Posted by Martin D on Monday, 19. October 1998 at 10:13 Bali Time:
We returned last week from 6 days in Bali (not long enough!), and, as others have, I wanted to share a few thoughts with others that weren't clear in advance from my reading of this forum.
Taxis at the airport.
The first critical piece of information that I didn't have is that there are actually two different types of blue taxis: light/sky blue ones with meters and dark/navy blue ones without. Light blue are cheap, it cost us less than US$10 before tip for a two hour ride from Nusa Dua to Yoyah Bungkah (see below). I didn't see the reason to use any other kind of transport when there were light blue cabs available.
At the airport we couldn't find the light blue cabs, but it doesn't matter because there are fixed price dark blue cabs in front of arrivals. To get these you need to go to a booth outside the arrivals area where you pay in advance for a fixed price ticket to your hotel/destination. It was 2500 Rp from the airport to Nusa Dua. Note – heeding the warnings in this forum we didn't change money at the airport, and paid at the cab booth in US$. The rate we got here was by far the worst of the trip – the 2500 Rp ended up being US$5, so if you have far to go it might make sense to change at a slightly worst rate in the airport rather than pay the appalling cab exchange rate at the booth.
Names
The guidebooks will tell you about the Bali naming convention, Wayan=eldest, Made=next, etc. The implication of this is that when a Bali man (e.g. tour guide) tells you his name is Wayan, unless you get his second name too it is unlikely that you will be able to track him down again. We had a couple of strange conversations after pre-arranging a tour guide and transportation with one individual only to have another show up ('I though Wayan was guiding us?' 'I am Wayan' 'no, the other Wayan'…)
Gunung Agung
The Washington Post had a great article on 6.14.98 in the travel section about climbing Gunung Agung, which was exhausting but worth it. The town is run by a self described 'organization', so all guiding (which you need) and transport is at inflated but seemingly unavoidable prices. I have excerpted some of the article here (thanks to the Post, great paper, please subscribe…)
I picked up the pace, speeding into Toyah Bungkah, a charm-free town that's more High Noon than South Pacific. ( The otherwise upbeat Lonely Planet guide describes it as "a grubby little village.") I headed for the biggest building in town, the Puri Bening Hayako, which advertises itself, candidly, as a "hotel without business centre." I took a room and prepared to call it a night. After all, the guidebook said I had to start climbing by 4 a.m. if I wanted to beat the heat and see the sunrise from thetop. I needed to sleep more than I needed to check out Toyah Bungkah's grubfest.
It wasn't meant to be. As I signed over a traveler's check at the front desk, the "bubbling magma" men entered the lobby; this time, they were representatives of the "Mount Batur Trekking Guide Service." To climb without their service, they assured me, is illegal. They demanded I look at their brochure, which offered three tours: "sort," "midium" or "long" -- from $15 to $35. I expressed interest in "long" (a five-hour trek, up the east face of the 5,600-foot mountain, halfway around its rim, and downthe other side, through craters pushed up by recent eruptions). To close the deal, they promised to throw in breakfast -- eggs cooked in a steamy fissure at the peak -- and transportation back to Toyah Bungkah after our descent.
Eventually, after an hour of thick, sugary watermelon juice and thinly veiled threats, I doled out 20 bucks -- 225,000 Indonesian rupiah, on an island where the average salary is 141,000 a month -- and climbed the dark stairs to my room. (The power was now out in the entire town.) I "slept" with one eye open.
By 4:10 a.m., I am trudging through Toyah Bungkah's deserted streets, and doing a bit of rethinking. The moon has set, and in the total darkness I can't tell a mountain from a building. The idea of climbing without a guide was, I now see, ridiculous.
Even more surprising, my guide has assumed an entirely new persona: encouraging, helpful, even gentle -- taking my hand, carrying my bag and wielding a flashlight with considerable skill. He has also brought a friend: a nameless, silent slip of a man dogging my every step. Given the hour, the difficulty of the climb and his helpful manipulation of a second flashlight, I never question the man's intentions.
The first part of the trek, up a steep, boulder-strewn slope, is taxing. I am often out of breath and always drenched in sweat, despite the middle-night coolness. But at least I'm walking. One German student is literally being pulled up the mountain by her guide. The sun will rise at 6:20, and word is anyone who doesn't reach the rim by then will miss the best part of the program.
By 5:45, we've passed the tree line. First light reveals the pristine Lake Batur (four miles wide and reportedly nearly as deep), and behind it two other active volcanoes. The whole thing forms a tableau worthy of a National Geographic fold-out. But clouds, moving in from the north, threaten to block the view before our Fujicolor moment. And my legs are getting weak.
And then, somehow, at 6:15, I pull myself onto the rim. I had already consumed three liters of water -- my entire day's ration -- and pant for more.
Suddenly, the mysterious third man, who hadn't said one word during two hours of what was (for me) a painfully difficult climb, perks up. "You want to drink some Coke? You want to drink some Sprite? No problem!" He opens his backpack to reveal the scratched and shaken bottles he is offering to sell for 10,000 rupiah (only 88 cents, but about eight times the going price on Bali ).
I dive for my wallet. Soon I am chatting with the dozen or so others who have made it to the top (I am the lone American). And then breakfast: bananas, bread and eggs. They are, as promised, "boiled" in one of Batur's natural steam vents.
The best is yet to come. Thanks to a series of recent eruptions -- the latest in 1994 -- the terrain on the far side of Batur is an otherworldly mix of colors (from bright red to jet black) and textures (from crispy, peanut-brittle sheets, to oddly airy boulders, to a fine, soft sand). As we walk around the rim, on a ridge with thousand-foot drops on either side, we are glad to take advantage of the footholes someone left there with a pickax, like a spoon going through the top of a chicken pot pie. Behind us, we can see the north shore of Bali , with its cheery banana and coffee plantations and, beyond, the sun-dappled Pacific. (Sadly, my soft drink sprite is not carrying film; I'd exhausted my supply by 8 a.m.)