December 11, 2000 Onward to Bali
After spending 10 hours in the air from SF to Tokyo, we spent a must-desired night near the airport outside of Tokyo. In the morning, all you can eat from three cuisine’s and then a fast bus ride back to the airport where another 10 hours were spent willing the way time with personal video stations in each seat and sweet-spoken attendants.
Arrive in Bali after a short stop in Jakarta. Mariana (“M”) gets pulled over by customs. Seems her passport will expire in 6 months and the officials don’t like it. $50 bribe makes everyone happy. As I shook hands with the boss, I encouraged his beaming smile to fade as I squeezed his little hand, all the while keeping my own smile as genuine as a baby’s burp.
At this point it’s late in the evening of December 11. The taxi hurries us to the hotel through a labyrinth of busy streets. There are no vistas; each side of the street is crammed with small storefronts selling everything Bali produces for its 3 million tourists per year, to which 80% of the population is devoted.
Finally, at the Sinar Indah hotel, we check in and plop down. The heat is oppressive for there is no breeze. The Palms stand like concrete sentinels. My attitude is seeping through. This doesn’t seem like Sanghra La, but more like a south-of-the-border Mexican town.
December 12, 2000 The First Beach Impression
It rains heavily but quickly. We walk and then run on the beach as it cleanses us. The beach outside of Kuta is filthy. Plastic, paper, the ugliness of the disposable, modern world undulates in a ragged line the surf creates as it pushes the flotsam on the beach. Once, this was a pristine place… the sand is very white, wide, and stretches for miles. After the run, M and I do some yoga in the surf and then I take a dip in water so warm that my skin can’t perceive if I’m in it or not. Plastic bits bounce against my legs as I wade about. M notes my displeasure with it all and is uncommonly silent.
December 13, 2000 Looking Around
A private tour from the busy morass of Kuta in the south, to northern points. For $15 dollars we get a van, driver and guide, a small, brown, sweet man with plenty of brainpower and a few languages under his belt. We stop at established places where different crafts are explained to us and then we’re ushered into a store to show our appreciation by buying what we were just shown. Each town has its specialty. In the first we learned about Batik, then woodcarving, then painting, before we got the second tallest mountain, a volcano called Gunung Batur beside Bali’s largest lake, Toya Bungkash. From the very touristo restaurant we ate lunch at, we peered at the misty, verdant hills and valleys below us, and peered at the cloud-enshrouded volcano above us. As we returned at day’s end, M sweetly let the guide know that we didn’t appreciate the over-priced, warmed-over food. Surely, he gets a kick-back from the restaurant (in fact his girlfriend works there), for this is the way of Bali… twice, we witnessed the driver giving police money as we meandered to the mountain from Kuta.
December 14, 2000 Nusa Dua
Today was a trip to Nusa Dua, an enclave built about 15 years ago as an antidote to the unplanned chaos of Kuta and environs. Just a half hour to the southeast, the beaches, alas, were pristine, but 5-star hotels hog many of them. We strolled along, getting about a block at a time without being petitioned to buy something, as opposed to the ratio of six steps per solicitation in Kuta. Spent some time checking out how those spending $200 (plus) per day are experiencing Bali, as opposed to our splurge of $10/day. Money buys comfort and beauty. Tried to book a few evening in this lushness for New Year, but all is booked.
Dec 15, 2000 Pandangbai Road Trip
To Pandangbai. Ahhh, Bali at last! But the trek to this place wasn’t too pleasant. Pandangbai is in the eastern end of Bali, dominated by the mighty Gunung Agung, the “navel of the world” and Bali’s “mother mountain” at 3142 meters. In 1963, it blew its lid and killed thousands, displacing thousands more. We hired a driver to get to Pandangbai.
It was slow going, mostly. After a not-so-clean break out of downtown Kuta, we experienced Bali’s version of Highway 101 at 5 PM in the Bay Area. During the first hour, we snaked through contiguous towns, each identical to the other, but marked by a gate posts sans gate. It seems like there is no countryside here, just a one lane road, and shops and shop-homes on each side. All the signs are in English that cry out what each shop offers: bamboo, furniture, wood carvings, pottery, quilts, silk kites, religious icons, batik, paintings. At last, and very suddenly, there’s a vista across a bridge. I can see rice fields to the left and a rolling valley to the right. Great… give me more I holler silently. And I get it, progressively more and more as we put crazyville(s) behind us.
Just before Pandangbai, we pass through a prosperous village that seems to exist for more than serving tourists’ consumption habits. Klungkung is dominated by a town square reminiscent to Europe in scope. An ornate fountain squats in the center of the road. On each side of it sits temples and important looking administration buildings. In a flash, it’s gone and we’re fed views for the next 20 km to Pandangbai. Pandangbai is a small village contained in a valley perhaps 1 km wide and 2/3rds deep. The valley rolls to the sea, or, more precisely, to the Lombok Strait.
Lombok is a Muslim island about 100 km to the east of Bali, and Pandangbai is the most popular launching pad via ferry. The place does have its fair share of tourists, and sometimes bustles with tons of them when a cruise liner comes calling, but typically there’s a nice balance of tourist to local. Neither dominates. The beaches are mostly clean, though the errant plastic bottle does pop up. Fishing boats, thankfully, are more dominant than plastic and are colorfully painted to boot. Each has a place for daily blessings carved into its bow. Mariana does it again… discovers a great, cheap room in a “homestay” three precarious stories high.
Marble tile is everywhere, and it’s clean. A homestay is part of someone’s home, an extended home, if you will. This one’s named “Pondok Wisata Parta”, or “Parta Inn”. After some haggling, the beaming hostess accepts M’s final offer of $9/day as I hump the bags up the narrow stairs as the diminutively sized attendant hasn’t the muscle.
We invite the driver for lunch and he accepts. Thankful, he invites us to his village home. The people are uniformly friendly and very curious. A typical encounter goes like this:
Local: Hellooo, where you from?
Joe: Bulgaria (since M’s from there.)
Local: Ahhh, yes, Sophia! Where you go?
Joe: To the beach.
Local: Where you stay?
Joe: Over there.
Local: You want boat ride (transport, buy this, buy that)?
Joe: Not now, maybe later.
Local: OK, my name is Wayan (he says as his hand shakes mine).
Joe: I’m Joe
Local: OK, Joe, bye bye.
