri met Putri on one of her visits to Bali when she became infatuated with the handsome Frenchman. At the same time, Putri also met Arnie, the raconteur expat mentioned in a previous blog entry. Putri was so won over by Henri she financed a new top of the line three thousand dollar scooter for him, gave him a sum of money large enough to open another restaurant, and generally kept him in a comfortable manner. She was obsessed with Henri.
Sitting with Arnie (the expat raconteur) at a bar one night he mentioned Putri had been in touch with him from Eastern Indonesia after her return home as she was concerned Henri was being unfaithful while she was away. Putri would pay Arnie five hundred dollars a month for him to keep an eye on Henri as well as letting her know of his movements and who he was seeing. Arnie being one of Henri’s best friends of course conveyed this offer to his mate and the two conspired to keep Putri mostly confident of Henri’s loyalty, but Arnie would also occasionally offer a little doubt as to where Henri might be every now and again offering just enough information to maintain his worth or value to Putri.
This charade went on for months until of course Putri arrived in Bali unannounced one night to find Henri entertaining one of his other women at the bar financed by her good self. From all accounts there wasn’t the scene one might expect in these situations, but it wasn’t too long after that night Henri’s bar and restaurant closed - he was also forced sell his new scooter, and life became a struggle again for the Frenchman. He was forever having issues with crazy women and nobody really understood why he couldn’t play it straight with Putri as life would have been quite comfortable for a guy who always seemed to struggle for money.
Apparently Henri is a changed man and now married to an Indonesian woman with two children. Fifteen years ago this would have seemed absurd.
“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.”
― Charles Bukowski
― Charles Bukowski
- FishHead Phil
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Straight back on the bike without shoes after coming off.
You know rainy season’s begun when the freshly bandaged limbs of young foreign scooter riders appear on the road. The chap pictured above not only just walked out of a doctor’s surgery after being patched up, he’s jumped straight back on a scooter without shoes and screamed off down the road almost taking out a local in the process of merging with traffic. I almost wish the Ubud police would recommence with their infamous tourist road blocks here after witnessing some of the young riders over the last couple of days. The kids are on the fucking lawn again!
Massage girls.
I’ve only ever had two massages in Bali and found them both to be limp, insipid, feeble attempts at justifying the seven bucks you’ve just handed over. I’m also getting a bit fed up with the constant “Hello, massage?” question every twenty meters whenever I step foot outside. I know I should be kinder, they’re just trying to make a living, but between the massage girls and taxi drivers it’s either completely ignore everyone, or repeat yourself ad nauseam all day when walking - I’m fluent in all ways to politely tell a Balinese person I’m not interested. It feels like I’m almost ready to move on from Ubud - I’m paid up for another eight days. Me and my first world problems.
My host, Nyoman.
This my host, Nyoman. As for many, Covid hit this small family pretty hard with them having to sell the first car they’ve ever owned after not having a guest for two years. Where prior to the last couple years they would get 150 000 rupiah a night for a room, they now get half that with tourist numbers not yet returning to pre-pandemic highs. They’re a lovely family who live very simple humble lives and are always very generous with their portions whether it be the food they provide or their time - they’re forever upbeat and positive. I'm thinking of what type of small gift would be appreciated when I leave.
“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.”
― Charles Bukowski
― Charles Bukowski
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Face work can't be comfortable.
Bali has almost as many tattoo palours per square kilometer as Hindu temples. I imagine it began with the great Aussie bogan influx of the eighties and has kept pace from there. I can’t be too disparaging of my Australian brethren as I myself got inked small in Ubud over twenty years ago which provided evidence enough to me that I’m quite the wuss and was never in any danger of having much of my surface area adorned with art. I watched a line of big burly blokes laying on tables getting tattooed in Kuta a couple of weeks ago, all of them looking like they were rather uncomfortable at best - the largest of them forcing his face into a pillow while curled up in the fetal position.
Surprised to see this coming down the road. Is it a Willy's?
The Tenor.
