Upon Josh's arrival in Kuta, engines revved as we rented scooters and tore off west at an incredibly slow and cautious pace. Bali is a war zone of pot holes, rogue animals, and darting lawless vehicles; not the place to learn how to ride an engined-powered machine of any design. Images from the past poured into my mind and mingled with the present as we navigated our way through controlled chaos. All that was missing from the memory of my first time on a motor bike was a heavy rain.
Led to salvation by GPS-equipped devices, we escaped the congested web of city streets and transitioned into more open and slightly less scary country roads. Dave and I wagged our fingers like a couple of old curmudgeons. Back in the day when we were here (2012) we didn't have devices. We had to navigate the old fashion way, like our parents! Our slow, tedious system involved halting at every intersection, making eye contact with the locals, followed by the question: Balian? Or Amed, or Padingbai, or any other town we aimed our sites. A host of fingers would simultaneously spring up, rigidly fixed in one direction, and off we went. We were never lost.
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| Consulting the GPS |
It took us a few days to gain confidence on our bikes. Ryan was the exception. His motorcycle days of being too fast and too furious were in the past, but his mustache visibly bristled with the thrill of being on two wheels again. Once out of Kuta we let out a collective sigh of relief. The country side bloomed before us--beauty thriving between the thorns of cities. Crowded buildings slowly tapered and eventually gave way to thick patches of jungle and virgin coastline. Tamed stretches of earth--seeded patiently by tanned hands--sprouted with rows of crops. Sky and clouds rippled within the watery lines of uniformly planted rice. The lively colors clashed defiantly against the military-greens of the plants refusing to conform.
Despite the beauty and the temptation we had to remain focused on the road. There was always a potential hazard to avoid: a monstrous truck forging down the wrong lane, a patch of tire-swiping gravel, or an absent-minded dog trotting towards disaster--unaware of the white-knuckled westerner and the knee-jerk maneuvering that spared them both. The first few days I rode my bike like a spooked cat--muscles rigid, hair raised, eyes wide in surprised terror.
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| He does wheelies too! |
North we went, up the lovely western coastline to the black sand beaches of Balian. Dave and I reminisced about our first visit to this quiet town which had grown exponentially in size in such a short time. A few peacock resorts vied for our business with offers of wifi, a pool, and yoga classes--they go straight for the westerner's heart--but we abstained and chose a minimalist accommodation with a view worth a thousand buffet breakfasts.
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Upon returning to a place it is natural to perceive its changes. Every time I travel to Ohio I have to squint my eyes to recognize the land where I grew up. Over there is a Super Walmart and over here, where a field of corn once grew, is a shiny new suburb. Progress in some people's eyes, digression reflected in my own. A few weeks ago I met an older couple from the Netherlands who shared their story of change. They had come to Bali in 1997 as travel writers and had returned eighteen years later as tourists. Their eyes widened as they described the differences between the past and the present.
"Only one paved road circled the island" the old man said, "and each village had three scooters. Three!" They shook their gray heads in amazement. "Now there are thousands zooming around and pavement everywhere."
Three years is not a considerable amount of time, but a lot can happen for better or for worse in the wake of progress. Bali's beauty has not diminished, it is as lovely as ever, but the culmination of publicity and the onslaught of tourists--influenced by travel television, magazines, and books--have made their mark on this small island. Nat Geo Traveler says, "Go to Bali! It's the new, cheaper Hawaii!"
It would be pretentious and hypocritical of me to stand behind my podium and point a condemning finger at tourism, myself being a tourist. Dave and I like to refer to ourselves as "travelers" and we try our best to separate ourselves from that disturbing scene. We cringe when herds of people spill out the doors of behemoth busses, swamping the sites with their numbers and chasing away the peace; we wince when we witness the harassment of a devout Hindu praying in a temple, a private moment between an old woman and her deities stolen by a swarm of iPhones; and we shake our heads in disappointment when a wild stretch of beach is encroached by foreign-owned resorts tailored to maintain a certain level of comfort for a certain type of people--not for the locals. I mock these impacts--a failing attempt at separation--pretending to know what's right for this country and others. My selfish desire to keep these places to myself has manifested into a resentment of my own kind. At the end of the day tourism brings in money and money buys food. Who am I to judge? But I can't help but wonder if that old Dutch couple felt any regrets about what they put in print so many years ago.
