Bali - Ubud, a World of Worlds

Our half-day Batur excursion ended in Ubud - a delightful, sprawling town where both human and vehicular traffic moved in the same alternating waltz between frenzy and insouciance. There was some wonderful shopping to be had, and Mary was desperate to get started. We saw a little of Ubud the previous night when Mr Nyoman dropped us off outside Clear Cafe at Jalan Hanoman for dinner. Shops selling all sorts of interesting knick-knacks lined the streets, with wares to suit a whole gamut of tastes and preferences, from handy fridge magnet souvenirs to monkey skulls from the island of Timor, T-shirts combining both Hindu and punk rock imagery to batik shabby chic sarongs. The initial excitement waned when we realized that many shops actually sold pretty much the same range of items, and flagged further once we learnt that prices hardly differed from Singaporean prices.

Below: where we were let off by Mr Nyoman in Ubud; walking along Jalan Monkey Forest, and stopping at the gate of Hanoman's kingdom

Yet there is no mistaking the charm which Balinese crafts hold for foreigners, and the significant role of Balinese crafts in the regional economy. On our way back to Ubud from Tegallalang, we drove by gathered assemblies of sculpted Buddhas outside lines of crafts shop - reclined, seated, serene, wooden, stone, acrylic, jet black and shocking pink, portable, immovable. The wood and stone were Javanese and Lombok, the hands that made them Balinese.  Paintings, pottery, glass art and furniture were also peddled. Products meant to be shipped abroad were then sent to the east Javanese port of Surabaya, reflecting Bali's position as a major marketplace and redistribution centre.

Mercifully, our Ubud experience transcended our abortive attempts at shopping. A royal wedding held at the Puri Saren emptied what seemed like all of Bali's elegant resplendence on Ubud's tiny two-laned streets. Away from the gridlock which developed outside the palace, which we steered well clear of, we entered a hidden world of temples peering out from amongst gaudy shopfronts, rice fields set amidst creeping urban encroachment and irrigation canals bubbling between concrete canyon walls. It was a world of worlds, which we barely explored while we kept to the main roads. We also learnt two half-days were woefully inadequate even for the main streets - an interminable drizzle, hunger and a growing weight of the day's earlier walking tiredness put paid to any further sight-seeing. Ubud had to wait for a second visit.

Below: Ubud, a world of worlds

On the way to the airport the next day, we had a short discussion with Mr Nyoman on Balinese music and dance. Mr Nyoman revealed that he had in fact previously arranged for his two boys to learn the angklung (it was 150,000 rupiahs for the first month and 30,000 for subsequent months, I cannot remember the frequency of lessons). We asked how that turned out. They only want to play football, he sighed.

He also described various Balinese dances typically performed for visitors - I only recall the kecak being one of several styles mentioned. Given the stillborn interest of Mr Nyoman's sons in the arts, we wondered if this was reflective of youths' general attitude on the same subject. Apparently it doesn't seem to be the case, as the promise of tourist money along the tourism belt on the southern coast has kept alive this rich tradition of dance among young people. We had previously ruled out watching any of these, but we might have over-generalized and thrown the baby out with the bath water.

So how does the score card between Skepticism and Balinese appeal read? There is still a tad too many tourists for our liking (no, this isn't a face-saving proclamation), but we genuinely like the island. The tourist throngs which Bali entertains meant the ready availability of amenities - chiefly a comfortable airport, decent roads and a wonderful array of both accommodation and eating options. At the same time, the island's compact geographical landmass means its major sites are easily accessible from its tourist hubs. Want to see volcanoes from Ubud? It's only a little over an hour's drive. Rice terraces? Just walk out of Ubud town centre. But you're staying in Kuta? Add an hour's driving to that. Want to get away from it all and head to the less frequented north coast? Three hours and you're there.

We doubt we'll ever step into the coastal resorts in south Bali, but we most certainly will return.

Bali - What Lies Beneath

Both Lake Batur, Bali's largest freshwater lake, and the even larger caldera within which the lake is set, daily attracts droves of tourists eager for volcanic, upland views. Yet the shimmering, placid waters belies its cataclysmic past. Balinese history is not without its fair share of violence - mythical, geological, human - which years of promoting mass tourism conveniently elides.

Below: from left to right, Gunung Batur, Danau Batur and Gunung Abang

For every testimony of Balinese gentleness and hospitality, there is a monument to violence. We passed a number of ogoh ogoh effigies - the king of the spirits Barong and the demon queen Rangda, Krisna and Rawana, all locked in immortal, mythical combat. These papier mâché representations were paraded exultantly to boisterous accompaniment on the eve of Bali's Day of Silence and later burned to symbolize the eviction of malevolent spirits. Reminders of the more recent past also exist in statues commemorating the Indonesian independence struggle. We passed a couple of statues depicting three independence fighters wielding stones and bamboo stakes - perhaps representing the grim-faced determination of the Indonesians to wrestle freedom, against overwhelming odds, from the Dutch.