He’ll remember my name, and I have a one-in-four chance of remembering his, as Balinese give their sons one of four names depending on their order of birth. (By the way, this scenario is repeated many times a day.)
As the sun sets, Mariana begins her evening Yoga routine that she established the first day in Bali. As I watch her, I tease her about Roberto, the Italian that was next door to us in Kuta. He hardly spoke English, and M’s Italian is hardly robust, but somehow he was able to tell her of his broken heart. His love jumped on another’s bones while they were vacationing in Australia. He, bereaved, sought solace in Bali. He soon forgot about his adulterous love as he laughed with M and exchanged email addresses. I bet her then that her “Italian Magnet” would find every Italian in Bali. And, within two beats, from a terrace below us, wafting up to our ears, the melodies of the Italian language gesticulated by no less than three men. M dashes to the railing and peers over and down. I see her head retreat back as she turns to me laid out on my lounge chair and gives me a smile and wink.
December 16, 2000 First Impressions of Padangbai.
The morning came in a raucous rush, particularly for such a small village. At 5 am, the Ferry blared its three blasts. The first one knocked me out of bed and the next two taunted me. Now that I was conscious, I heard the Ferry’s competition: the hollers of a million roosters (no prized, proud fighting cock to be outdone by its rival). At 6 am, the cleric of the still-small Muslim enclave in Padangbai performs the traditional greeting of the day prayer. His indecipherable wail echoes through the valley. Settled in the highest building at three stories offers the advantage of fantastic views and calming breezes, but I’m learning that it also has a way of funneling sounds right to my doorstep.
Around me is a dense cluster of buildings, mostly stores, homestays, and hovels. To the left is a vacant stretch of hard packed dirt that turns a corner to a ½ km of beach front leading up a steep hill to the town’s primary temple. Along this stretch of beach are straw thatched hotels, homestays, and beachfront “cafes” and restaurants. On the beach are the fishing boats. To the right of me is a verdant hill, some of it terraced. In between is the Ferry terminal, and some stores. To get to a secluded beach favored by tourists and locals alike, you go right, climb a hill and descend to a almost-pristine beach ¼ km in length. The ever-ambitious Balinese have constructed makeshift juice bars that serve some salad and drink.
Of course, the beach is patrolled with those who offer carved boxes, sarongs, and coconut. But the bell of the beach is Maday. M first spied him during her last visit here four years ago. He’s a very handsome local who by night is the cool waiter at the Ozone Café, the local hotspot. By day, he’s the main beach attraction and resident guru who runs the jagged lava rock barefoot, then does back bends up and down the beach, to be followed by a stone-still headstand for 15 minutes. Impressive.
Now, it’s that time close to sundown when only the clouds hold the fiery red memory of the day, and I’m stretched out on my lounge chair writing this beside a tiled wall one meter high that keeps me from falling on to a two-story red roofed building below. I follow its roofline, visualizing my route should gravity have its way with me. I’d hit the roof pretty hard, but then almost gently roll down its curve to be delivered to a small forest of Palms that drink from its rain gutter. Today, one more layer of Sausalito dropped and some of the dirt and sand of Bali took its place. There goes the Muslim chant. Again.
December 17, 2000 A Knife Flashes in the Night
Last night brought some drama to this little village. Shouts of German and Local English and German- English rushed up to our veranda in a guttural roar. Though it was late, M and I were awake and jumped off our duffs to peer down into the courtyard below. I saw three men yelling and gesturing. All tall thin German with dreadlocks started to push a local guy. The German’s friend nervously stood by. I dashed down the stairs thinking I could act as peacemaker; after all, this is a peaceful place.
I was completely ignored despite my protestation and appeasement. The German ran to his room yelling that he was getting a knife. He was also yelling, “Not with you hands”, whatever that meant. The Local turned and ran. The German sprinted by me brandishing a knife. I sheepishly retreated to my nest and spent the next hour peering into the darkness. I never learned what happened.
Finally, sleep took me from the excitement for just a little while before I was startled by a loud repeated clanking sounding like a trash dumpster being loaded into a garbage truck. I arise and see trucks lined up readying for their trip to Lombok Island. It’s 3:00 AM. At 3:15, three sharp Ferry horns blast away. Nights continue to be noisy here in Padangbai. No wonder everyone seems to sleep on and off throughout the day. I hadn’t realized it before, but the Ferry toot happens every hour around the clock. How efficient.
M and I hook up with newfound friends – two Brits, two Canadians – and take a “Bemo” (local pubic transport) to a nearby village 12 km away called Candidasa. There we pay $1.50 each for use of 20-meter pool and lounge chairs. Lunch was poolside and tasted fine.
Now writing this, I’m back in my sundown perch on the wooden lounge chair three stories up looking over the valley and the sea. Just moments ago, in their silent tradition, a Hindu woman colorfully draped in a sarong and short-sleeved shirt brought offerings of rice and fruit displayed on a simple thick grass weave plate to the small temple artifact attached to the wall outside our room. She mouthed a prayer and fired an incense stick. As she finishes, the Muslim wail signals sundown…. The Hindu wafts its perfume onto the world in silence as the Muslim flute signals its song. Two different approaches in harmony here in Bali.
December 18, 2000 Mariana holds court
I start these musings later than usual in the day. The sun has left behind nothing of itself. Tonight, I watched sundown at the beach, sitting among the colorful fishing dories. I was surprised to hear many voices singing out in song. I turned to see about forty men walking down the path, each dressed in a sarong. They were headed for the temple on the hill. Many were holding hands. All were smiling.
My memory was brought back to last night when several of us listened to some Local boys show off their musical talent. As they sang song after song, first those popular in Western culture then some local songs with a Western beat, M got revved up. As it happened, the Locals beseeched some of the Tourists to take part. Two took the stage and performed well. Then, the Princess (“M”) tossed her ubiquitous scarf aside and straightened tall. “Which language do you wish to hear” she asked. “Italian!” shouted the German across from her. She belted out two Italian songs, and was rewarded not only by the thunderous applause but by the many “Hello Mariana[s]” salutations the Locals gleefully bestowed upon my newly famed gal all day today as we strolled about.
Now, from my perch, I watch M give Yoga lessons to the hostess of this Homestay. Yomi giggles and follows along, her sarong binding her valiant efforts, but unleashing all of our delight.
