Kuta, Bali November 12, 2002

:: An American in Paradise ::  I'd bet 10,000 Rupiah that I'm the only American on Bali. Even the American Consulate is closed. And judging from the double-take the customs official gave my passport at the airport, I may be the only American he's seen in over a month. Exactly one month ago, on October 12, 2002, over 180 foreigners were killed by a car bomb in a nightclub district of Kuta, on the island of Bali. Australians lead the death toll, with at least 67 victims (and another 20 still missing), but visitors from around the world -- American, British, Dutch, Ecuadorian, French, German, Singaporean, Swedish, and of course, Indonesian -- also perished that night. Bali is an enclave of Hinduism in a Muslim country (the largest Muslim country in the world, in fact.) They have seen their primary industry, tourism, collapse in the wake of the bombing. Diplomatic embassies and consulates are only now reopening; travel bans and advisories are only now (a month later) being lifted, but it will be many months, and probably years, before the Bali travel industry reaches the levels it enjoyed before the bombing and pre-9/11. I almost didn't come to Bali -- not because I feared lightening would strike twice on this peaceful Hindu island, but because I worried that the mood would be somber and that this once bustling vacation paradise would be an empty, sad reminder of world conflict. Well, no one is here. My flight into Bali from Kuala Lumpur (on a Being 737) had only 12 passengers; I counted. It would all be quite melancholy if it weren't for the cheerful greetings I get at every turn -- the happy-to-see-you smiles from the Balinese that seem less obsequious and a little more genuine. I decided to splurge on my first night (US $30) and stay at a four-star resort near Kuta, priced desperately below an already reasonable market price. The resort has 180 suites, 3 pools (all with sunken bars), 2 restaurants, a spa, and a gym (or so I hear.) I asked the front desk how many people were staying here and they reluctantly admitted an occupancy rate of 5% (or 9 rooms). To be honest, they may have exaggerated -- I've only seen two other guests (but about 25 service staff.) Tomorrow, I'll head up to Ubud and the central mountains before descending into Lovina and the northern beaches. If I do see an American -- and I'll be honest -- my 10,000 Rupiah wager is still on the table. Any takers? That American Dollar could be yours.

Ubud, Bali November 14, 2002

:: Wedding on a Volcano ::  I hired a driver this morning to take me into the central mountains, where the mountains -- really volcanos -- provided a respite from the stifling humidity and heat of the lower plains. My driver, Agun (aptly pronounced "a goon") began the trip with several stops at various kickback shops along the roads leading out of Ubud. "You look. You look. Just look," he'd rattle as he would veer from the road into a parking spot outside a tourist shop, leaving me little advance for argument. "Once again, Agun. I don't want to look... well, maybe look for another driver..." There were various stops along the route that I did want to make on our route to the apex of Gunung Batur volcano (namely temples), and Agun begrudgingly complied. It seemed curious to me that a Hindu would say no to a Westerner wanting to stop at a Hindu temple. Besides, in negotiating the fare, I had forewarned him that I would want to make various stops (of my choosing). The highlight of the day's excursion was reaching Pura Ulun Danu Batur, a temple on the outer rim of Gunung Batur. (Gunung Batur is a vast double caldera -- or double volcano -- with an outer rim that encircles a crater valley, hot springs and a lake. From the center of the crater, the inner rim rises steeply into the clouds like a perfectly formed pinnacle volcano -- the kind you might create for a grade school science fair if you could keep the clay from drooping.) Overlooking the crater, this Hindu temple, with seven-tiered Balinese pagodas and elaborately-carved Hindu shrines, was in itself quite spectacular. But the lucky surprise was walking into a couple traditional wedding ceremonies. Hugging the perimeter wall, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible -- the only Westerner there -- I was invited closer by two elder women from one of the wedding parties. They insisted I watch the ceremony with them amongst friends and family. But the price I'd have to pay was letting them dress me up a bit more in local costume, which they found quite amusing. I had already entered the temple dressed in a sarong and a selandong (a skirt and a temple scarf) so as not to offend, but I was now bedecked in headdress and flowers as well. The ceremonies themselves were surprisingly brief, but were apparently only a small part of a week-long matrimonial event. The part I most enjoyed hearing about was how the groom had to show up on the first day with two cows as a dowry to collect his bride-to-be. They explained that dowry customs vary from region to region in Bali and that this was the most expensive. I don't think they followed my humor when I quipped back that I'd rather buy two cows than a wedding ring.