The smouldering cone of Batur itself stands testament to this violence. The crescent-shaped lake on the south-eastern part of the caldera was created by a massive eruption about 23,000 years ago. As the volcano literally blew its top, its original height of over 4,000 metres above sea level was halved to its present, modest equivalent of 1,717 metres.

Lakeview Restaurant on the lip of the caldera commands a fine view of Batur, Abang and Lake Batur nestled in between. Its owners have creatively designed an open terrace where customers can feast on both breakfast and pleasing volcanic views, for a minimum order of 50,000 rupiahs per person. The crowd at this more upmarket establishment comprised mostly Westerners, with the local tourists frequenting the less heralded  roadside environs elsewhere on the edge of the caldera.

Below: 50,000-rupiah views of the caldera

We returned by the same road, and made a brief visit to this coffee agro-tourism set-up just before the village of Tegellalang. We were promised good views there. A short tour past caged civets, baskets of kopi luwak beans in various stages of processing ended at a tasting station, where we disappointed our self-appointed guide by steadfastly refusing to buy anything. There were good views indeed, of yet more rice terraces just beyond the tasting station.

Below: expensive, no, expansive views beyond caffeinated civet poo

More rice terraces awaited at Tegellalang, just minutes south of the  agro-tourism set-up. Tegellalang sees more visitors compared to Jatiluwih owing to its better accessibility, being just under an hour north of Ubud. The Jatiluwih terraces stretch across a wide valley and are a more imposing sight. Those at Tegellalang occupied a narrower gorge, but are nonetheless impressive. Concrete platforms have been built by the roadside just before the rice terraces begin; these have been colonised by a slew of shops selling kitschy Balinese art and crafts.

Below: the Tegellalang terraces

I'm far from over-romanticising the karmic cycles of destruction and renewals which Balinese history seems to go through. I also acknowledge the over-ambitious attempt to over-simplify Balinese culture by adhering to this destruction-creation duality. Yet it is hard not to admire the Balinese. Theirs is a fraught paradise full of pained memories - the independence struggle in which Balinese fought and died for both sides, sporadic eruptions which led to mass displacement of Balinese villagers, the "anti-communist" killings which engulfed Indonesia following the fall of Sukarno, a growing water shortage, even the Bali bombings a decade or so ago which momentarily paralyzed tourism on the island.

Each time the Balinese have picked up the pieces and rebuilt their lives. Most times, they still manage to smile.

Bali - The Price of Paradise

The affable and patient Mr Nyoman (we later learnt there are probably a million Nyomans in Bali) acted as our guide and driver for our stint on the island. On his advice, we jettisoned our plan to head eastwards on Friday towards Sidemen (festival on Pura Besakih = heavy traffic) and instead went northwards towards Munduk. The itinerary looked pretty balanced, comprising as it did a waterfall, rice terraces and two temples (one in the lowlands and the other in the highlands).

In reality, geography decided what and how much we could see in a day's driving. Many of Bali's roads followed its rivers along a north-south axis. These rivers, tumbling either northwards and southwards from the central volcanic uplands, carved out many steep-sided valleys which in turn impeded latitudinal travel. (We experienced this first-hand in Ubud, as the road from downtown Ubud back to Taman Bebek lay astride these river valleys.)

Geography also contributed to the political fragmentation of pre-colonial Bali. Bangli, Klungklung and Tabanan are familiar names on the Balinese tourist circuit, and were once kingdoms that vied with each other for control over the island. Pura Tanah Ayun at Mengwi, just west of Ubud, was built by one of these kingdoms. Balinese temple compounds were divided into three areas - outer, middle and inner realms - which are meant to replicate how the Hindus perceive the cosmos are arranged. Closed to tourists, the main temple in Pura Taman Ayun stood in the inner realm, where it is believed the wandering gods often descended to rest. Inside rose the first of the many meru we would see inside Balinese temples - thatched pagoda-like structures which is meant to symbolize Mount Meru, the abode of the Hindu gods. A wall and a moat ran around the main temple, as did an unending stream of tourists.

Below: Balinese skyscapes at Pura Tanah Ayun

From Mengwi we headed north, upslope and right from brilliant sunshine into gathering cloud. Our destination was Melanting Falls near Munduk. Melanting plunged down a smooth rock face fringed with luxuriant greenery. From the road it took between ten to fifteen minutes to descend to the falls. The falls had been swollen by intermittent showers that afternoon, and the fear of a sudden downpour had us advancing down the path like Greek hoplites, with opened umbrellas for burnished bucklers.