December 19, 2000 You shop, I rest
Today, we follow our own impulses. M joins friends for a shopping trip to Celuk, known for its silver manufacture. I remain in Padangbai to meander with a book and my wandering thoughts. At the end of a long beach most notable by all the grass shanty “cafes” and the hundreds of fishing boats stocked on the sand, I set myself down among outcroppings of jagged lava rock. Soon, I note, that even here, just 5 feet up the rock on a shelf is perched a tiny temple with fresh offerings and incense burning. Ready to read, I, instead, get distracted by a few giant red ants. One half hour elapses before they tire of me and scurry off. I nap.
December 20, 2000 The Recon Trip to Lovina
We got up at 5:30 AM and met the driver and two friends by 6:00. Today’s agenda is a 3-hour excursion to Lovina, a seaside jumble of villages shoulder to shoulder alongside a long stretch of beach on the North end of Bali.
I had another fitful night. A case of the runs had me performing laps to the bathroom. I was interrupted during my rest periods between these intervals with the unique cacophony of nighttime Padangbai. As noted, each hour we have the now famous Lombok Ferries coming to and fro, each one signaling its presence with 3 piercing blasts, which I indignantly have come to believe are aimed directly at our balcony. Then the clanking of wheels hitting the rampart that connects the ferry to the dock follows the horns. Then the loudspeaker announces all the activity. As a backdrop, the hens cluck, roosters crow, pigs snort, dogs howl, and the people yell, laugh, and sing, they being the most versatile. I crave a full night’s sleep.
The journey to Lovina was stuffed with neck-craning views of terraced rice fields stepping to the clouds, hills and dales repeating, each yielding to the other, forever. Standing as silent sentinel, as if the Great Mother watching her children, the mountain looms tall, covering the horizon to the south. Often, our little van is in a contest with some on-coming diesel truck or mosquito screaming 2-cycle in a game of chicken. After some nerve-challenging conditioning, I hardly notice anymore.
Active participants in the road drama include drivers, riders, vans, trucks, Tonka toy cars, tiny excuses for motorcycles, bikes, pedestrians, and dogs. To the uninitiated, these elements are dashed together in mayhem. But, actually, all are deft actors playing finely tuned roles that create an incalculable, seamless “flow” that no director could consciously orchestrate.
Somehow, it all unfolds without incident. The motorcycle will spurt from a driveway into traffic without any interest in the potential for something much bigger colliding with it. Our van will slow down and move over a little to give it room which slows down the car on our bumper. So the car speeds to overtake us, indifferent to the motorcycle merging in front of us, or the dog that just stepped into the road just ahead, or the old lady balancing twice her weight upon her head that is halfway across the street. At this point, I usually close my eyes, so I miss what happens. Somehow it all works out, and most amazingly, although horns are used constantly as communication devices, I have yet to hear one used as an expression of anger, or to observe a driver noticeably frustrated with another.
All very Zen in this Hindu place.
Despite the glory of nature resplendent in its abundance, the population density of Bali is evident everywhere. No scene is without a person in it. This is not a place for privacy as the nude man bathing in a river could underscore if he heard Mariana’s exclaim as we passed by: “Nice butt!!”.
After 3 hours bedazzled by the scenery, we arrive in Lovina. First impressions are that it’s some in-between place: not a relatively intact village like Padingbai, nor an insane touristville like Kuta. Lovina’s beach is long, alternating between broad swaths of sand where the modest hotels are perched, and narrow, hard-packed strips where the locals live and fish. There are two main streets perpendicular to the road that gets you here (and everywhere else along the circumference of the island) that are about two blocks long, and upon which most of what happens here happens. At the end of each is the beach. At the end of one is a large dolphin edifice, a statue on a pillar that stands 10 meters high. Mostly, the town seems quiet and fairly clean.
On the way back to Padingbai, the radio talk show goes silent as hills block the signal. Asked to play a tape, the driver produces an oldie by the Platters. Now there is soul outside and inside as we roll past coconuts stacked as high as village huts on our way back “home”, where my last road-side impression this day is the half-naked 60+ year-old man sauntering along the road, completely unaware and perhaps indifferent to his improbable 6-pak his stomach.
This is my last sundown supine on this balcony in Padingbai. The Muslim just wailed and I am wistful of leaving what has become a homey place. The family that owns this place is a happy one. Their laugher is always in the air. I’ve grown particularly fond of the 10-year old daughter whose beaming smile and giggles break down the common walls between strangers. She quickly figured out me and my humor, and now - like a polished mirror - teasingly reflects it all back.
So long Padingbai, I murmur lovingly, this my own offering to the wall-mounted temple just behind me.
December 22, 2000 A Swede and Several Poles
M and I took a long walk along Lovina Beach: two hours out and back. Along the way, we past huts of grass, bamboo and cement. Fishing boats set on the sand made part of the walk an obstacle course. Darting in between them, naked children splashed in and out of the water, always giggling, and upon seeing us, they sing the chorus: "Good morning… how are you… where you from… where you going…". The women breast-feeding their children indolently look up and grin. The woman chopping fish stay focused on their duties.
I help a lone fisherman lift his heavy wood-soaked boot from the surf onto its simple stick mooring stuck in the sand. I spy a fisherman 30 meters out in the calm water. He wears long pants, a white dress shirt that’s never seen starch, a conical straw hat sits on his head, and his face is wrapped in cloth. He is entirely protected from the Sun and any reflection from the sea. In leathered hands, the fisherman holds a long pole that resembles a coral snake. There's no reel on the pole. He repeatedly and rhythmically swings the pole overhead and extends it and bait out before him, but never reaches more than 15 meters. Like the arc of his life in Bali, his reach is short. If only he had a reel and lots of line, he might catch a different fish.
Returning to the beach in front of our hotel, I hear the clamor of competitive jousts and see a volley ball game performed by a teams distinguished by their vibrantly colored jerseys. Some wore shorts, others pants, and a few wore the traditional sarong which I now wear every day. I watch for awhile. I'd put my money on the adolescent girls who play on East Beach in Santa Barbara.
At the kidney-shaped, seawater pool in our hotel compound, M and I try to determine the nationality of a group of people frolicking in and out of the water. I say Scandinavian; she says Eastern European. Turns out that we're both right: the oldest fella is Swedish who married a fey young lass from Poland producing a 4 year old boy. The young newlyweds are the brother and sister-in-law of the mother, both Polish. We later learn that our hotel caters to Europeans, which does become evident. We become fast friends with our Swede-Poles.
