Travel Diaries: Bali
I didn’t know an awful lot about Bali, to be honest. Each time we’d arrived into a new country, I’d made sure that when my crocs touched their soil, I’d know the basics; the geography of the area, the main religion, population, a couple of fun facts. I’d know which government was in charge, and if there were any potential conflicts about to boil over. I’d know of any extremist groups or separatist factions were threatening to cause disorder and societal collapse, and I’d have memorised how to say “hello” and “thanks”. However, it had been touch and go whether or not we’d even make it this far, and I was a much less-enthusiastic person than I was when we first came travelling just over three months ago. Bali had always been on the original itinerary, but we’d changed the route umpteen times and my finances were becoming rather precarious viewing, so it was a last-minute decision to squeeze one final week of backpacking in, before starting from scratch in Australia.
One thing I had heard about Indonesia as a whole is that no time is enough time. There was so much to see and do, not just on Bali, but on the neighbouring islands of Lombok, Java and Gili Trawangan, too. I can only imagine what our time in the archipelago would’ve been like had we had both more time and more disposable income…
After getting through the rather irritating immigration process in Denpasar Airport, we were greeted by hoards of pushy taxi drivers. I foolishly got chatting to one whilst I was searching for the smoking area, after our Malaysian layover had left me deprived of nicotine. We would normally book a taxi through Grab, but this chap was adamant that he’d match the price. Mia was suspicious of him, and wanted to arrange the transport through a trusted and recognised provider, but I overruled her, and took the local up on his offer. We followed him up two floors, into the multi-storey car park and into his Suzuki Swift. It was only when I clicked my seatbelt that he informed me he’d had a change of heart, and the price would be increasing by 50%. I gave him an ultimatum: same price or we get out.
He had the cheek to try and barter with me, so with egg on my face, myself, Mia and Eden collected our bags from the boot of the Swift and made our way out of the multi-storey car park and down two floors to the taxi rank, all the while being pursued by the scamming driver and three of his mates. The price got a little bit lower every time I told them to get lost, to the point where I thought, if negotiations persisted, they might even pay me for the taxi ride.
We eventually found ourselves in the enigmatic but charming, ancient city of Ubud, after a lengthy car journey under the moonlight. We had intended to have an early night at the Puji Bungalow Hostel, which felt like it had been plucked out of an episode of Game of Thrones. It was very royal and regal, with big oak double doors leading to our dorm room, and a large garden surrounding the swimming pool, which was definitely well tended to. Instead, we thought we should probably go for a late night walk to see what we had in the vicinity. We didn’t discover an awful lot, and it appeared that Ubud, bar the odd bar, goes to sleep before midnight.
It was a bizarre little place - architecturally beautiful with an infinite number of restaurants and a variety of bars. It had plenty of designer clothes shops, quaint book and souvenir stores, and the locals were generally quite friendly. But, something was off. Something about the whole place just felt a bit strange. It felt like one huge resort full of dilettantes. Everyone and everything felt a little bit fake. It all felt rehearsed, and I was beginning to worry I’d become an extra in the Palme d’Or winning movie Triangle of Sadness. The city felt like a pristine movie set, posing as a facade for the rest of the island, which, in this analogy, is neglected and unvisited by tourists. We would wander down the main streets past venues such as the Wellness Bar and the It’s Okay, Don’t Worry About It Winery and Eatery. It was full of tossers who had come for a yoga retreat or to “focus on themselves”. Spreading positivity and happiness. But it was all bullshit, it was all for social media. I don’t know what this new breed of unbearable twat is called but I’m sure they and their subculture have a name, so if someone could enlighten me so I can do my best to avoid them at all costs, that’d be great.
On one of the days in Ubud, we took a taxi ride to the Cretya Day Club. It soon became known, by me, as the Cretinous Day Club. Again, architecturally stunning, whoever designed it should be proud. I wonder if, when they’d spent their life drawing out the blueprints, they had intended to build a place for young chaps to prop their phones up and film themselves doing press-ups by the side of the pool…
Pools are supposed to be fun, not pretentious. You’re supposed to jump into a pool and make a big splash. Pools are absolutely not designed for people to stand in, bobbing around to a relentless beat, with makeup done up to the nines, scanning the rest of the venue and judging other people’s swimwear. Part of the welcome monologue from the staff advised us against getting our hair wet, because it might turn green, which reminds me - there’s a big thing in Bali about not getting your face or head wet, because it can make you ill. Even in Goa when showering with unidentifiable bugs, or in port-a-loo like showers in deepest, darkest Cambodia, I wasn’t worried about getting my face wet… but here, in this Instagrammy, aesthetic paradise, you can’t trust the water.
