The Road To Bali

How many of you remember the Road films with Bing Crosby? The “Road to Bali” was first released 73 years ago now.

We weren’t, of course, on a road but on the sea. Would old Bing be able to make it. It only appeared that he had three hopes: little hope, no hope and, most importantly of all, he had Bob Hope. My word, how we laughed!

What a great series of films the “Road” productions were. My dear Dad loved them. Mind you, he liked anything with Bing Crosby in, after all, he was the greatest singer ever born. That was Dad’s view, in any case, but not sure he really does it for me.

Listen to this, the hapless pair had to leave Melbourne after two disastrous marriage proposals. They then made their way to Bali where they both fell for a local princess. Of course they did! Check it out. Of course, you will realise, I am far too young to have enjoyed this first time around.

First thing I was going to have to contend with was the temperature test that was searching out the coronavirus. I wondered how intrusive it was going to be? Jane said they simply held up a gadget in front of your face. Those that disembarked in Komodo were excused this on entry to Bali. I mean, like they couldn’t have developed the condition overnight. You will all know, if you have had covid, it might not be there one minute but all over you the next. I am sure one of the current variants, Nimbus, can be caught three times in one day?

“What proof do you have that you have already had the test?” I asked of Jane.

“None,” she replied.

That doesn’t sound too reassuring, I thought.

On leaving the ship, we toddled off along the quayside and into the border control building. There wasn’t a sign of anyone let alone a thermometer. I just strolled through, past empty glass booths, and out into the bright sunlit street. No test. I could have been ravaged by corona and who would ever have known?

When we discussed this with other passengers upon our return to the ship we discovered that there had been some technical challenges with this type of test at Komodo. Apparently, and it sounds plausible, because the meteorological temperature was so great, around 35° each day, and the test was usually applied after a hundred metre walk or so, all tests were proving to be borderline, so they were abandoned. I am not aware that anyone on board had contracted the condition. If they had, it proved ineffective as it didn’t run through us like a dose of salts.

What did I know about Bali before we arrived here. Well, that’s easy, the square root of zero, apart from, of course, the aforementioned film. Didn’t really know much about Indonesia in general. What I did know, though, was that the archipelago was quite a religious place, Islam being practiced widely.

Bali, however, was not Muslim, but Hindi. Don’t know why, but that did surprise me. Another film that focused its attention on the former Dutch East Indies was “Krakatoa: East of Java.” Pretty topical given the events of these last few days on Flores with the eruption of Mount Lewotobi Laki-Laki, which saw the relatively active volcano spew its contents 11km into the sky.

As you will be aware, this closed Balinese airspace for a short period. This precautionary action seems a little over the top to me given that there is 524km of sea in between the two islands. I have to say, though, if you have to be stranded anywhere due to flights being grounded, there probably aren’t many better places than a Bali beach. I never seem to strike that lucky.

What else did I know about the archipelago? Well, I remembered that the best known islands were Java and Sumatra. Then, when I was checking out some facts for this week’s offering, a process I loosely call research, I discovered that two islands I had, hitherto, thought of as independent, actually share part of their territory with Indonesia: Borneo and New Guinea. Who knew? Okay all you clever-clogs out there, I didn’t, alright.

In fact, as it turns out, Borneo isn’t actually a country; it is owned jointly by Indonesia, Malaysia and Brunei, 73%, 26% and 1% respectively. The island of New Guinea is split, almost equally, into two parts. The east forms the independent nation of Papua New Guinea, whilst the west, owned by Indonesia after some sort of cold war carve up, forms six provinces ruled from Jakarta. Slightly confusing, to me anyway, is that all of these provinces have the word Papua in their name.

It was the beginning of a most interesting stay on this wonderful tropical island, if a little over-populated. Indonesia is home to 286 million people and is the fourth most populous country on the planet. Bali has less than 2% of these, 4.4 million, crammed into an area of about 5,500km2. To give this some sort of context, it is about a quarter the area of Wales, well, everyone else seems to use Wales as a size benchmark, but a population over a third as big again.