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As terrestrial creatures drawn to water, especially water with surf potential, our first order of business in Balian was to rent boards. We highstepped barefoot across the sizzling black sand and paddled out to join the bobbing crowd of surfers. Word had traveled. This once abandoned break was now teeming with Europeans. We found the task of navigating around bodies and avoiding collisions to be frustrating and mostly unrewarding. Dave, however, caught the wave of the day: a long beautiful right, a birthday gift from the sea. That night we ate locally caught fish, and drank cocktails made from cans of tonic, fresh limes, and a bottle of Kettle One--bought in secrecy while in Kuta and saved for the occasion.
Two days later we remounted our bikes and turned inland towards the mountainous interior. Up we went, throttles revved to their full capacity and engines whining in protest. We leaned forward across the handlebars, willing our bikes up the steep, inclining roads. Eventually we crested the top of each monstrous hill, gaining speed as the road evened out before us. Bali took on a new shape and dimension as we looked down on the curving coastline and the patterned green valleys. Neighboring islands sprouting huge volcanos loomed in the distance--a reminder of how much there was to see in this massive archipelago.
Some where along the curvaceous, flower-rimmed road Dos Equis and the Bintang Bros were born. It seemed only natural that our little gang should have a name. Dos Equis--Spanish for two x's and the name of a cheap Mexican beer--refers to my female chromosomes. Bintang is the Indonesian-produced beer, and the guys' beverage of choice. A silly joke that managed to stick around like many others on this trip including, but not limited to, Dave having an Academy Award-winning Hollywood doppelgänger; Josh's muscular hind quarters being an object of lust and envy; and Ryan's ever-growing mustache possessing a personality of its own.
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| Matthew, I mean David |
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| This thing would make Tom Selleck's stash hide in shame |
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| Stand down, ladies |
It has been interesting traveling with three XY's dynamically comprised of my boyfriend, brother, and a friend. There has been excessive flatulence, man-talk, and beer drinking on this trip; but despite being viewed as 'just one of the guys,' there is a collective sensitivity towards me that is unmistakeable. Dave has always been subtly protective, trying his best to remain 'cool' and not interfere with my independent nature; but add an older brother to the equation and voila! You get Jenna's not-so-secret service.
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Ten minutes into our flight from San Francisco to Bali a man sitting behind us had a bag dropped on his head by a little old lady trying to get to her luggage. The man threw a fit! He tore into the woman--animately berating and spitting swearwords at her while ignoring her gentle, embarrassed apologies. Disgusted by the scene I turned around and told the man to calm down and have a seat--he was throwing his tantrum in the middle of the aisle. The expression on his face was murderous! He sat down, but as I turned away I could feel his hate-filled gaze searing the back of my head. With an emotionally unstable man sitting directly behind me I felt uneasy and exposed.
"Take your eyes off my sister!"
Ryan had turned around in his seat and was fiercely staring down the scowling man. At that same moment Dave returned from the bathroom. Confused by the sudden tension, he looked from me, to Ryan, to the furious face sitting behind us. With eyes still locked on the man, Ryan unfurled the story, ending with the evil look that had been directed towards me. Dave immediately whipped around pointing a finger.
"Who? This guy?"
With two sizable men staring him down, the defiance fled from the man's eyes and he looked away, pacified. With a slightly discernible nod of their heads, Ryan and Dave untwisted back into their seats as if nothing had happened. Ryan opened his book, Dave reached for his headphones, and I closed my mouth--which had become unhinged during the scene.
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It didn't take us long to establish a natural order. Ryan and Dave took turns between leading the group and bringing up the rear while Josh rode in front of me, casting a warning finger at patches of gravel and deep crevice-like potholes. I accepted my role as position number three; but every once in a while, feeling defiant, I'd throttle my bike to an uncomfortable speed passing bikes two and one and take the lead. I may be a girlfriend and a sister, but nobody puts Dos Equis in a corner; or, in this case, sticks me at third place. I blasted ahead partly out of demonstration, but mostly it was done with the deviant intent to make the boys squirm.
I am convinced that motorbikes are the best way to travel. They are not only fun, hearty little machines, but fuel efficient and cheap to rent. At two dollars and fifty cents a day, we bought ourselves boundless freedom. By navigating our own course and indulging our whims, we were funneled away from the tourist scene and straight into the heart of Bali. The shocked, gaping faces of some of the villagers were a testament to just how far we had traveled off the beaten path.
The Balinese are among the happiest and friendliest people I have encountered. Everywhere we went we were greeted by big radiant smiles, vigorous waving, and shouts of inquiry. "Hellooo! Where you from? Where you going?" Children heading home from school stretched their tiny hands towards us, their faces bursting with joy and giggles as we slowed our bikes to a crawl and high-fived them as we passed.