Below: with Mr Nyoman at Air Terjun Melanting, the only attraction where rain isn't a dampener

We retraced our steps towards Lake Bratan to visit the famous floating temple of Pura Ulun Danu Bratan. Another showery spell later on meant an extended lunch at a restaurant on the temple grounds. Built by the erstwhile kingdom of Mengwi (even before Pura Tanah Ayun), this was one of two main water temples on Bali. Lake Bratan is one source of irrigation, regulated strictly in the past by the temple's priesthood, for Bali's fabled rice terraces. The stream of tourists we encountered at Mengwi grew into a torrent here, which nobody regulated.

Below: Pura Ulun Danu Bratan

We continued our downstream course towards the rice terraces of Jatiluwih, fed by the springs of Gunung Batukaru and painstakingly carved out of the rolling hills by the endeavour of many Balinese hands. Art and science, split so neatly in our heavily Westernised curricula, combined here beautifully in the intricacies of an irrigation system complex enough to slake the unquenchable thirst of terraced earth.

Below: Jatiluwih, where rice fields glow

It is hard to imagine the scarcity of water in such a seemingly well-watered island as Bali. But population growth, the corresponding increase in the acreage brought under plow and an unrelenting influx of tourists (today close to an estimated eight million a year, both foreign and domestic) have contributed to this critical shortage. Everybody wants to drink from the rivers of paradise. Nobody ever thinks it might ever run dry one day.

Bali - Knocking on Heaven's Door

"We're going to Bali to prove to my wife that Bali's really over-rated," I declared to my colleague when asked what we were up to this Easter weekend. "What a waste of money," was my colleague's pithy response.

So after two previous trips to Indonesia which took us to the Batak highlands, Banda Aceh, Bandung, Bromo and Banyuwangi, we finally set foot on Bali. The newly-constructed terminal at Ngurah Rai Airport might have passed for an average nondescript airport in the developed world, but its well-lit, spacious and clean interior rendered it rather sleek by Indonesian provincial standards. Two prompt, unsmiling stamps on our passports, and we were nodded into paradise. Heaven's sliding doors opened to reveal a wall of white placards, on which were written the names of those who knocked. Mary's sharp eyes quickly found ours, and we disappeared into the Balinese night.

Our accommodation at Taman Bebek was in the village of Sayan, on the eastern outskirts of Ubud. The compound is perched on the terraced, emerald edge of the Sungai Agung gorge, over which Gunung Abang towered, benevolently on most days. We trudged sleepily after our porter along a leafy path, steeped in darkness, which led to our villa. Day would later unveil a lush garden setting full of birdsong.

Below: birdsong by day, cacophony by night.

One entered the villa through tiny wooden swing-doors, which opened unto a wide verandah. There we breakfasted al fresco in the mornings, with the mosquitoes who quickly found us. On our last morning in Bali, we retreated into the kitchen. The villa provided elegant, colonial-style comfort, though it was a while before we got used to the open-concept, mandi-style shower (nothing but blinds and angled walls to separate it from passers-by) and the Himalayan four-post bed which took an effort to clamber into. The interior was sparely though artfully furnished. Mary was unnerved by the steely gazes of a couple of portraits on the walls, which I proceeded to carefully take down, turn around and place against the wall.

Above: colonial-style living.

It was a short walk to the infinity pool, from where one could see the characteristic Balinese terraced rice fields cascade down towards the gushing Ayung river. Gunung Abang stands majestically in the background, when it isn't obscured by customary mid-day cloud. The pool was mostly unused, despite the resort being nearly full. The two resident bumblebees which buzzed amongst the flowers just above the water might have had something to do with this.

Below: Abang and the Sungai Ayung gorge.

But paradise had to wait. That first night, we were lulled to sleep by the creaks of the ceiling fan, the unceasing cacophony of crickets and the promise of sunny tomorrows.

Missed Call - The River

This is almost two months overdue.

We had high hopes for River Safari, especially its fêted Amazon River Quest. The park was fine, the boat ride was underwhelming, to say the least.

So Mary signed up for this Learning Journey organized by River Safari for primary school teachers - a sales pitch for educators. I bought a ticket and tagged along. We were introduced to some of the activities with which students will be engaged. One of these involved them examining jars of freshly collected animal poo and playing little scatological Sherlocks - literally stirring, well, you know what.