Later that evening, I found myself alone in a bar. I’d left the girls at Cretya, and ventured back towards Ubud to try and find somewhere even remotely more sufferable. It took me a while, half-cut, trudging through the rain. But eventually, I stumbled upon the Laugh Out Loud Bar - a huge space with over fifty empty tables and a little stage with some instruments scattered about. I plonked myself onto a stool at the bar, ordered a Bintang, and scowled at everyone else having a good time. A bald chap in his fifties, twice my size and weight was hogging my attention. He was French Canadian from what I could make out, and was having a conversation with someone named Rhonda on FaceTime at an excessive volume. I thought he’d probably end the phone call or leave once the live band started, but as the band opened with the melodic intro to Prince’s “Purple Rain”, this chap just compensated by shouting even louder. At one point, he went to the toilet and turned his phone round to face the band, so that Rhonda could enjoy the covers.
“Rhonda is watching!” He bellowed at the band, pointing at his phone as he got up to leave, almost distracting the lead singer and making him forget the lyrics to “Hotel California” by Eagles.
All eyes were firmly set on Australia at this point. We were being very money conscious during our last week, and doing what we probably should have been doing for a while, i.e avoiding expensive looking places, choosing the cheapest menu items, etc.
However, this didn’t stop us from pushing the boat out one night and splurging on some ale, after discovering what was probably the best pub on the island. It was called El Toro, but we nicknamed it the Expat Bar as it was full of Europeans. We stumbled upon it whilst en route to a Greek restaurant, after the heavens opened unexpectedly and we required refuge from a place that sold alcohol. It was relatively compact inside, with a pool table and a stage surrounded by tables and chairs. We were the youngest in there by at least twenty years, but enjoyed the atmosphere and played some card games whilst waiting for the rain to stop.
One of the staff members came round with some empty slips of paper for the customers to write their requests on, to which the band duly obliged. They played everything from a brilliant cover of Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Californication” to songs by the most annoying and overrated band of all time, Queen. A chap from Merseyside named Gary got up and covered “Ain’t No Sunshine” by Bill Withers - it wasn’t a karaoke night, but Gary didn’t care.
We’d been so engrossed by the music that we failed to realise the rain had stopped, but when we did realise, thought it best to go and grab a gyros from the Greek place and perhaps return to the Expat Bar once we’d eaten.
The shop was a little takeaway style venue with some Greek memorabilia on the walls. To my surprise, the place was actually run by a Greek bloke who I got chatting to whilst we were waiting for our food. Once three halloumi gyros had been dished out to us, the owner placed his hand on my shoulder, whispered “yamas” in my ear and walked off into the night.
The gyros were ok. I’d had better, namely the ones I’d help prepare myself whilst working with Noble’s Kitchen, but they kindly let us sup some Bintang in there whilst eating. Once we’d wiped the tzatziki from our mouths, we made our way back to the Expat Bar and sat back down at the same table. Coincidentally, the Greek bloke was sat on the table next to us, and it was at that point Mia pointed out that he wasn’t a bloke.
We got chatting to the owner of the expat bar, Dave, who informed us with a strong Aussie accent that he was from Guildford, Surrey, but had spent the last thirty years flirting between Bali and Alice Springs in Australia’s Northern Territory. He was a nice chap but didn’t have too much to say, and we spoke mainly about where we could get a decent cup of tea on the island, soundtracked by Gary’s rendition of “No Woman No Cry”.
It all ended with a Kiwi chap getting up and singing the extended version of “Killing In The Name” by Rage Against The Machine.
After five long and uneventful days in Ubud, we checked out of our penultimate hostel and set course for our final one. We had two days left of travelling, and were all beginning to reflect on what had happened over the last fifteen weeks, and what was to come of the near future.
“What are you most excited for in Australia?” Asked Eden as we were drove to our next and final destination, Canggu.
“Stability and structure,” said Mia firmly, as if she was already thinking about it. “Not living out of my bag and having to pack up and go every two days.”
“What about you, Kai?”
“To cook,” I replied. “Just to cook my own meal.”