December 23, 2000 Pigs On Motorcycles Aren't Cops in Bali
The Balinese have a peculiar relationship with their animals. Actually, the relationship is only with animals that produce something, like a farm animal. Other animals, such as cats, dogs and rats, co-exist without even the hint of mutual awareness. Dogs are dominant among the other typically domesticated pets in Padaingbai. They roam about everywhere and are even tolerated in the restaurants. Here in Lovina, cats rule. Among the rodent class, Padaingbai boasts the ubiquitous rat prowling the evening streets in; whereas in Lovina, the bats swarm at dusk, and I take solace in knowing that each consumes hundreds of mosquitoes each outing.
The farm animals are cultivated. A special relationship exists between the Balinese and their cows, which actually look like large does, even those with horns. The cow both produces milk and plows rice paddies, so they're venerated. Being predominately Hindu, the Balinese don't slay the lucky big-eyed creatures for meat.
Pigs don't share this lucky fate. Today, I saw one squealing and flat on its back, feet tied together, snout tied to mouth, as two men grunted as they lifted the helpless beast onto a tiny motorcycle. The pig gave up and went comatose as it was placed between the driver and the second man who jumped aboard as the driver gave the machine some gas. Chickens have a better time, it seems, as they're held by the neck by the passenger and get to enjoy the view.
December 24, 2000 The Right Swastika to God
Lovina is located on the north shore close to the center of Bali. It is a good starting point to take a tour that climbs up G. Podon Mountain at 2063 meters, which we did today.
The first stop was the Buddhist temple, the only one in Bali as the population is only 3% Buddhist. This tiny minority, however, built a special place. It's high in the foothills and looks over magnificent views of the sea and forest bands of palm, coconut and banana trees, alternating with bands of terraced rice fields. Everything save the sea is green.
At the temple, I learn about the Swastika. Before Hitler, and still today in traditional religious societies, it is drawn "turning right". Three marks represent good, the way, and one, or, together: "only one good way to God".
From the temple, we traveled to the hot springs and got wet with the locals, than to Mundoc Village where we hiked to Bali's second tallest waterfall (having "done" its largest days ago), one in a much more natural setting that the tallest (maybe 30 meters high). Then the Botanical Gardens reminiscent of Golden Gate Park, followed by three mountain lakes, and Monkey Forest where M claims I cavorted with some kindred spirits. These monkeys can be so fussy that they knock the small peanuts from your hand until you offer one large enough to bother with. Guess anything can get spoiled.
December 25, 2000 A Quiet Christmas
Ever hospitable, the Balinese put out the Christmas trees and associated decorations, though Catholics they are not, save 3%, 15 of which were bombed while in church on nearby Java by Muslims who comprise the majority of Indonesians, except for the Balinese, where the great majority are Hindu. But without the incessant Christmas music, hectic shopping, traffic jams, chiller weather, and gathering of friends and family and gift giving, it didn't seem like Christmas. That's not bad.
Since I didn't need to give or get presents, I went snorkeling just off the beach. There's no reef there so there were no fish, but I wanted to get wet and fool around with my equipment in preparation for scuba. The uneventful snorkeling outing extended to the rest of the day. The night, though, brought celebration. For me, it was the midnight blue night sky punctuated by the brilliance of millions of stars hurling their light to my eyes. For Mariana, it was heartfelt sharing with her new Polish friend. They tried for days to be alone together, anxious to share their stories. Finally, M shook me, and Maggi rid herself of son, husband, brother and wife, and the two of them sat knee to knee under a swaying Palm by the pool. There, Maggi received some solace for whatever burdened her by M, the ebullient Epicurean philosopher; in return M received the gift of a new friendship. I think M will be traveling to Maggi's home in Sweden this summer.
December 26, 2000 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea
Today, I finally made my way into the sea. The van picked me up at the hotel and sped me and a Japanese family to the Marine Park located in the northeastern tip of Bali. The destination was Menjangen Island, heralded as one of the finest dive spots in the world. Wayan was my personal dive master. We jumped in a dory with supplies and puttered the half-hour trip to the island, known for its deer, one tamed buck having just eaten banana peels from a tourist. I dived twice, separated by lunch. Slowly, we descended along the coral encrusted underwater cliff and cruised at 20 meters. I encountered an ethereal world of batfish, basslets, chromis and schools of sergeant majors. Of course, the clownfish goaded bananas from my guide. Thankfully, the Great Whites stayed away.
December 27, 2000 Andy, the Loving-hearted from Zurich
Mariana and I met an interesting bloke today at breakfast. We had spied him before, rambling around, friendly with the locals and often nursing a hangover in the late morning. We thought we had him figured out. A nay-do-well who hung out in cheap places in Bali, not able to "make it" in the real world. Not. Turns out he's a Swiss banker with a large heart. "So you're turning 40 and have never been married or fathered children", Mariana asked. "Never married, but I have children, sort of", he said in his excellent English. Turns out, on a trip to Indonesia 10 years ago, he met a local family that was just abandoned by the husband/father who was Swiss. Andy decided to support the family till he sorted things out back home. He tracked the husband and met him for coffee. This guy said that his Indonesian wife let the dog die, so he decided, the hell with it, and returned to Zurich. Andy just kept up the support, now 10 years long.
In the late afternoon, M and I, anxious to explore the beautiful foothills, went hiking. We found a quiet, tree-sheltered road that took us up to the descending sun. The vistas made a very sweat-filled trip worthwhile.
December 28, 2000 Recon Trip to Ubud
Since we're planning to spend a few days in Ubud, the "cultural center of Bali" before going home, we hired a driver and went to check it out. It took 2 plus hours over the mountain and down through tiny villages. After checking a few hotels, we lunched at the Tropical View Café. Indeed, it was.
A farmer, face covered by the common conical hat, was slogging through his rice fields. He grabbed a plowing machine that he controlled like a huge, lumbering grass mower. Instead of wheels, this one had what looked like riverboat paddles. These dug the trenches and made the earth submit to the man's will. When his will faltered a bit from fatigue, he would rest in one of numerous grass huts resembling doghouses. Relieved from toil and sun, his wife skips out along the rice paddy ridges with lunch. We finish ours -- Marina gleefully completing her 40th mango smoothy since arriving in Bali with a slurp -- and return to Lovina.