Below: While snapping away at these bats near the auditorium where our introduction was held, I made a startling discovery. I realized I had brought my camera along sans memory card. The rest of the day I spent agonizing over how to maximize the 18 photographs I could take, by deciding which to keep and which to discard.

After that we were brought on a guided tour which we flitted in and out of like butterflies in a garden. I was the culprit, mostly. I'd always loved the zoo, and here was one which I was visiting for the very first time. Growing up, my parents would bring me to the zoo every year on my birthday, nurturing in me an enduring love of animals that somehow was never translated into either passion for or excellence in biology.

There were definitely some new animals I don't recall seeing before - the elusive Chinese giant salamander, two crocodilians bantamweights in the African dwarf crocodile and the Chinese alligator and a host of freshwater fishes whose names I don't remember (I'm a convinced landlubber).

Below: River Safari Portraits, from top, Chinese giant salamander, Chinese alligator, fish (there are many) and the Giant Panda (who can forget when everything is in black and white).

Below: Some animals were brought over from the zoo and housed in exhibits that were very creatively re-invented. The roomy Flooded Forest tank where the manatees now dallied, for instance, was a significant upgrade from their previously featureless pool at the zoo.

The crowning glory of this brand new park was the Amazon River Quest, which by artful advertising led us to the impression that it resembled a ride on a little Amazonian creek. With some imagination it lived up to its billing - the animals and birds were as close to visitors as safety permitted (think netting, moats and glass), and far closer than their much shyer cousins in the wild. Some of course behaved as they would have in their natural habitats. Cruising along past the jaguars enclosure, we glimpsed only hints of mottled rosettes as the cats slumbered under shade.

I like the river theme, particularly how the park manages successfully to weave both geographical and cultural tidbits with the standard zoological information on display. With so much water and glass it felt more like an aquarium than anything else. As ever with Wildlife Reserve Singapore projects, it'll be an enjoyable day out for the kids - I reckon the next time Mary and I return will be with bairns of our own.

London - The World in a Small Place

On our second evening in London I met Cigano and Pipoca for dinner at a Lebanese restaurant along Edgware Road. I got to know the two of them three years ago in Tribo Capoeira. I'm ashamed to say that whilst they are still as agile and limber as they were then, I've stopped training entirely for about two years already. Cigano, Gypsy by name and Gypsy by his musical talent, was leaving for home the following day. Pipoca, a scientist, was leaving London for a good while within a fortnight. That day our paths crossed again, if only for a day.

Tribo was like a home away from home for me, and a family like no other. We had  a multinational cast practicing a Brazilian art form - Americans, Chinese, Colombians, Cypriot, French, German, Italians, Namibian, Polish, Portuguese, Malaysians, Singaporeans and British nationals of Bangladeshi, Moroccan and Pakistani descents. This was London's flavour - it gathers cultures together the world over without diluting any of them, yet all the while it has retained, albeit invented and reinvented, its very own Britishness.

We also met up with Wei Shu twice, once at Wong Kei (cheap and decent Chinese food, but I've come under fire for patronizing that restaurant in Chinatown) and the second time in Stratford. We've known each other since Cambridge days. Our friendship (and countless hilarious anecdotes) was forged upon stone and under rain, muddling along Cumbrian and Caledonian ridges, befuddling each other. Wei Shu works in London now, so it was great to be able to see him once more. How the tables have turned. When he first came to London (then for his internship) I had already been here for a year and helped arrange his accommodation for that period. Now Mary and I returned as strangers to the place, and Wei Shu helped with travel tips.

All of us never really left the Empire. Or should I say the Empire hasn't really left us? It is an empire of the mind (to borrow Michael Axworthy's history of Iran), leading us to ready identification with the River Thames, St Paul's, Big Ben, Shakespeare and even One Direction today. We speak English, and we are comfortable with it. We cheer on our favourite English football teams with vigour matching the vehemence with which we jeer their fiercest English rivals. But such parochial loyalties are today globalised.

The world is a very small place. It feels especially contained when you are looking down on it from the firmament, above the clouds, aboard a plane. The azure unknown beyond really feels like a girdle, and you are flying on the edge of an enormous blue ball. We felt like that, on board our Saudi Airlines flight, though the hours passed like centuries. I leave you with what we saw from the air, taken (I estimate) over the Alps.

London - Penny-dropping

A nation of shopkeepers - how Napoleon once famously dismissed England. Although England's glory has long since given up the ghost, Mary is mighty pleased England is still a nation of shopkeepers. Attractions we visited en route between shops. It hardly mattered that the weather was archetypically English - we spent much of our time indoors.

