This trip was short but sweet: three nights planned for Bali, with another two in Jakarta. Each day was different, jam-packed with little adventures and mishaps. The sort of stuff that defines Bali, and keeps me coming back again and again.
Princess was safely at home, in the care of EH. Dad (now 84) and I flew to Bali on Nov 28th. Our Bali stay was really only a stopover - the reason for this trip was to attend a colleague's wedding in Jakarta. Still, I had big plans for my precious hours in Bali: Plan 1. to catch up with Pixie (who Princess and I met at Secret Garden Inn in September); Plan 2. to take piles of goodies for the people on Smudge's mountain; Plan 3. to find Serba Antik and have curtains made for my new home; Plan 4. to stay away from the shops and spend as little money as possible.
The flight from Melbourne was delayed due to a passenger who looked decidedly unlikely to survive the trip to Sydney; in Sydney we rushed through formalities to connect with our flight, only to find it was delayed too, due to late arrivals from other states. Delays are unavoidable. No point in complaining. But what really grated was that staff knew in advance, and nobody told us. Dad and I spent way too much time waiting patiently at the departure point, rather than sitting in the comfort of the Qantas Club lounge and indulging in the numerous treats on offer.
Sydney to Denpasar was unremarkable, apart from witnessing the biggest electrical storm I ever did see: great slashes of lightning coming at half-second intervals lit the distant night sky. All very spooky. A nervous flyer at the best of times, I was especially glad we didn't have to fly through it. I kept looking anxiously through the window, expecting to see a malevolent being sitting on the wing, about to cause a disaster (okay, I've watched too much sci-fi on the telly).
A hiccup on arrival in Denpasar, when the Vira driver was waiting to pick me up, but the Green Garden driver was nowhere to be seen. (It turned out Dad had given them the wrong arrival time.) These things were finally sorted, and off we went to our respective hotels.
Before I go on, I should mention that the Green Garden asked Dad to e-mail them his credit card details for his room deposit. Obliging chap that he is, he did this straight away. I had a fit when he told me he'd e-mailed credit card details. I made sure he rang the bank immediately to let them know. He didn't use his card at all while away. But just last week, the Bank contacted him and told him someone had been trying to access his card. They've now cancelled said card and issued another, but it just goes to show that you can't be too careful: never send details like that via e-mail; they're too easy for undesirables to tap into.
I'd not stayed at the Vira before, but it's a charming and pretty little hotel with friendly staff, the security folk outside included. I was given a ground floor room with almost direct pool access. Upon unpacking, I realised I'd left my bathers at home, and had Dad's bathers instead. This presented a problem: I couldn't wear Dad's trunks, Matahari was unlikely to stock a pair of togs to fit my well-upholstered figure, and the Vira would probably object to my skinny-dipping. With a flash of inspiration, I slipped on my Peter Alexander nightie; it was short and black with a white ruffle around the hem. It looked a little retro, but would probably do if I wore black undies underneath - even though I'd look a right dork.
After a good sleep in a big, comfortable bed, I was ready to start Day One.
I bounced out of bed, dressed, and headed for breakfast. At least that's what I tried to do. However, my door was locked, and regardless of my efforts, it stayed locked. I was stuck. Nothing would open that wretched door, not rattling and fiddling, not thumping, not harsh language, and not a swift kick or two. I gave up after several minutes, and exited via the veranda door.
Now, I've read numerous traveller reviews on the Vira. Everybody seems to love everything about it, apart from the breakfast, which many report as being cold. The Vira certainly served some interesting dishes that morning. I tried mushrooms wrapped in cabbage leaves and doused with oyster sauce, which didn't do it for me. The vege patties were pretty, but had remarkably little taste. Both dishes were cold. This was not surprising, given that the staff left all the lids off the chafing dishes! After toast and home-made pineapple conserve, I was still peckish. Fruit salad and strawberry yoghurt, topped with passionfruit were just the ticket. I tucked in with relish and gagged at first bite. What the****? All I could taste was garlic. On closer inspection, I discovered that the passionfruit pulp was actually pesto sauce, and the strawberry yoghurt was thousand island dressing (also with garlic). Funny how quickly a woman can lose her appetite. Now I had a bad case of garlic breath - and I'd left the toothpaste at home too, along with my swimming cozzie! My brain was obviously there with them.
I returned to my balcony door, only to discover it had mysteriously locked itself. I rattled and cursed, then realised that maybe it wasn't my door after all. I tried the next door along. That too was locked. I was getting a little paranoid by then, with a nagging feeling that someone up there had it in for me. Eventually I had the good sense to check my welcome kit. Oops - wrong rooms. I found the right room and went to reception to ask for help. The man arrived, and my door opened at first attempt! How red was my face?
I wandered down the road to the Green Garden, to discover that Dad (the sod) had eaten a perfectly lovely garlic-free breakfast, thank you very much. We jumped in a cab and went to find Serba Antik and order my curtains.
