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Chapter Eight Bali

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By 1991 we were living at Alexandra Headland on the Sunshine Coast. I had left the sheltered workshop of Telecom Australia, and Eileen and I had businesses of our own. Our two boys were both completing high school and preparing to leave home. We decided to have an overseas holiday with them, which could be our last as a family unit.

We chose Bali. Our boys Kristian and Ryan, both liked surfing, so we lined up at Brisbane airport with their surfboards. One of our neighbours was an international airline pilot, and he told us to always make sure there was a white man up the front of the aeroplane. This was not meant as a racist comment. It is just that some religions believe in reincarnation, and therefore the practitioners are not afraid to crash and burn.

Our Garuda pilot was Indonesian, but we arrived without incident in Denpasar. We had decided to stay at Sanur as it was a more family oriented area, and our taxi delivered us to our hotel there. After checking in and sorting ourselves out we exchanged our traveller's cheques for the local Rupiah. At R5500 to $Au1 we were millionaires.

Out on the street was our first experience of the keenness of the Balinese to do business with us. Ida, the second bemo driver we used, had a comfortable air-conditioned vehicle, so we used him for our entire two week stay. He would take us all, or just the boys if they wanted to go surfing. We did go with them to Uluwatu. To get from the road to the cliffs overlooking the surf break, I doubled Eileen on the back of a trail bike, while locals took the boys and their boards. We looked down at the surf, and then looked some more. We watched strong, fit looking men unable to paddle out, and some of those that made it out came back with smashed boards. We went back to Sanur and Ida said he would take us to a better spot tomorrow. The break at Medewi proved to be excellent and we spent most of the day there.

There is more to Bali than surf, so we spent a few days touring the mountains. Near Kintamani, we took a trip across Lake Batur to the village of Trunyan. The tradition for dealing with departed relatives here is to first lay them on the ground, and then build a bamboo cover shaped like a one-person tent. They are left under this until there is little left but bones. The sacred tree removes any smell. The bones are then placed on an alter like stone walled part of the temple. They remain there until the wall is full, then the oldest bones are shoved off the wall to fall unceremoniously down the cliff.

The volcano of Gunung Batur was snoozing when we were there, but only just. Steam and ash could be seen spewing from several escape vents.

One day Ida took us for a drive along the south east coast to watch stick fighting. Young men, wearing only shorts, would enter a ring, two at a time, armed with thin sticks. They would flay each other until one would submit. On another day he took us to watch cock fighting. Submission here was usually by death from the razor sharp spurs of the victor.

It would be nice to say that we watched beautiful sunsets over Kuta beach, but this was before the hawkers had any regulation, and any attempt to enjoy the beach was interrupted incessantly by peddlers of wooden carvings, fake watches, etc and offers to, 'Plait your hair'. One day we wandered around Nusa Dua with its opulent hotels, and wondered if we would really like to holiday in pampered luxury, with all our tours organised for us with clinical comfort. We decided we liked Ida's off the beaten track tours better. Sanur was wonderful for us, and that Balinese holiday inspired us to look forward to many more.

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