The first night was to be spent onboard before we were transferred to a hotel for three nights. Originally, we had booked our own accommodation but, out of the blue, our tour company had telephoned to ask if we would like a complimentary three night package in a luxury hotel?

“What’s the catch?” was my first question.

There was no catch. It was absolutely free. It appears that the tour company had purchased some space at the hotel, but most passengers were booked to fly straight home at the end of the cruise. After the so called luxury ship we had been booked on we treated the three night stay with suspicion. Get over yourself, I convinced myself, don’t look a gift-horse in the mouth or, what’s the other one, beware of Greeks bearing gifts. Take your pick.

Anyway, first things first. We were booked onto a bus tour. I had to overcome a slight physical challenge in the early part of the drive. Since we had hit the humid tropics, somewhere between Brisbane and Airlie Beach, I had been struggling to breathe properly. All of a sudden, sitting on the coach, I begun to feel a temperature coming on. Christ, no, please don’t say I have coronavirus, I thought.

I felt a little under the weather until we alighted for the first time. First stop was a cultural centre where we witnessed, or would have done if I could see, the incredible local puppetry. We were told a story through music and puppets on strings. I forget what it was about in detail, although it championed good triumphing over bad, and failed to make a note of it in my journal at the time. I could make it up, but I won’t. Sorry!

Jane felt the repetitiveness of the music cut right into her. I didn’t actually think it too bad, although after hearing it every day, it did get a little much. Imagine listening to “Wheels on the Bus” a thousand times in a row!

After a stop at a bird park, I shall deal with this in a future episode, we were to return on a trip from our hotel, we went to a traditional Balinese compound. It was just as we were leaving the park that we felt the first raindrops on our heads. They weren’t the gentle little spits we start our downpours with here, in comparison, they were positively nuclear, exploding into hundreds of smaller droplets as they landed on us and the surrounding ground.

On arrival at our next destination the rain was torrential. It was as if someone had got a hold of a water cannon and was trying to sluice away the pesky tourists. We were handed these, well I’m not really sure what they were, they looked like condoms with the end cut off for us to stick our heads through. They offered us about the same protection, we got soaked to the skin and more.

The compound was big enough to hold up to four generations of the same family, about 600m2. It was community living in spades. Every compound was, roughly, constructed along the same lines. Huts were assigned to family groups with communal kitchens and eating, the women all contributed to the cooking whilst the men went to work or relaxed shooting the… well, you know. Ah, that’s it, chewing the cud!

No compound would be complete without a temple. Interestingly, the first son of the man of the compound would stay after getting married and, sometimes, a second son might earn a place providing he brought a big enough dowry with his bride.

Generally, daughters, not quite having the same value, would move out and live with their new husband’s lot in another compound. The women would be expected to provide care for the elders or the sick. It all seems a little feudal to us westerners but, to be fair, every single one of the people we spoke to appeared to be extremely happy.

Another blight of the western world, I suppose any world outside of these compounds, is the smart phone. Not a sign of them within these small communities, families sat and talked to one another in their free time. Can you get your head round such a concept?

These, if you like, tiny villages, or communes, stayed with the same group for years on end, some were known to be over two-hundred years old. The huts were, in the main, built from timber and, every now and again, they would be replaced. My word, what a simple way of life, to have everything mapped out for you like that.

They don’t have a welfare state yet homelessness is non-existent, social care is provided by families, usually women, and everyone clubs together to ensure food is on the table. It makes me wonder if we are chasing the right things in the so-called civilised world? Thoughts welcome.

As we stooped under the roof of the communal kitchen, watching the rainwater cascading from the roof, I have seen less active waterfalls, we were contemplating our return to the bus. In the end, we had no alternative but to wade through ankle, knee and thigh high floodwater. We were soaked. As quick as it had arrived, though, it had disappeared.

By the next stop the sun was out again, but those of us who had braved the compound were steaming. Sensible ones amongst us had stayed on the bus but, then, they usually did. If it wasn’t rain, it was the blistering sun. You are left wondering what people expect from the tropics. Still, there would be a lovely afternoon tea, or three, waiting for them back on board the ship. And they could then go up for seconds.