Serba Antik had such a huge choice of wonderful fabrics that it was impossible to make a quick decision. We were there for hours. Fortunately, the staff members were experienced, helpful, obliging and patient (REALLY patient!). They quoted the curtain price and estimated airmail delivery costs that would apply if my order wasn't ready in time to take home in my luggage. Two pairs of full-length drapes for long living-room windows, and a shorter pair for each of the two bedrooms, came to about $1700. You can probably buy cheaper curtains at home, depending on the fabric, but if you want fabulous curtain material, Serba Antik is the place for you.
Exhausted by our curtain experience, Dad and I lunched at Black Canyon, then returned to our hotels for an LLD (Little Lie Down). My hopes for a snooze were dashed by the arrival of Smudge, escorted by three pretty young girls, to collect their things. The kids' eyes lit up when I showed them the Barbie dolls I'd brought. They asked if they could have one (the 24 year-old included). Yes, of course they could! One child immediately removed Barbie's shoes and showed them to Smudge. He commented that where they come from, many people couldn't afford shoes. Sadly, I hadn't brought any shoes with me. But I did have towels, sheets, pillowcases, and lots of clothing, which I gladly handed over.
After they left, I returned to bed and closed my eyes. Alas, no rest for the wicked. The phone rang immediately. A chatty woman asked for me by name. Oh-oh, timeshare, I thought. The minute she told me that my name had come up in her database, I finished her sentence with ‘and I've won a major prize, right?' Miracles of miracles, it turned out that I had! She commented that I didn't sound too thrilled to hear the news. I pointed out that it was my fourth trip to Bali this year, and that every time I left my address on the immigration card, I received a phone call like this. Being forthright by nature, I also pointed out that I greatly resented airport officials supplying visitors' details to external companies, and that I found the resultant phone calls intrusive. She apologised and ended the call. At least she didn't call me ‘darling' and ‘sweetheart', as one caller had earlier in the year. This particular woman also committed the unpardonable sin of waking me from a deep and luscious sleep. After the third batch of darlings and sweethearts, I asked her if she was in the habit of calling total strangers darling and sweetheart. ‘Oh,' she said, obviously taken aback, ‘have I offended you?' ‘Yes, you have, as a matter of fact,' I replied. I know, I know, I'm a grumpy old cow... but that's just too bad!
After two more visitors, Pixie arrived. We caught up on a little gossip, then fetched Father. Dinner that night was pasta and salad at Il Cielo (I think it is), opposite the Green Garden. Good food, reasonable prices, and a pleasant atmosphere.
Dad was tired, so Pixie and I returned to the Vira for drinks, more gossip and a dip in the pool. She had some rather rude things to say about my makeshift swimmers. I pointedly ignored her and leapt into the water. My nightie immediately ballooned to the surface like a big black blimp in a tutu, exposing my knickers and dimpled bum. People screamed and fled in terror (I may be exaggerating here, but I'm sure they would have, had anybody been around). I laughed so much I would've sunk to the bottom of the pool and drowned, had it not been for my Peter Alexander lifebuoy.
Day two was a day of the simple pleasures that Bali has to offer. After a banana pancake, freshly cooked and piping hot, and fruit salad WITHOUT pesto and thousand island dressing, I strolled down Gang Samudra, which runs down one side of the Ramada Bintang to the beach. The plan was to call in and say hi to chums at Jeny 29, see how the Sandi Phala had changed, now that it had become Kupu Kupu Barong, check out Ma Joly's lunch menu, then walk along the beach to Discovery, where Pixie and I were to meet. It's impossible to walk down that lane without being accosted. Although it was well before 9am, shopkeepers were up and raring to sell, sell, sell. The first shopkeeper introduced himself, took my hand and shook it. He then kept it. I tugged, but he wasn't about to let go. I tugged again, to no avail, then protested: ‘Hey, give me back my hand. I need it!' Delighted hoots of laughter from all around.
Next I was lured into the little optical shop, where I had a chat with the charming Sherly about her business and my new business, which happens to be spectacles. We exchanged e-mail addresses and promises to write. Then, dodging numerous shopkeepers wanting me to come into their stores and spend my money, I arrived at Jeny 29. Amy wasn't there that day. Her sister-in-law, recognising me while riding past on her motor scooter, had waved and called ‘hello, friend' as she went by. I impulse-bought a skirt, and left a note for Amy. Then I went to check out Kupu Kupu Barong. New management has obviously introduced some strict rules. When I arrived at the gate, security refused to let me in. Bah humbug! I'd always wanted to stay at the Sandi Phala when I was cashed up; I wouldn't stay there now if I was paid (well, maybe if I was paid...).
The rest of the day was spent window shopping, buying a pair of togs at Matahari (extra large size, so tight the straps bit into my shoulders- still, they were better than the Peter Alexander alternative), lunching on Soto Ayam at Asian Spice, buying a pile of DVDs that I didn't really need but had to have, and sharing a bottle of Hatten Jepun with Fee, a neighbour at the Vira. A lovely day indeed!