Indonesia is a Muslim country, but scattered within the large archipelago are pockets of Animism, Buddism, Hinduism and Christianity. With beautifully designed stone temples and happy, peaceful people, Bali's Hindu beliefs--which are vastly different from Indias'--have shaped this island into a charming and rich cultural experience. Every morning palm baskets containing flowers, rice, and burning sticks of incense, are placed in temples, homes, vehicles and on the sidewalks as offerings to the gods. In a win-win situation, stray dogs are believed to be agents of the spirit world and are left in peace while they consume these gifts.
We allotted ourselves two weeks to explore Bali; riding in a large circular route from one side of the island to the other--gleaning memories along the way. Through cool, refreshing mountain forests; past picturesque fields of budding rice; and along the emerald-blue coastline of the Indian Ocean. At times, dark cumulous clouds would billow up over the mountains releasing their fury on the island in sheets of heavy rain. We were caught in these drenching storms on more than one occasion with no where to hide--sharp beads of water pelting our helmets and skin.
In the small mountain village of Munduk, after hiking in the rain to three stunning waterfalls tucked deep in the lush jungle, we sat on our homestay's balcony with cups of hot muddy coffee gripped between our hands. As the sun sank below the palm-fringed horizon, the eire song of a Muslim prayer call drifted in the twilight. These calls to prayer resonate through out all of Indonesia--starting at four thirty in the morning and, like clockwork, sounding at pinnacle times through out the day. Even though Bali's population is nominally Hindu, there are mosques in every village projecting these haunting songs of devotion through crackling loud speakers.
As scooter-riding nomads, we were almost always on the move--stopping from time to time to rest our saddle-sore bottoms and explore an area more thoroughly. The black beaches of Balian, the crystal-coastline of Amed, and the quiet dive town of Tulamben, were a few of the places we spent multiple days forming an acquaintance.
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| West Coast |
In Tulamben, one hundred yards off the beach in about fifty feet of water, rests the World War II ship, the U.S. Liberty. Damaged by a Japanese submarine, the Liberty was towed to Bali with the intent to repair it, but during a volcanic eruption in the 1960's it was swept into the sea by a violent lahar. Now Tulamben is on the map as one of the best scuba spots in Bali. The four of us found a reputable dive shop, suited up, and explored the ghostly remains of the wonderfully intact cargo ship. It was Ryan's first time diving and after getting use to the buoyancy regulator, and the strange sensation of breathing underwater, he cruised around as if he belonged. It is a gift of innovation to be able to visit this once impenetrable world. To possess the ability to breath comfortably, floating weightlessly amid unimaginable preasure, while observing the propulsive movements of a squid. I would have loved to be an aquanaut, a marine biologist, or a fish.
From sea to sky, one day's journey brought us to the mountain town of Salat and the base camp for our journey up Bali's biggest valcano. At over 3,142 meters, Agung appealed to us with its size, accesibility, and lack of popularity--in other words, no guide was necessary. The following morning we awoke at 3:45 and by the light of a pale moon rode our bikes up the steep road to Pura Pasar Agung--the Hindu temple and the beginning of the trail.
After two hours of vertical climbing, headlamps illuminating our path, the darkness gave way to the brilliance of a newborn day. As the colors from the sunrise burned with intensity and spread throughout the sky, we scrambled up the last pitch of rock and reached the summit. Land and sea bowed before us as we stood triumphant on top of the island--Kings and queens of Bali.
The higher I climb, the further I can see, and the smaller I feel. I stood on top of that mountain surrounded by endless water, gazing down on the contours of the coastline and the fissured-looking road far below. This island is barely visible on a world map. I felt a sudden wave of gratification for the places I have been and an overwhelming sense of excitement for what I have yet to see. This was only one small adventure for Dos Equis and the Bintang Bros. The rest of the world awaited.
As the sun and the temperature rose, we broke the spell of the mountain and descended the steep, rocky slope--passing chattering monkeys and poetic flowers as we went. Dripping sweat and invigorated by our adventure, we reached Pura Pasar and the stairs that led down to our motor bikes. Hindu priests wearing their customary sarong and sash passed slowly by on their way up the mountain to pray. With an entire day before us teaming with possibilities, we mounted our bikes, started our engines, and nodded our heads--the customary symbol for readiness.
"Let's ride!"
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| Pura Pasar Agung |
