The hotel owner/manager? had a place right beside our unit and after a sweaty nights sleep we were awoken by roosters crowing, the managers dog barking at all of the bikes going past, and to his (the owner, not the dog) hawking and spitting. After washing under a cold water pipe that was posing as a shower, bleary eyed, we climbed the path to Robbie and Sues little pad to find them refreshed and having a coffee overlooking the bay. Ha, I felt sorry for them, they hadn't experienced the real Bali like we just had.
Across the road to the restaurant. 'Breakfast included' must have been prepared by the Angsoka chef, so we downed that in 2.5 seconds and whilst Sean and Emms went for another snorkel, I wandered out to the point and slowly bled out several tuna that I purchased on the way. Telling Emms and Seany to stay in the water for a bit longer, I drank a coffee, ignored intrepid boat salesmen and re-read the insurance docos. After another hour they came out of the water, and I slipped the policy back in my pocket, realising that the only way I would get the money to retire in Bali was to do something a bit more honest like become an apprentice gynaecologist.
Putu arrived all too soon.
When I booked the trip, I had specified that we wanted to return to Amlapura via the east coast road. We had never done that section, generally because most drivers had said it was too rough. Putu was now saying the same thing. A debate followed and finally he said yes. I was pleased we had convinced him, so I released my headlock on him, Robbie stopped gouging his eyes, and Seany let go of his testicles. Isn't it amazing what can be achieved through discussion and teamwork.
Half an hour into the trip and wishing Putu hadn't given in so easily, we were bouncing our way past beautiful bays, lovely accommodation and little fishing villages. Every bend brought a new sight. Each beach was covered by logs with Yamahas attached and trucks on the side of the road were being loaded up with tuna destined for market.
The country side was steep and as dry as my throat gets when thinking of a binnie, and yet everywhere was terraced. I asked Putu what the hell could they grow there besides cactuses. After massaging his throat in able to reply, he adjusted his groin uncomfortably and looking at me through his remaining good eye, he explained that in the wet season they get a few crops of corn and peanuts.
Seeing the tuna (bound for Singaraja and Denpasar) sitting in weaved baskets piled onto the backs of small trucks in the direct sunlight, with absolutely no covers and hours to travel, answered a question that had been rattling around in my head. Mainly how come after I eat tuna meals over here I often underestimate the time I have remaining to get to the toilet , and that I am generally half a pace too short before sitting down. Even another puzzle for my tiny brain cells. Would it be better to get served the tuna on top of the baskets that have sun bathed past their use by date, or one that has been squashed and cooked slowly in the juices of their mates (all in 30 degree temperatures). Ahh what the hell, leave that up the scientists I say, they are the ones with the big grants for just that kinda question.
Back to the trip. I would honestly say it was one of the best little diversions we have embarked on in Bali. Emms and I had slipped into the rear seats (bloody grapes ,must do something about them), and the only way I didn't compress a couple of back discs was literally by lifting my bum off the seat by hanging onto the strap on the ceiling with one arm and supporting my weight with my other arm on the arm rest. Unfortunately there was only one rest, so Emms didn't fare quite as well. Apart from smacking their heads on the ceiling every few metres, the others were fine.
Half way through we heard Sean saying something about being sick. Thinking he was practising surfy lingo I agreed, and Emms had to point out that she thought he meant the old techni-colour yawn. Christ, just what we needed to go with the grapes. We asked Putu to pull up at the next convenient layover, and as we all know when we need one, there was not a suitable place for the next 20 kilometres.
Finally after climbing down Mt Everest we hit the coast and Putu was able to swing into a lane that led down to a beach where locals were sorting out bloody big piles of garden rocks from the beach. To his credit, Seany had held on, and with bulging cheeks, scrambled out of the van. We had a look around at the rock business and although a little bay, it was chocka full of beaut garden rocks that would fetch a small fortune in NZ. I suggested to the locals that instead of getting truck loads of the rocks dumped onto the beach, and then hand carrying them up, why didn't they just get them dumped where they were sorting them. Must have been lost in translation, because they just gave me quizzical looks and went back to sorting. As my old granpappy said, you can take a sheep to water, but ya can't marry it.
Back on the road again and we hit Tirta Gangga. They must have a leak in the council pipes there as there were bloody big ponds of water surrounding buildings everywhere. Rumbling through, we set our sights on Klungklung, to give young Sean a taste of museum culture, Bali style.
Regards Ianz