December 29, 2000 I'll Leave the Biking for Marin
Anxious to get some exercise and stretch beyond a fully explored one-mile radius, I rented a bike today. It was shinny, full of suspension, too small and very heavy. I jumped on it and pedaled for that hill M and I scaled some days ago, determined to go further than before. I did, my breathe in labor, and my head resembling that egg-in-a-skillet commercial about your brain on drugs. Soon, with my appetite for hills waning, I aimed the bike on the busy coastal road that circumnavigates Bali and headed for a major nearby village. As I pedaled I encountered the duality of Bali. The Hindu religion iconography represents it beautifully, as it always marries good with evil, the light and dark sides of human nature. Shiva, presented everywhere, is always beset by demons, which for me scampering along the no-shoulder side of the road on my bike, take the form of diesel trucks, whining motorcycles and the melting heat. At the same time, everyone passing me or standing at the side of the road flashes smiles. At the same time, the bike only cost me $3.
This evening, accompanied by new friends introduced by new friends, I took a midnight swim where my every move was recorded by flashing luminescence. I had experienced this last year in Mexico. I was pretty well absorbed by this light show, but soon was turned to another wonderful experience as I heard the lilting voice of M in song wafting my way from the shore. I turned to the beachfront café and peered out and saw a group of shadows surrounding a woman with her throat bared to the moon, crooning to Italy.
December 30, 2000 Two will do
My first full-body massage by two women. I intended the usual one, but learned that for the same price two could do it in one half the time which aligned with Mariana's timeframe for a pedicure. So, two shared the happy labor. I vote for synchronized massage as the next Olympic sport. And I nominate two worthy, 5 foot, and slender, brown-skinned beauties as representatives of Indonesia.
December 31, 2000/ January 1, 2001 Bye Bye Old Demon
Like a slow tide moving in, Lovina filled up with people, locals and tourists both, in preparation for the New Year's celebration. Mariana and I strolled around, passing by the large Dolphin edifice that stands like a sentinel at the end of short road connecting the main thoroughfare encircling the island to the beach in this most concentrated tourist area in Lovina. Hour by hour this sea-side "square" was decorated with huge and colorful swaths of cloth, stage lights were strategically placed and instruments, dominated by brass disked drums and bells, were placed here and there. The most unusual newcomer was a demon's head, ugly and fierce, constructed of some paper mache material.
With two new friends hailing from LA, we decided to hire a boat and take a sunset snorkel. I helped the fisherman push the boat, resembling a canoe with outriggers on either side, into the sea. Each boat held two of us plus a "driver" who steered the craft with a makeshift rudder tied with rope to a piece of wood under his wooden plank seat. The engine sat on a broad beam strapped across the stern and flared out, dipping its 6-foot shaft with a propeller in the stern into the water.
I really felt like I was in Bali. Away from tourist shops, diesel trucks and noisy motorcycles, I sat on this basic boat puttering to the coral reefs about one mile from shore. From the sea, the island looked tranquil and uninhabited, much like the Nepali coast of Kauai.
Soon we were in the water and gazing at fish of every color picking at strange, huge brain-shaped coral. Alternating with the vibrant, live coral were sections that looked like a coral graveyard, bleak, gray and devoid of fish. I recalled the article I recently read on Yahoo stating that an estimated 40% of the world's corral is dead. Scientists wonder what kind of canary in the mine this factoid might be.
Returning back to the beach, the sun was bidding us farewell, ducking behind thick, white clouds. Soon all of us were swathed in red and orange light spears. Everyone wore broad smiles.
We were let off at the Seaside Café, where we toasted the sun and watched the beach absorb many more people than have been here in past days. After showering and resting, we returned to this place to begin the New Year's celebration. Everyone mixed with everyone. The locals and tourists merged. Small bonfires dotted the beach, each with a circle of people gazing in it, or at the stars.
Mariana and I were with a bunch of Canadians, two recent transplants from Australia, and one from Japan that we call "Hiroshima" cause she's a brilliant bombshell; two fellas from LA; a couple of Aussies; and two Germans from Scotland. Like a meandering stream, we flowed up the beach to a makeshift rave party, and down the beach to various bonfires, but the most memorable event was that presented by the township at the Dolphin statue.
There, beginning at 10:00 and going through the night till sunrise was a drama depicting the death of the demons in the past year in preparation to welcoming the fey gods of the new year. Drums were banged, and gongs were beaten and elaborately clad women strutted their stylized dance, eyes darting left and right, hands swaying, fingers splayed. The paper mache demon danced and preyed upon us, was hunted and destroyed in a blast of fire. Burning incense was passed out to the audience. A young girl seated on the ground next to us, took the sticks in her hands and prayed, her face so soft and gentle.
Then, the incense was collected and fed to the dying demon. Finally, in celebration, another throng of women danced. The sun began to stir as M and I walked back to the hotel. In our room, we greeted Ra in gratitude, then slept.
The next day, this first day of the New Year was a groggy one. The town was quiet, and so am I. I wish you a very Happy New Year!
January 2, 2001 A Chinese Dentist in Singharajai
I've been nursing a broken tooth for some time now. Since it doesn't bother me, I haven't bothered with it. But Bali presented me an opportunity to fix things cheap. A friend of Mariana had extensive work done for a fraction of US prices. He does look a bit like a horse now, but I thought I'd investigate anyway.
The hotel owners assured me that the dentist in the nearby town of Singharajai, the former capital of Dutch controlled Bali, was top notch. She left Java for a more peaceful place, speaks a fair amount of English, and can take me at 6:30 this evening. I get a driver, and go. M joins me hesitatingly as she thinks this act is misguided.
The dentist's office is three steps down from the street. Like many businesses in Bali, whether restaurants, Internet cafes, or prisons, the building are often completely opened to the street, some only having a wall at the rear. The waiting "room" of this office is open, the receptionist sitting on a stool next to a box of files. He gives me a questionnaire for collecting pertinent information, namely: name, age and hotel. As soon as I complete this I'm whisked through a door to the room with the dentist, assistant and a medieval chair upon which willing victims sit and pray.
As I walk past all the others who have been waiting before me, I fight the desire to have my driver interpret an explanation about what appears to be an act of favoritism. You see, the driver had called ahead and procured a number, #6, which just happened to be called upon my arrival. In a sense, then, I had been waiting in line as we were driving to Singharajai.
My mouth agape, the Dentist lady went to work. The drill was loud. My controlled gagging was volubly distressing. M cringed. I got my teeth cleaned, and a temporary "covering" for the broken tooth for $40. I didn't realize how temporary is temporary until this protective material fell into my noodles during dinner one hour later.