If you were to conjure the most stereotypical image of a good looking forty year-old Italian man, perhaps you’d imagine a thick mop of black hair, dark olive skin, a lithe but muscular frame, square chiseled jaw, heavy five o’clock shadow, an attractive aesthetic or symmetry to his face, and a dashing smile suggesting confidence. That’s what the guy who has just moved into the room below mine looks like - and he sings Italian arias in his room for a couple of minutes from about 8.30 pm each night. I’m not sure how often Balinese people might hear the trained voice of a tenor, but it’s quite surreal sitting in a room made from bamboo, walls adorned with paintings of Indonesian flora and fauna, the aroma of clove cigarettes wafting through, arguing with someone on an internet forum, then hearing Nessun Dorma emerging from below. I tried to make light conversation with the opera singer this morning but it seems he prefers to keep to himself - which will be respected.
Late afternoon central Ubud.
With a week remaining in Bali I’ve just booked accommodation in Bangkok for seven days and I’m a little undecided what to do from there. I’m becoming more of a city rat preferring the cram of life in Asian urban landscapes, but there’s also a part of me that’s considering a week or so on Koh Phangan as I used to enjoy going there from time to time. I’m also interested in seeing how Pai in the north has changed since I was last there quite a number of years ago, but It could be argued however not to return to the places you once enjoyed back in the day as the transformation surely can only disappoint. We’ll see how it rolls.
“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.”
― Charles Bukowski
― Charles Bukowski
- FishHead Phil
- I have some social problems
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- Joined: Mon Jul 15, 2013 3:22 pm
Part of the family kampung/compound.
It’s so deliciously cool in Ubud compared to the more coastal regions - I really do love so many things about the place even though it now being overrun by tourists frustrates me at times. If everyone else would just leave, Ubud and my relationship would be perfect - maybe the rest of you could just visit on a Saturday.
It rained heavier last night than I can remember waking myself and the Italian tenor downstairs - I knew he was awake as I could just faintly hear the opera he was listening to presumably on his phone. Nyoman, my host, tells me this morning the tenor has extended his stay by three days - him and I still just nod, say “good morning” before he turns away back to his thoughts. I wonder if opera singing makes one pensive or withdrawn.
Putu and her son.
My host family here and I are developing a wonderful relationship. I’ve now earned the trust of the six year-old grandson by taking out my partial denture, making stupid faces, repeatedly performing my two bad magic tricks and generally acting the buffoon. We spent half an hour playing yesterday to the delight of his mother and grandmother - it’s nice to feel connected to the family more than just being a paying guest.
I’m also now privy to a bit of gossip about guests and neighbors which makes me feel a little trusted, accepted or included in the family’s day. I’ll sit with a kopi under the pagoda while Putu does the washing, or Nyoman makes her pujas (offerings), and we’ll idly chat. It’s a nice way to pass some time and the women are very patient with my bad Bahasa Indonesia.
I hadn’t seen the father of the family until this morning - in almost two weeks staying here he’s never made an appearance. He’s a bald, rotund-ish figure of a man in his mid fifties (maybe sixty) who’s just hilarious. He came into the compound huffing and puffing pushing a mountain bike dressed in lycra which is way too small for a man of his proportions and I have to say in stark contrast to the more traditional surroundings of the kampung. He told me he cycles thirty five kilometers twice a day, and with no reason to disbelieve the man, he’s far fitter and stronger than this western walker.
Yesterday I was a bit grumpy and annoyed with Ubud - today has begun rather splendidly.
“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.”
― Charles Bukowski
― Charles Bukowski
- FishHead Phil
- I have some social problems
- Reactions: 58
- Posts: 549
- Joined: Mon Jul 15, 2013 3:22 pm
Making little baskets.
This morning I woke up to find a Balinese offering made for me and placed at my door. I found it touching the family would consider my health and well being their concern - it reinforces that we’re getting on rather famously. In the afternoon one of the daughters was patient enough to show me how to make the little basket part of the canang saris/offerings while we sat chatting about life and the world.
I’d seen macaques swimming on tv but not in person. There’s a, what would you call it, channel of water that runs for thirty meters out front of the Monkey Forrest which I’ve walked past a hundred times over the decades and never seen monkeys diving into the water before. It’s weirdly cool as you can stand two feet away looking down on them to watch as they do a frog-like dog paddle scramble under the water for apparently no reason other than it’s a hoot. I’ve got a new favorite place.
It's the simple day to day goings I enjoy most about wherever I am. Where once the day had to be filled full of crazy, now it's a calmer more civilized experience. Old age doesn't come alone it seems.
“Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead.”
― Charles Bukowski
― Charles Bukowski
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