Ubud-Lovina November 15-16, 2002

:: Random Gripes ::  #1:  Indonesian money stays in circulation way too long. It's bad enough that old bill designs are not retired and are still circulated interchangeably with new designs; it's worse that some notes are so old, tattered and faded that their denominations are nearly impossible to discern. #2:  I am a walking dollar sign. Indonesians believe all Americans are rich. Ironically, this gross over-generalization may have some truth compared to the local standard-of-living and average annual incomes. And Americans that can afford to come to Bali, do have money. Still, it's difficult to stroll through town without seeing dollar signs reflected in the eyes of the Balinese. You won't make it one block without someone pleading for you to enter their store, offering you transport, or trying to sell you an English newspaper, a magazine, a ticket to a performance... anything. Just buy. Share your wealth, American. In fact, anyone of European decent is presumed to be an American, making the term almost a class distinction and less a citizenship. Contributing to this is the fact that all tourists carry their money in US Dollars and speak English. (The terrorist who bombed the Kuta nightclub was surprised when he learned that he had only killed 7 Americans. He assumed that the white party crowd was mostly American.) I'm curious to see if this generalization continues, given there are no Americans here and probably won't be for quite some time. #3:  Indonesians overcook food. Tuna should be seared, not charcoaled. Barbecued does not mean cremated. "Medium-rare" is pretty self-descriptive; it does have the word "rare" in it. Please don't serve me meat in a single-shade of grey (although the crisp exterior is interesting). On the positive side, they are undoubtedly killing all bacteria. That is, until they plate the meat in front of me and five flies reach it before I do. #4:  Indonesian gnats love me. Given that I've most commonly seen them swarm trash and feces, I'm beginning to feel self-conscious about my body odor. #5:  I don't need a guide. Leave me alone. The "guides" outside temples and tourist attractions are exceptionally pushy to the point of employing deceit. "No. You need a guide. Must have Balinese guide to go into temple. Cannot enter without guide. You see... they send you back without guide." You don't need guides; they need you.

Lovina, Bali November 17, 2002

:: Do you see the bats? ::  I swear there are bats flying around outside my bungalow. I'm not surprised to see them on Bali -- yesterday I saw millions of them in the Goa Lawah Bat Cave on the eastern side of the island -- I'm just surprised to see them here, one block from the beach and 2 km from the nearest mountain that might house a cave. Bats smell... but that's another issue. I'm staying in a bungalow in Lovina on the north side of Bali, skipping distance from a beach of black volcanic sand. The place costs US $4 a night (negotiated down from $8), which is a bargain even in Indonesia considering it has a spacious room, queen-sized bed, private bath, and a patio I spend hours on. It even comes with breakfast. My days have become much more idle. Hours pass on the beach or propped up in a wicker chair on my patio. I've been reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I'm in sandals, shorts and occasionally a shirt. Even I know I'm getting a bit weird. I'm the only person staying at this hotel (or bungalow complex). In fact, over the past two days, I've only seen a handful of foreigners in town. Most of the locals even know me by name. "Hello Ken, would you like another beer," asked the grocery store clerk this afternoon on my approach. "Yes, Madu. Bintang beer, please. Make it a large."

Lovina, Bali November 18-19, 2002

:: Deedee and the Gang ::  I've grown quite fond of Deedee, the hotel owner, despite his harassing persistence that we go back to his village and smoke ganja. We've developed a short of arms-length comradery that seems to extend to his many friends who are always around. There's Madu, Madi, Katuk, Yamu, Daisy, and Dokee (who I prefer to just call "Doggie"). We cook together. We watch movies together. We drink together. Tonight, I brought the whiskey and coke; Deedee cooked some awful dinner of sardines and bugs (barbecued on a sheet of aluminum foil), boiled bananas and spicy rice.... really, it'd be hard to make up something as disgusting as that. They would never serve this to tourists; this is what they eat. We watched Rules of Attraction (pirated VCD), drank and lounged around on uncomfortable bamboo and wicker chairs. I've insisted that tomorrow I will cook -- BBQ tuna and chicken. Deedee will make peanut sauce and rice. It's so quiet and empty here, that divide of money aside, I no longer feel like a tourist -- more like one of the gang (the one with the money, of course). This trust was confirmed by Deedee today when he stepped out for an hour midday and asked me to watch the hotel. "If anyone come, just show them a room... and don't let them have it for less than you pay. Here are the forms. Make sure they write everything." Secretly, he knew no one would come, but still the same, I was a bit flattered that he left his business in my care... albeit only for an hour. And, no one did come. :: Pig's Blood Pudding ::  Deedee’s a Muslim, but not a very good one. This afternoon, I saw him sit down to eat pig’s blood pudding and drink whiskey & coke, while smoking a cigarette and bobbing his head to a very loud rap song (Nelly). After finishing his snack, he turned to me and once again asked if I wanted to go back to his village and smoke the "good stuff". It probably wasn’t worth reminding him that it was Ramadan.