Have you ever been to a batik factory? It is a craft that seems to have its roots in Indonesia, although it can be found in many East Asian societies. The overwhelming impression when you walk up to the front door of such an establishment is that you are about to enter a council run public toilet, one that hasn’t seen a cleaner for the entire summer. You know what I mean. Another comparison might be a chicken shed, complete with the overpowering scent of ammonia.

Once you get used to it, though, you will only marvel at the skill, artistry and precision of these craftspeople, mainly women, maybe only women.

The process is extraordinary. It starts with the design, pencil lines dawn on a plain sheet. The cotton threads are then weaved, on what can only be described as, medieval looms into complete sheets. Melted wax is then applied to the right places within the design and allowed to set. A base colour is then applied to the areas not coated in the wax, before other dyes are mixed in with the primary application to produce fabulous bedsheets, sarongs, or, in the case of the item we purchased, tablecloths.

A typical sarong would take around 30 day’s labour to produce. This means that each garment in the UK, basing the labour rate on the minimum wage, say a charge out rate of £25 per hour would retail at £750 plus the charge for the materials and overheads. Possibly getting on for two-grand a piece.

Trust me, though, if these craftswomen were employed in the UK they would be worth a lot more than minimum wage. Maybe £5,000 might be more realistic? As with all attractions we were herded through the giftshop on the way out. The shelves were bursting. That got me to thinking, and this must sound pathetically cynical, but how do so few people produce so much stock? They were adamant that computer aided design and manufacture systems were not used. Honestly, I really would like to believe them.

We were transported back to the ship for the last time. We would face an evening of farewell dinners, performances and speeches. I for one could not wait for the final disembarkation. On reflection, there were too many seadays and, to be frank, I think the duration of the cruise was too long, maybe ten days or so is about right. The dream of joining a round the world cruise has vanished from my thinking. How long are they? Five or six months? Ouch!

You may recall from an earlier chapter that the MV Voyager was supposed to continue onto Singapore and, I think, Hong Kong before crossing the Pacific to its home in the US. It didn’t. Coronavirus was now an epidemic, not yet a pandemic, but the orders came through that the journey would terminate in Bali.

Passengers could stay on board until onward transport had been arranged for their trips home. Non-essential crew would be taken off and sent home. It was the last group I felt for, their future was far from certain, returning to their home countries of origin as they were, I don’t think they had furlough waiting for them. I would love to think that the cruise company might put their hands in their pockets to help them, but these were uncertain times for so many. I guess the priority was to look after your own first of all.

We were now off to our, so called, luxury hotel. On arrival we were greeted by security that would not have seemed out of place at an airport. Reassuring or worrying, I’m not sure which?

Of course, the other thing synonymous with Bali was the dreadful backpack terrorist attack, now known as the Bali Bombing, on 12th October 2002. Perhaps, then, these precautions were not as over the top as I first imagined. I had no idea whether there was still, or is, a clear and present danger.

First thing that struck us was the size of the place, there are cities that are smaller. It exuded luxury from every pore. It was phenomenal, I had never, nor have I since, stayed in anything like it.

If you have yet read “Wish Dead List” (shame on you if you haven’t), you will recall when retired major, John Wells, is recalling his life with his recently passed wife, he arrives at a luxury hotel in Bali after a cruise to mark their 40th anniversary, he quipped to a group of Americans that he had stayed in worse.

That was the only autobiographical scene in the whole novel. John Wells had, I have no doubt about it, slept in many uncomfortable billets, whereas I have been camping! The group of Americans around me laughed as much as the group that had surrounded Wells! On reflection, they were probably chuckling with relief, we hadn’t ended up in some dive on the backstreets of Denpasar, the capital.

Welcome to our home for the next three nights: The Aparva Kempinski. You really must search this out in Mr Google’s search engine and see for yourself, and, to think, every minute of our stay was complimentary. Anyone else want to give me an upgrade? Bring it on!