Second last day of an amazing 3 weeks in Bali. We started off in Sanur, then Nusa Dua, Ubud and now Nusa Benoa. The following is written by one of the 7 ladies that travelled with me.
'More, more, five, five,' the agitated driver screeched, while baring yellow, broken teeth. The money notes we had just thrust towards him was balled up in his fist.
Two hours before, the eight ladies on the Balinese holiday had separated in Ubud markets. They were ready for serious shopping. Margaret and I paired up. Escaping from the oppressive heat we flopped down in a cafe and ordered gelatos and it was here that Margaret noticed that one lens was about to pop out of her glasses because of a lost screw. A local policeman pointed down the road, 'an optician's just 200 metres down there.' 'Oh great, that's not far,' we agreed and with water bottles and fans in hand, we optimistically strolled along the narrow footpath with eyes scanning concurrently for the optical signage and window shopping. At what we considered would be 200 metres we walked into the air-conditioned comfort of a bank asking how far it was to the optician's. 'Just down the road a bit,' was the reassuring reply.
Leaving the bank our progress was impeded by a gathering of Balinese men, women and children in traditional dress, flocking around an magnificent 3 metre high, glossy black, fiery eyed, alabaster horned cow, structured in fibreglass. It was adorned in lavish gold-plated yokes and plates and flared eyes outlined in gold. His long tail was plaited and twirled rigidly from his rump. Following behind was another lofty construction of bamboo and wood. It was layered in three sections. Sitting atop was a beautiful Balinese girl. 'She must be Miss Ubud,' I flippantly commented.
But we still hadn't found the optical dispenser. 'It can't be too far now,' I reassured my friend who was feeling guilty about me accompanying her instead of shopping. We pressed on in the stifling heat, stopping now and again to hydrate ourselves while feverishly fanning our faces.
In concert with our trek was the parade which very quickly had turned into chaos of farcical proportions. At the commencement of the parade, we watched as local villagers — at least 10 — hefted the unwieldy contraption on their bronzed shoulders and then we giggled as they swayed and tottered down the narrow roadway while the huge black and gold bovine swayed drunkenly in rhythm with the twists and turns of the narrow road. The carriers were blissfully unaware their cargo threatened to topple from its elevated dais of criss-crossed bamboo right on top of the spectators. It was hilarious; they'd only travel 10 metres when panicked whoops of, 'Oh no, whoa, whoa,' followed by, 'Oh oh,' meant they were forced to stop abruptly because the road was either blocked by a myriad of parked cars and motorbikes, or, overhead wires. Not to worry, the overhead wiring problem was solved by a special man designated to run ahead of the pack poking a stick up into the wires enabling the parade to pass safely underneath. Occupational Health and Safety obviously was not on the agenda.
Meanwhile the second float glided silently along on rickety wheels, ushered by serene, elegantly attired women, their heads piled high with colourful offerings. Without warning and amid celebratory cries, the entourage swung right into a park.
'They're ready to party,' Margaret quipped.
Finally locating the optician down a side street, we collapsed thankfully into chairs while the glasses were repaired; taking all of three minutes. We were exhausted. We needed a taxi to get back to our resort, but we were on a back street and there was none in sight. We trudged along, one eye on the broken, uneven footpath while the other scanned for the elusive taxi.
'You wanna ride?' The driver, I think Javanese, called to us. He was driving an old orange van. Seated on bench seats along the rear-sides were three middle-aged women.
'We're trying to get to Komaneka on Old Monkey Road,' I said. 'Yeah, yeah, I know that place, we take you there.'
Our experience with the Balinese people during the previous 10 days had been positive; always ready to be of assistance. That's nice of him I thought and too tired to think clearly I clambered in. Margaret, who usually practised caution, hesitated before plonking down on the opposite bench. The ladies grinned towards us then chatted between themselves. Despite the flow of air circulating through the open-doored van it reeked of something unidentifiable.
'Komaneka here,' the man gestured, pointing up a side street. We'd only been in the van for about two minutes.
'Where is it,' I asked. 'Up there, up there,' he countered.
'Thank you very much, that was kind of you,' I said stepping down onto the road.
'Five, I want five.'
'You want money?' We were incredulous; naively presuming he was just a kind-hearted soul helping lost tourists.
'Yes. Five.'
'Well, here's two'. Suzanne, one of our travelling companions and an expert on anything Balinese, had warned us not to pay anything more than $5 for a taxi back to our hotel. This was no taxi.
'Five, five,' he demanded.
'I've got two,' Margaret said, shoving the note into his outstretched hand.
'Not enough, five, five.'
'That's all the change we've got, we can't give you any more' I answered truthfully.
The driver clashed gears into reverse and started to back up menacingly towards us.
'Let's get outta here, up this way and around the corner,' Margaret panted, leading the way.
Thankfully, we weren't followed and we gingerly made our way back to where he had dropped us off. There was no hotel, no distinguishing landmark; we certainly weren't on the Monkey Forest Road.
Five minutes later a legitimate taxi pulled up beside us. 'Do you know where the Komaneka Bismar is?' He did and we sank back into the airconditioned vehicle, with leather seats and sighed.
'Oh,' Margaret said in consternation. 'I've just thought about how much we gave that driver,'
'Four dollars, that's what we gave him,' I snapped.
'No, she grinned, we gave him 40 cents; you 20 cents and me 20 cents.'
Oh no, now we really felt guilty. No wonder he was shouting abuse. In our flustered heat-riven state, we had misread the notes we handed him. The rule being that four zeroes is taken from the amount shown, i.e. 100,000 rupiah equals $10AUD.
I asked the taxi driver about the parade which we had followed and was amazed when he told us we had just witnessed the funeral procession of the late Balinese King's brother. Apparently in the middle layer of the second float, directly under the seat of the composed young Balinese beauty, was the coffin and when the parade had swung into the park, it was headed for the cremation service. He explained that rather than mourning the departed, the loud, rhythmic sounds of people chanting and drumming was the Balinese way of celebrating the life of their loved one as they travelled into the after-life.
Margaret and I had traded our way around the Ubud markets with alacrity, but on this morning, we definitely got more than we bargained for. Two frazzled ladies running away from a cranky taxi driver and unknowingly witnessing a Royal funeral. Who'd of thought!.