January 3, 2001, A Day of Exercise
Today, the weather cooled as clouds held back the sun's heat and accumulated the water that they then gently spilled upon us. Invigorated, I decided to exercise for a change. Donning sneakers for only the second time since arriving, I headed for the hills. I climbed for an hour passing clusters of huts that seemed to make up mini villages. Every 10th house had a TV blaring. When children spied me they often cried out a hearty "Hello!".
The rain intensified and the ditches took on some water flowing past me down the hill. Two dogs were still captured in their former rapture, now looking very meek, stuck butt to butt. Other dogs would feign a rush toward me yapping all the way. More than once, I bent to pick up a rock, but never launched one.
From time to time, I'd hit the ground and do some push-ups. Ever vigilant, I saw some appropriately configured trees that allowed me to grunt out anemic pull-ups. A heavy rock became a dumbbell for presses. I was wet and warm and had energy. It felt great to move.
Walking back down, I overlooked the sea and waving palms that fronted it. Telephone wire was strung along my left side, about 7 feet up, from limb to limb of willing trees. An ornate stone wall and huge wooden door stood as an unusual façade for falling rows of rice fields. All in all, all was a feast for the senses.
Returning to the hotel 2 hours later, I showered near the salty pool and dove in. Very warm, it offered no real refreshment, but I performed some backstrokes as I peered up at the sun and watched it swoon.
Tomorrow, we move to Ubud.
January 4, 2001 The Emperor of Ubud
The trip to Ubud was uneventful, except that it was shorter than most so far. We checked into Hotel SRI right in the thick of things on the busy, main road called Monkey Forest Road, being that if followed long enough it will bring you to the Monkey Forest, where monkeys will harass you for food. Our room is very sparse, approximately 15 by 15 feet with a funky, intermittently smelly bathroom (depending on the mood of the septic system), the kind where the shower, sink and commode all share the same space, and consequently, all get bathed when you do. The room is the common bamboo weave and the walls white brick.
We relinquish our heavy bags to the protection of the room, which is locked by a padlock, and go out for an exploratory amble. The streets are heavily populated with shops, some very boutique-like, others mere shanty’s with tin roofs. All the familiar goods of Bali are sold. Though less aggressive than their counterparts in Kuta, the shop owners and hawkers are well represented in Ubud, and ensure that not one block is walked without some crying out: “Come look my shop” or “Transport!” as they animatedly move their fists as if maneuvering an invisible steering wheel.
After looking about for a few hours, we stop at a shop larger than most, but pretty basic. It absorbs some 20 meters of street front, offering many glass cases of silver and gold jewelry, wood carvings, sarongs and the like; and in the corner, behind a bar, drinks of every kind… and please exchange your currency too.
Like a friendly, animated Emperor, softly commanding this all is a longhaired, wiry, 40-something Balinese man with wide brown eyes and a contagious smile. As M introduces herself to the silver, I plop myself down at the bar and order a beer. The Emperor, not an arms-length away from the cooler, leans back a bit on his stool across the bar top from me, turns his head a bit, and barks. In moments, appearing out of nowhere, a timid, tentative waif appears and serves me my beer.
About three stools away stands a strange Caucasian man. His hair is short and stringy and clings to his head. He’s bespeckled, slow moving, expressionless and wears a rather formal Balinese button-up shirt and long dark pants. He looks like he belongs at the bar as he nurses a large Bingtang (local beer). He and the Emperor speak to each other in short bursts. I engage the man and learn that he’s an expat from Germany, now owning a hotel in Ubud. “Is the hotel business difficult”, I inquire. “It’s not easy” he replies. Not a conversationalist I think.
But the Emperor takes up the slack. “I’ve been all over the world,” he says in excellent English. He then begins to portray his role in the removal of the Berlin Wall, and the speech he gave in Berlin afterwards. Animatedly, he pulls from a wide drawer, documents attesting his honorary Doctorates from Harvard and some other institution of higher mental mastication. I want to tell him that his document from “Harvard International” isn’t the Harvard we all admire, but who am I to bust a bubble that so buoyantly carries him through life.
That heavy drawer stays open. A heavy woman from Australia heaves herself upon a stool and exchanges 100 Aussie dollars for some Rupiah. Her money is colorful; she counts it carefully, is relieved to find things in order, and recounts the good deal on some baby slippers she just got in a store “just across the street right over there…a great deal”. The slippers are as colorful as her currency, I note as she scuttles away.
A beeper beeps and the Emperor pulls it out from the still-opened drawer. I now lean forward and peer into the drawer as the Emperor shares a chuckle with the German about exchange rates. (The reason his beeper goes off so frequently is to alert him of rate changes.) My jaw drops as I see bundle after bundle of cash stashed in the drawer, and next to it, stack after stack of gold coins. The phone rings and I hear the Emperor say, “so you’re calling from Brussels, yes”. A mailman comes with what appear to be important documents. The Emperor returns the phone to its cradle and stars into space, ignoring the mailman for what seems like an hour. He barks for an attendant who erases the last posted currency exchange rates from a white board, and writes the new ones just in via beeper. Finally, Mr. Emperor nonchalantly turns to the mailman and extends his hand for receipt of the mail, glances at it and tosses it into the Large Drawer. Relieved, the mailman smiles, nods and goes.
M joins us and is introduced. She has a Coke and I finish my beer. Just as we collect ourselves to leave, a young, beautiful, European-dressed Balinese woman strides in, flirtation fixed in every stride. She grabs the Emperor and begins a purring negotiation. Apparently wining her objective, she looks up at us, and with a sultry grin steps away. The Emperor’s daughter, I learn; her twin lurks somewhere nearby, I’m told. I guess I just gleaned a snippet of the Balinese upper class, I surmise as we walk away.
At SRI, M and I debate the merits of staying in Ubid. M feels that the place is unfriendly and expensive. I wish to stay a little longer. We resolve to sleep on it and take a broader gambit in the morning, and then decide.
January 5, 2001 One More Day in Ubud
The morning began with a long-faced Mariana wanting to escape to fairer lands. She’s tired of the hawkers, the consumption, and the unfriendliness. We decide to take a walk to see if we can discover anything to reset the mood. Alas, we discover real, live, honest-to-goodness Espresso. As she sips it, I see M change colors, from blue to a shinny effervescence, as if God just set down in her lap. Suddenly, all the people are warm and loving. We dance out of the coffee shop and begin a shopping spree. Ahh, those lovely, multi-colored, hand-made beaded bags. “Perfect for a night out with just your credit card and lipstick!” M exclaims. Beautiful Ubud!