“What are you least excited for?” Asked Eden.
“The unknown. Not getting a job. Not having any money,” said Mia.
“Cleaning up after cooking,” I replied.
Soon enough, we pulled up to the Black Pearl Hostel, and checked in for one last time. We were greeted by a couple of beautiful, tame dogs and two swimming pools. The rooms were nice, and after we’d made friends with all the pets, we went for a little walk around Canggu.
Boutique clothes shops and handicrafts were in ample supply, as were tacky souvenirs, all of which were aimed at Australians. We’d been told a couple of times that Bali is like Australia’s answer to Benidorm, and that claim was beginning to have some substance.
We found ourselves in a little makeshift shopping centre, which still had coronavirus warning signs up. Each shop sold the same tatty shite, although a lot of it, in fairness, was hand-crafted from wood. But still, it was like walking into a car boot sale that banned any products that weren’t made of oak, mahogany or medium-density fibreboard.
“Hello boss,” began the pushy salesman. “A bottle opener? Fridge magnet?”
I smiled apologetically and shook my head, turning to scan the next stall’s tat.
“Hello boss,” started the next one. “A lighter, maybe?”
I smiled unapologetically at this one and walked away.
“Hello boss,” said another. “Would you like a plastic cup?”
A plastic cup? Come on mate, that’s pathetic. If I was going to buy a souvenir I’d obviously choose one of the thousands of wooden artefacts on offer. Not a fucking plastic cup. It was as if he panicked and just offered me the first thing that came into his mind. I shook my head and walked away.
After buying some clothing for as low as they’d go, we made our way towards some of the beach bars to watch the sunset and have a bite to eat. Mia and Eden both tried tuna steak for the first time, igniting a revelatory little spark in their minds which was, in essence “why have we not had this sooner?” It’s the closest thing they can get to beef without breaking their pescatarianism, and for what it’s worth, I had a bite, and it did actually taste like a steak…
We went to bed soon after, in an attempt to get an early night for our last hurrah the next day at the famous Finns Beach Club. Our attempt was unsuccessful though, as the bar adjacent to the hostel seemingly had a speaker system poking through our window, preventing anyone from getting any shuteye before switching everything off at midnight. It didn’t bother me too much, I mean, how could I be angry at anything when it became apparent that one of the dogs was sleeping at my bedside?
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We started our last full day of travelling with an overpriced and disappointing breakfast. The girls got eggs and avocado with enough garnish to fill Tong Garden Centre, and I opted for the national dish of Indonesia - nasi goreng - which was just chicken fried rice with a fried egg on top.
Nevertheless, it was enough to line our stomachs before we attempted to tackle the £180 pre-paid bar tab at Finns. Ridiculous, I know. But it was our last day, and Mia and I were celebrating our six-year anniversary.
Finns was a nice spot. It had a few wankers and was a bit pretentious, but so did the rest of the island. We tried, with the help of Bintang, frozen daiquiri and seltzers, but ultimately, failed to spend the tab. It makes me feel a bit sick to think about how much was left on it by the time I had predictably been the first to call it a day, so let’s just leave it there…
And so, it was with another sore head that I rose from the bunk-bed the following morning and packed my backpack, ready to check out for the last time.
We’d timed it impeccably, as our flight wasn’t due to start boarding for another eight hours, so we had all that time to do what we do best - fucking hang about and wait. It gave me ample time to chain-smoke the cigarettes I had left, as I’d made a promise to myself to stop as soon as we landed in Brisbane. It was a sour atmosphere all day, though. We were all riddled with anxiety as the end was finally upon us. Waiting around was the worst thing we could’ve done to prolong the nervous and melancholic feeling. But, eventually, the wait came to an end, and after saying goodbye to our favourite dogs, we jumped into the taxi and set course for the airport in silence.
I didn’t really want the journey to end, both metaphorically and physically. But it had to, and it did. We grabbed a seat in the waiting area after trying to spend the last of our rupiah, and waited for the call.
“Going to Australia should be exciting,” I thought to myself as we started to take off. Christ, I’d done enough moaning in recent weeks, wishing time away, so I should be happy. Well I wasn’t. Not until the food came, anyway. Thankfully, last week my brain had subconsciously preempted this wave of sadness I’d feel during the flight, and sourced the perfect remedy in the form of the perfect pre-ordered meal - a pie.