We were happy to be back in London, even if it wasn't for long. For me, there was no longer the need to face what we came to christen Mary's Quandary every morning - to snooze that extra hatful of minutes or to enjoy our bleary-eyed hotel breakfast. No prizes for guessing who was always first out of the blocks on our London leg. Mary also felt particularly empowered by news of an individual baggage allowance of 32 kg instead of the usual budget 20 kg.

On the first of our three days in London, we did a marathon ramble with an unwieldy square box from Camden to Marble Arch via Russell Square, Covent Garden and Piccadilly. I used to run in the Camden and Mornington Crescent vicinity in my time in London from time to time, but it was my first time visiting the Camden Lock Market when we did. For the uninitiated, a lock is a device on a waterway which transports vessels smoothly between two stretches of differing water levels, like a lift for boats.

Below: Amy Winehouse used to hang out at Camden. They tried to make her go for rehab but she said no no no. You can see why. From top to bottom: scooter seats rehashed as benches, lions compare manes, the world famous Camden Market and the Old Curiosity Bus.

The Camden Lock area is an excellent example of urban regeneration. The area fell into disuse and disrepair as the development of more and better roads contributed to the decline of the London canal system. In the 1970s, the place was refurbished as a crafts market by three enterprising young chaps. While the crowd may have become a lot more cosmopolitan, the creativity remains unabated. And the incessant drizzle that day hardly dampened its buzz. We spent close to an hour in a shop selling Turkish lamps, discussing the (im)practicalities of purchasing one. We went against wisdom and ended up buying not one but two (hence the box mentioned in the previous paragraph) which we managed miraculously to fit into our existing suitcases.

Above: a gem of a bookstore.

The next stop of note was the Waterstone's outlet at Gower Street, amidst the erudition of Bloomsbury. The five-storey establishment, Europe's largest academic bookshop, has an outstanding collection of books, not least its remainders section. Mary disappeared into the Education section, while for me an hour's foraging yielded Plokhy's Origins of the Slavic Nations, Pomeranz's The Great Divergence and Tripp's History of Iraq at knockdown prices. Only the baggage allowance prevented further purchases.

The rest of the day was spent amongst rather more prosaic retail outlets - Cath Kidston's amongst them. Mary hung out along Oxford Street while I met some of my capoeira friends for dinner (see next entry). It was also a night for lights. In four years, I've never once spent Christmas, nor the run-up to Yuletide, in London. It was another first for me. There was a decidedly more festive feel than in Ukraine, or the places where I spent Christmas in my years as a student (Syria, Senegal, Cyprus), with the exception of Spain.

Below: top to bottom, Christmas lights along Long Acre, at the Christmas Fair at Leicester Square and along Oxford Street.

Convent Garden became a favourite, and first, port of call. We had a straight bus there from Southwark (pronounced Sou-therk) - RV1 - so we began each day there. From there on the second day we dropped by Harrod's - this time via the Tube. Harrod's needs no introduction. You can buy nearly anything you want inside, short of the moon. In 1967, a elephant was purchased in Harrod's for Ronald Reagan. We soon tired of its gelatinous human flows and labyrinthine interiors, and beat a hasty retreat towards Hyde Park.

Above: top, Covent Garden - some things don't change, but people are amazed nonetheless; bottom, Knightsbridge, where people come to buy elephants.

The lights at Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park can be spotted miles away in the dark. We were drawn there like moths, along with every other tourist in London. A decision to cross the road using the underpass near Hyde Park Corner station saw us walk right into another human morass. When we inched out at the exit, we saw it extended all the way to the entrance of Winter Wonderland. It was the Sunday before Christmas.

23 December, our last full day in London, passed in like manner. Lunch was a fancier affair than usual at the Rainforest Cafe along Shaftesbury Avenue. As to be expected, it was a boreal-themed restaurant, complete with a bubbling forest stream, elephants and apes which trumpet and grunt at appointed intervals and leafy surrounds. Children loved it, and many pranced about with abandon. Make your reservations, queues formed even at half past two.

Our last stop in metropolitan London was the new Westfield Mall at Stratford. Here was yet another London phoenix which rose from the ashes of suburban decay, with a wave of urban renewal planned for just before the 2012 Olympics. Stratford is located in the East End of London, for years the Cockney capital of crime and grime. It was the first London stop for National Express coaches between London Victoria and Cambridge. During my undergraduate days, its nondescript industrial surrounds were usually my first sight of London, as I struggled to shake the sleep out of my eyes. It is nondescript no more.

That night we walked, bags in hand, back to the hotel with the winds in our sails. It knocked advertisement stands over, pushed us along the pavement and swirled in our empty pockets. The penny dropped. Every last one.

We waved goodbye to London and welcomed the rest of our lives.