The power of java.
Exhausted from hours of walking and shopping, we take a late lunch at a wonderful restaurant where last night I had my best Middle Eastern meal ever. This street is perpendicular to Monkey Forest Road, but is narrower, if that’s possible. Adding to the difficulty of ambulation and locomotion is a deep trench being dug on one side to manage the frequent floods. I watch as, one by one, each worker carries a rock in each hand and walks a block to throw it into a pile. I guess it’s cheaper to hire ten men than to buy one wheel barrel that needs just one man to handle.
Tonight, we plan on an hour meditation at this center we found, followed by attending the Fire dance, and then a very comely jazz club. Instead, sitting on our veranda, we talk for three hours before the mosquitoes chase us to bed.
January 6, 2001 The Long, Corn-cobbled Beaches of Sanur
Maday, the driver who took us to Padangbai from Kuta, arrives at 11:00 – ensuring the time for another bout of Espresso -- to transport us to Sanur, 30 km away. We slowly wind out of Ubud, passing all manner of shops, then seamlessly enter contiguous Masa, most known for its furniture-making, and then Celuk, the silver center, where we stop for another silver buying binge.
After passing through a short but tranquil green belt, we arrive in a hectic section of Bali that offers roadways to Denpasar, Kuta and Sanur, all in the southern end. We take the way to Sanur, find the Lembongan Hotel recommended by our hosts at Rini in Lovina, negotiate the rate down 25%, check in, and wander the grounds.
The Lembongan Hotel is much more Balinese than Rini. At Rini, the Swiss touch is evident; the place is symmetrical, clean and exact. In contrast, at Lembongan wild fecundity spills out of everything, even the stone statues of deities, demons and cherubs that mark every corner and byway. The walkways are narrow, comprised of cement hexagons three inches wide, and spread everywhere like a web. At each node sits a brick cabin holding two to four rooms, their roofs red semi-circular tiles. Grass, bushes, fronds and tropical trees languorously dominate everything manmade, their wildness only temporarily curbed by the early morning hoard of gardeners.
On approximately 5 acres of land, the bungalow density is contained mostly on the west end, leaving the east with grass fields, ponds, a large green pool huddled in the midst of towering stone archways to secret destinations, as the tortuous walkway finally straightens past it all and heads for the sea. Actually, it’s the Badung Strait, it being a strip of sea wedged between southeastern Bali and Lembongan and Nusa Penida islands.
Mariana and I walk the 150 meters from our room to the sea and find an unusual display of Balinese continuity and planning – a red-bricked walkway that parallels the 5 km of beach that Sanur boasts. On one side of the walkway are sandy beaches of varying depths; on the other side are hotels, restaurants, and pockets of squalor where the local’s storefronts are crammed together, each crammed with products they desire you to see. As Mariana passes, she striding before me, I hear: “Hey, you very beautiful. Where you going? Where you from? Come see my shop! No??? OK…. Massage???
We pause at a beach choked full of locals enjoying themselves. The women bathe fully dressed, covetous to remain as light-skinned as possible. Children swim nude or in underwear bottoms until they reach puberty. Nearly everyone is munching barbecued corn. We watch a woman with a simple dress splayed out around her, bobbing in the water as she squats in the gentle surf near the shore. She munches corn. I say to Mariana, “ I know she’s gonna let the cob drop in the water.” Mariana concurs. We get comfortable for she’s chewing slowly and pausing often to look around. The tension grows as she gnaws. To bring relief to the anxious moment as corn kernels are deftly, if slowly, razed, chewed and swallowed, I scan the beach, taking note of the many pockets of trash tucked either in crevices or boldly heaped on the beach. Focused again on the woman, she rewards our vigilance: the cob is nonchalantly dropped in the sea as she receives her splashing child with a warm hug. The stripped cob bobs. We turn and continue our walk in dismay.
I recall reading a brief interview with a European tourist advisor to Bali who recommends that Bali develop a comprehensive plan for ecology and development, least it begin to loose its glimmer as a vacation destination. “Amen”, I mutter to myself.
January 7, 2001 Sanur Explored
This morning, I get up early and take a walk. It’s very hot and very humid. At the beachside walkway, I turn right rather than left as we did for last night’s exploratory walk. In this direction, the beach is far less busy, for there are fewer hotels and shops. I pass a luxurious Hyatt, Para sailors, kayakers surfing far out where the surf breaks over a continuous wall of corral, and the occasional snorkeler. I plan on an hour excursion, so after walking south for 40 minutes, I turn around thinking to run home in the remaining time. I begin to run. In ten minutes, a confluence of heat, humidity, stiff legs and intestinal remnants conspire against my valiant attempt. I’m humble enough to stop. “I’m not Dannyboy “Rocks” Butterfield, or Mitch-The-Power-Powers ever the running stud, sprinting toward twilight as the years pass by, jousting with the clock”, I think between pants.
As I walk toward home, my mind explores different fantasies. Gunung Agung, Bali’s mother mountain volcano, suddenly startles me. Yesterday, it was partially cloaked by fog, vapors, clouds and dusk. But now it stands clear and bold, dominating the northward horizon. Only a cotton-swab of thick cumulus clouds competes for attention as it touches the right side of the mountain’s peak, as if teasing it about its greater height.
I realize I’m lost. I didn’t know it until I saw a painting quite common hereabouts: a young, bare breasted Balinese woman staring indifferently, if sweetly. I saw this painting before along this walkway, and it’s past my hotel. I turn around and, eventually, make it home to Mariana breathing rhythmically as she moves through her yoga routine.
The rest of the day we walk the beach and the major road in Sanur that parallels it. We visit Museum le Mayeur, the former home of Adrien Jean le Mayeur. Born in 1880, he immigrated to Bali in 1932, married a 15 year-old Legong dancer at 55 and became a famous painter. There are lots of booby shots in that house.
As dusk came, Mariana and I tried out the green pool. The darting, diving bats soon transfixed us as they skimmed the pool in hunt of mosquitoes. I’m glad they recognize that though irritating from time to time, that I’m not one.
January 8, 2001 Fantasy Island
As the close of our one-month Bali excursion draws near, I find myself reflecting on my experiences here, and conclude that not enough time has been spent in the water. So, I arise early and book a cruise to Lembongan Island, approximately 30 km from Sanur.
