That first breath you take as you exit the plane at Ngurah Rai airport is as uniquely Balinese as Tanah Lot, Kuta Beach or face tautening braided hair. Somebody once described the aroma as a combination of, cloves, the ocean, burning rubbish, the smell of evaporating moisture off hot bitumen and aviation fuel. Descending the mobile staircase to the tarmac I inhaled again, deeply, and had to agree as the tugg of a small grin pulled at the corners of my mouth, a flood of memories competing for status as my fondest, all trigered by the mash of smells so long overdue to my senses that I was now experiencing.
Perhaps the most relevant memory at this point was one of a departure from Bali, my first as a matter of fact. We had taxied to the start of the runway when our captain informed all aboard there would be a slight delay in our leaving as a dog had made its way onto the airfield and posed a slight risk to our take off.I had an isle seat, and upon turning to look through the window I saw in the distance a dog run into, then out of, the narrow field of view available. He was closely followed by two airport employees in close pursuit with a fishing net raised above their heads, at the ready to apprehend the furry intruder when the first opportunity arose. This scene then repeated itself in the opposite direction, the pursuers having lost much ground to the K9 and now almost at a walk, enjoying Bali's atmospheric uniqueness in great volumes. Much like the four legged interloper, our captain made a run for it, and we were away.
Inside the terminal I was pleased with the speed and efficiency of immigration and now stood with most of the other passengers in front of baggage claim, the majority of our eyes firmly fixed on the small opening from which we were hopimg to see our luggage arrive soon, so as to begin our holidays in earnest. With the whir of machinery and the thud of suitcases landing on the conveyer belt, a hundred pair of impatient feet shuffled toward the carousel.
Eventually, almost reluctantly, my old stained backpack nosed its way out into the open surrounded by shiny suitcases with extendable handles and retractable wheels, Louis Vetton leather and a large Chanel toiletries case resisting all efforts to be removed by its owner, an anorexic model who weighed less than her make-up. Suffice to say, my pack looked out of place and I hurried to remove it
from any further humiliation. I liken my pack to an old arthritic pet you should have put down, but just can't, the thought almost unbearable. Under the gaze of a couple of dissaproving observers I released its straps and swung my trusty companion onto my back, the contour of its frame fitting mine perfectly. I guess we will have to endure ridicule for a little time to come.
After spending a night in Kuta, I had planned a couple of nights in Ubud before heading out east through Nusa Tenggara to explore some its islands, namely Lombok, Sumbawa, Komodo, Flores and Timor. As I hadn't hitch hiked for some time in Indonesia, I thought I would thumb the few hours up the hill and hopefully meet some interesting locals along the way.
The morning broke still and quiet and after begging the sleepy resident cook for an omelette and coffee I headed a couple of kilometres out of Kuta and stuck out my lucky thumb.
In the first thirty minutes I was offered many rides, but unfortunately they all came from busses, bemos or motorbikes. I wanted to try and obtain a lift from people other than paid drivers and politely rejected these offers, reaffirming for many of them the weirdness of some of their islands visitors
After another hour of rejecting offers and the day warming up, I thought I would have to forgo my idea of getting a lift with someone other than those that drove for a living. Almost instantly, an old flatbed truck with wooden slats for sides, slowed as it passed me and came to rest thirty metres up the road. An arm appeared out of the window and started waving me up. At last. I grabbed my pack and took off at a race, having two realizations as I sped towards my ride. First, never give up hope. Secondly, the elastic in the left leg of my underwear had reached its used by date.
Puffing as I reached the passengers side window I saw three men smoking cigarettes, taking up all the space on the only seat. They were all of them in possesion of strong, stocky builds akin to those who have spent a lifetime engaged in hard physical work. Two were moustached, wearing thongs, dirty shorts and t-shirts and the other younger man, was clean shaven in long pants and wellies. All wore toothy grins as I pointed up the road and said "Ubud?"and they continued to smile as they nodded in unison and pointed to the back of the truck.
Happily I threw my pack in the back and jumped up onto the tray, relieved to having finally got a ride, but also very happy with the form of my transport. I may not have had the opportunity to engage my hosts as I would have liked, but as we chugged up the road and shop buildings gave way to a more rural Bali, I sat back on my bag and enjoyed the landscape and its inhabitants rolling by out the back of the truck, the distinct odour of buffalo dung my only company. Weirdly I noticed a faint sweetness to the smell.
After an hour we pulled up to a roadside stall and I supplied refreshments in the form of fanta and a cigarette for everyone. We were able to communicate with a combination of english and Indonesian. The men were family members of a farm owner who occasionally sold the odd water buffalo. They had just delivered one of these animals and were heading back to Ubud and to return the vehicle.
Back in the truck we rumbled off. I am always amazed at the ability of the Balinese to balance produce on their motor cycles and just after our roadside break I saw the load of the day passing our old farm wagon. Two males, about eighteen or nineteen,sitting far forward on the seat with fifteen flat aerated boxes, (I suspect chicken chicks), a large clear plastic bag of assorted clothes and toys as well as a suitcase, beaming smiles as they tore past us.(Of course "tore" is a realative term here) It would not have surprised me a jot if I saw a family of four coming behind us riding a unicycle balancing an elephant on their heads.
There was a distinctly bovine air to my fragrance as I alighted from my fumy carriage on Monkey Forrest road that day, and I jockingly wondered how that might work as a conversation starter,
"Uuum, excuse me. I apologise if I smell like buffalo dung but may I join you"?
I removed three packets of Marlboro from my pack, handed each of ny hosts a packet and shook their hands goodbye. I could hear the honking of their horn long after, disapearing as I was into the back streets.
I found some lodgings and thought I would look for some food before heading to the monkey forrest and engage in one of my favorite past times, watching animals. Later I would seek out a bar and some company, as the further east I traveled the less frequent westerners would become, so the idea of a few Bintangs and conversation sounded good.
I didn't actually make it to the forrest with its monkeys. Walking down the main road I happened upon a nice open bar with a pretty traveler type of woman sitting by herself in the sun. I went up to the bar ordered some food and a Bintang. After I took possesion of my drink I went over to the woman outside and said,
"Uum, excuse me. I apologise if I smell like buffalo dung....."
No buffalo dung:)
Cheers Ham