I was keen on dining at Tekor Bali for dinner that evening. Dad, Fee and I bundled ourselves into a cab and hightailed it to the beachfront, to meet Pixie. The others enjoyed their meals, but sadly, my bebek betutu was dry as sawdust, with about as much taste. The accompaniments were delicious, though, as were the lime crush cocktails, which came in at half the price of those at the Vira. We had planned on listening to a world music band at the Blue Ocean When we got there, we found a Rolling Stones cover band playing instead. In search of alternative entertainment, we walked to the corner of Jalan 66 to find a taxi. I noticed last time we were there at that time of evening (after 9pm), the taxis at the corner turned their metres off and refused to turn them back on again. Highway robbery, the price they demanded for taking us a few kms. I and I hate that feeling of being ‘had'. I would have gladly walked along the beach to Jl Padma, or whatever it's called now, to find a metered cab. Dad's feet, however, were giving out, and he wasn't up to walking any further.
After some heated negotiations, we settled on a price and climbed into a cab. Dad, who's not as fast on his feet as he once was, was halfway into the taxi when the bad-tempered cabbie started to drive off. We all shrieked for him to stop. He did - right on Dad's foot. The cabbie then had to reverse right OFF Dad's foot. No apologies, no nothing - fortunately no broken bones. But how rude can a person get, I ask you?!
Our evening ended listening to great music, drinking numerous frozen blue margaritas and indulging in some very raunchy girl-talk at Nero Bali, until they threw us out when they wanted to close. Bit of a headache the next day, but at least I hadn't forgotten the Panadol.
At lunchtime on Saturday, Dad and I checked out of our hotels and met at the airport. Air Asia only allows 15 kg of luggage, and the last time I'd flown with them, I'd been made to pay for an extra 5 kg. This time, having unloaded the bulk of our luggage to give to Smudge, we didn't have to pay a rupiah. If you're going to fly AA, readers, do yourselves a favour and eat well beforehand. You can't take your own food and drink, and the on-board food refreshments aren't worth touching. My cheese and ‘chicken' sandwich was awful (but cheap).
We were met in Jakarta and escorted to the Hotel Nikko's executive tower, where the rooms are wonderfully appointed and very luxurious.
The next two days were spent getting on and off buses to go to various receptions, eating way too much, taking photographs, eating way too much, being photographed, and eating way too much.
Our first night, when we were to attend a Chinese banquet hosted by the bride's father, I committed a fashion faux pas. My cheeks still burn with the memory. I'd taken three outfits to wear in Jakarta: a black Animale dress with black sequinned jacket for the wedding reception, a green casual dress for the Sunday lunch, and another frock from the Ezibuy catalogue for the Saturday night function. This last outfit was my undoing. When sorting out clothes to take, I'd abandoned the black crepe halterneck I had made in Bali last trip. Too busty, I said to myself. I chose the Ezibuy frock instead, on the grounds that it was far more conservative and demure. Yeah, right! I'd only tried it on the once. I didn't much like it at the time, and should have sent it back for a refund. But I didn't. The second time I put it on was in Jakarta. I looked at myself in the mirror and screamed. The dress had a deep V front and back. All I could focus on were the miles of fleshy cleavage I now displayed. There was nothing I could do to retain my modesty - safety pins would look decidedly naff. All I could do was grin and bare it, so to speak. I hurried off to join the guests and tried to act nonchalantly. But oh lordy, every time I looked down, I could see for myself just how enormous those puppies were! No amount of cajoling would get them to lie down and play dead. Instead, they stood guard and growled at everyone who passed. Fortunately, the conservative Chinese guests were way too polite to comment. Still, I spent the evening holding my clutch purse to my cleavage, or sitting at the dinner table with a glass of strategically-placed red.
All too soon, our trip was over. It took us about 36 hours to get home. Four hours waiting in Jakarta (we spent 40,000 rp to sit in a lounge, where I had an excruciating reflexology massage that left my feet so greasy that they slipped out of my shoes every time I took a step). At Denpasar we met the man from Serba Antik, who delivered my curtains and refunded the $300 cash I'd left him to cover airmail postage, if needed. We then checked in at Jetstar, where I was made to fork out exactly $300 to cover the excess baggage. There I found that our flight, due to leave at 10pm, was now scheduled for around 2am. (I arrived home to find a message from Jetstar on my mobile. Too bad that EH didn't think it important enough to pass the message on to me; Dad and I could have had a relaxed dinner in Tuban, and then returned to the airport in plenty of time to catch our flight.)
Finding a lounge to wait in was now a priority. The Premier Lounge (our first choice) was full. The Dewi lounge, which was cheaper than Prada, closed at 1am. I decided that the extra cost was worth it, and we opted for Prada, which stays open until the last flight leaves. I'm so glad we did, because the flight eventually left at around 4am. We helped ourselves to free food (not particularly good food, mind), countless drinks, and lively conversation with exhausted fellow travellers.
And so we returned to Australia, in good spirits and health, with some spectacular curtains and a big box of optical samples. Since then, I've packed up one house and moved to another. As I write, I'm sitting in my new home, admiring the drapes and thinking about my trip.
Now that the new business is finally about to launch, I have no idea when I'll return to Bali. But I will return; Bali is like a virus, once it enters the bloodstream, it's there to stay.
Cheers, everybody. Seasons greetings, and have a great holiday!
M