We are picked up at 8:15 AM and whisked away in a van along with a Czech couple (he’s a famous actor, Mariana insists) to the Bali International Marina, where we are plunked into a 60-foot yacht whose brochure likeness is much more likeable. A placid one and half-hours later, we putter into a tranquil horseshoe bay of Lembongan Island.
This island is the smaller of two islands that huddle just offshore of the southeastern coast of Bali; the other being Nusa Penida. There are two villages on Lembongan, each holding 1500 people who devote themselves to raising coconuts and bananas, harvesting kelp, and prayer. Rice is not grown, as the rainfall is too infrequent, so each family – in addition to a pig and chickens – has a well, often briny.
One of the shipmates is telling us this as we prepare for snorkeling. We’re an odd lot: two Russian families, most of whom are still green from the voyage; a heavy-set German gal; a mustached, full-bellied man whose nationality was never determined; two Aussie men; the Czech couple with child; and Mariana and me.
Looking up from my backpack where I’ve been extracting my gear, I note Mariana at the back of the yacht peering into the water, her face grim. She’s not preparing for the swim to shore. I walk to her. I hear her gasp as a few large fish break the water as they feed on some bread someone tossed overboard. She crunches her brow, creating a deep furrow just above the nose, as her eyes fixate on a couple of small splashes of diesel fuel afloat by the propeller.
A home-made boat limps up and all those going to shore, some to a "luxury" hotel buried in a steep hill overlooking the cove, unsteadily climb aboard. The boat swings away from the yacht and undulates toward shore. Mariana gazes at it longingly. Her eyes revert back to the water, and the final punctuation arrives in the form of a bobbing plastic bottle decorated with a few strands of seaweed. She swirls, her eyes swarming for the right target. Eyeing the captain, Mariana commands: "Get me another boat, I’m going ashore!" She looks at me, daring my objection. In silence, I turn to my stuff and prepare to snorkel. Just before I dive in, I see her standing, facing the shore, hair swept back, as she sails away in a factory-made boat.
The water is clear and blue-green. Visibility is great and fish of every size and shape graze on corral and each other. Many come toward me as I submerge, thinking that I have food, as divers often feed them. I’m soon surrounded, as the fish swim around me, tightly, making me the center of a vortex. If I could smile without loosing my snorkel, I would.
The agenda calls for lunch on board the yacht at noon, and ever dutiful, I comply. It’s quite a feast. I gorge on the fruit the Russians ignore, their plates spilling over with sausage, steak, fish, and hamburger. Afterwards, we pile into a boat and go to shore for our tour of the island. It’s a pretty basic agrarian kinda a place, with a very shinny Harley tied up against a pigpen.
Upon our return, we pass close to the "luxury" hotel, which I scan with my binoculars. I see, perched on a lounge chair overlooking the pool set in a cliffside, Mariana holding court before her supplicants, the two Aussies from the Yacht. Now, did I mention that these two men could easily grace the cover of GQ Magazine? They could indeed, I note again as I focused in on their toothy grins, set just inches from Mariana’s feet as they float in the pool.
I now have an agenda.
As soon as I climbed aboard the yacht, I donned the snorkel gear and set off for a 400-meter swim to shore. That accomplished with bravado, I climbed 1000 miles of steps winding around the cliffside till it lead to an entranceway, and behold, there they be, sauntering luxuriously in the pool. I jump into the pool, and for the rest of the afternoon, do my best to approximate an island-lingering jet setter.
The return trip to Sanur was spiked by turbulent seas, making us pitch to and fro, and giggling at each other – me, the Aussie’s and the Princess – as we sat on the uppermost deck in defiance.
January 9 and 10, 2001 (Happy Bday Mom) We Prepare to Leave
These are our last days. With no particular plans, we wander, sometimes together, or apart. I soak up last minute impressions. During my last visit to the Internet place I’ve been using in Sanur, I engage a conversation with the young and lovely woman who’s been most anxious to please these past days. She asks me about my stay in Bali, and about Mariana, whom she saw with me before.
"How old are you", she inquires.
"Almost 45", I answer sheepishly.
"Ahhh, you older than my father", she says chuckling…. "Are you married?"
"No".
"You should be married!".
"Good bye and have a nice day", I say.
Walking back to the hotel, I encounter the usual gauntlet of men imploring me to be transported somewhere. I smile and shake my head side-to-side and stride on, until I approach this one guy with a different approach. He holds out his hand as I get near. I shake it. He doesn’t let go. I squeeze his hand and look him in the eye. He holds me along with his smile, and says, "I need some money… haven’t had lunch… will do anything". "What can you do?" I inquire. He shrugs and points to his van. "Transport?"
Well, there was one more thing I wanted to do, but given that it’s only hours from our departure time, I had put the desire away. "Do you know where Galaxy Furniture is?" I asked. His eyes darted left, then right before he sheepishly said, "Come, we’ll find it".
Forty-five minutes later, we’re still doing circles. I tell him to take me back, that I’ll still give him the 20,000 Rupiahs we agreed to ($2.20). He was very grateful, and it wasn’t a complete waste of time for me, for I learned all about Balinese prostitution. "They come from Java, of course", he said.
The last thing Mariana and I do is meld into the sea. The sky gets cloudy and it rains hard. But the sea is like a womb with room: we’re warm and swim and grin. Much too soon, it’s time to get to the airport.
January 11, 2001 An Old Friend in Tokyo
Our flight stops in Tokyo for the day. Yoshi Kojima, whom I met in graduate school some 20 years ago, greets us. Since we last saw each other, he’s bought a house and has raised two sons, whilst I’ve stared out of a lovely picture window in Sausalito; it seemed like no time passed at all.
Yoshi takes us to the Narita Temple, one of the largest temple complexes in Japan, and then to Boso no Mura (Villages in Boso) which is the Japanese version of an American Western town recreation. In one of the buildings there, Mariana and I are taught to make Origami dolls, a prince and princess. Yoshi kneels next to us and is the principal translator, but the boy in him mixed with the perfectionist collude to repeatedly take the paper from me and properly fold it. Alas, save this one minor transgression, he was a perfect and magnanimous host, and we’re thankful for this moment in Japan.
Petya, Mariana’s sister picked us up from San Francisco International, and I am now home, beside my picture window overlooking Richardson Bay, as if nothing ever happened. There are 15 rolls of film, Mariana tells me.
