There are two Balis in Indonesia. They exist side-by-side.
The first is revealed to me as the minivan groans its way past two security checkpoints – neatly trimmed, well-manicured lawns, pristine white deckchairs, parasols waving gently in the sea breeze. Balinese peddlers, browned by the sun walk by the seafront, sand between their toes, their wares piled in a basket balanced on their heads.
In this Bali, every room is air-conditioned (even the toilets). Sometimes, the air may be perfumed with frangipanni. If you wish to swim, a selection of swimming pools await you. Some are quieter than others, tucked away into the corners of the hotel. Others are heated in the early hours of the morning. There are a few saltwater pools (though with the sea just a few steps away, one wonders what purpose a saltwater pool is meant to serve). When you get hungry, you may choose from a wide array of restaurants: there is japanese food, vaguely European cuisine, and a selection of steaks and grilled meats.
Guests at this Bali lack for nothing: The beds are soft and comfortable enough to live up to the advertisement in the lift lobby: ‘our beds are a piece of heaven’; food is served daily at a variety of locations; everywhere you go, friendly, smiling Balinese staff press their hands together and bow low in greeting.
The other Bali, I have only begun to discover.
I find it in a quiet stretch of non-hotel beach, walking under the languid humidity of the noon sun with a friend. Little children are running around us, laughing, playing with makeshift kites made from plastic bags, drawing Spongebob in the sand. A small black dog approaches, tail held high, sniffing curiously. He clearly thinks he owns this beach, if not the world. The grey sea is dotted with colourful fishing boats and the sea is pungent with the smell of fish. There is a man standing in the sea, fishing. Seawater sloshes around his ankles. Slightly further away, a group of fishermen heave and push at a boat, trying in vain to launch it. Their singsong voices fade into the distance as we stroll through the shifting sands. I find a coconut by the water, its top dusted lightly with sand. Sand is leaking gradually into my shoes, and with every step I take, I seem to sink back half a step – but on this beach, time seems to have slowed to match the heavy, sun-laden air. We take time to spot shapes in the clouds, to spin yarns out of the breeze.
I find it in the late night silence of a moonlit mountain, feet sliding soundlessly into fertile volcanic soil, pregnant with possibility. The full moon looks down and casts a silvery veil over the expectant trees and greenery. Everything looks as if it might be imbued with magic, lit from within by the moonlight. I suspect we are slightly crazy, to be trekking up a mountain at 4 in the morning – but this panorama, with the stars twinkling overhead and the pinpricks of torchlight from other like-minded trekkers stretching ahead of us like a newly minted constellation, is worth almost anything. We talk intermittently, our steps punctuated by our breathing. The mountain air smells fresh and fragrant – frangipanni again, perhaps. Here and there, shrines to the mountain gods are tucked into the shrubbery, offerings and incense spilling onto the ground. Later, we watch the sun rise over the lake, cold wind tousling our hair, hands clutching cups of sweet tea and coffee. Almost two thousand metres above sea level, there is space enough and time enough to laugh and joke and banter. The sun bathes the mountainside in gold, and the sky overhead is cornflower blue.
This is the Bali that I will treasure, above and beyond carpet grass gardens: the welcoming lilt of Bahasa Indonesia, the dangerous majesty of the moutains, and those fishing boats, bobbing happily on a salty sea.
