The past several days have been spent in a cloud of sticky humidity and scorching heat. In Bali!
We stayed in the tourist melting pot of Kuta. Humid and dirty, its narrow and un-planned streets are dense with stalls and shops brimming with tourist tat. Locals call out to you every few steps, “Yes, looking?”- “You want?” – “T-shirt, boss?” as you negotiate the randomly laid out terrain, ever remodelled and built- upon.
The traffic is never-ending. Taxis, millions of scooters, bicycles, cars, vans, all vie for the limited space on the roads (and, often off them too). Car horns interrupt the general hum of engines often and, as it first appears, indiscriminately. I soon realised that horns were not, as in India, being beeped without reason though. As one local driver put it, “It’s the easiest way to let others know you are there.” This makes sense; however, the one overlaying problem in this is that it is so busy it’s often rather difficulty to distinguish one horn from another!
We didn’t enjoy the over commercialised centre of Bali, but because we were stuck there, we found pleasure in little things instead.
The trip was enlightening for a few reasons. Firstly it provided us with the impetus to learn a second language. I have always wished my Malaysian/Thai heritage would have meant I was bi- or multi-lingual. Sadly this was not the case, as my Grandma never did pass on her mother-tongue to her children.
Ryan learnt Indonesian in school and still remembers several key phrases and words, so what better language to learn? We have a head start, in that Ryan can speak a little and it is virtually indistinguishable from Malaysian, apart from the odd word or phrase, so one day I may be able to speak with my family in Malaysia. Nabeela has taken to the language like a fish to water (she can count to 5 already and was busy shouting ‘terimah kasih- thank you and several greetings to locals throughout our stay).
Speaking of fish, we also spent a huge amount of time in the water. It was so sticky hot that I needed to be wet most of the time, just to keep from melting into a puddle of mush. Nabeela’s confidence in the water increased drastically by the end of the holiday and she is beginning to go through the motions of paddling and actively kicking her legs to travel through the water. Our little fish adored the cool waters of the hotel pool. On our last day in Bali we rustled up the extortionate fee to enter a huge outdoor water park, for Bee’s pleasure. Her excited giggles and beaming smiles made up for the overblown tourist prices.
What made the holiday were the local Balinese. Everywhere we went we were greeted with huge grins and a barrage of curious, but completely innocent questions, about Nabeela and our family. They were awed by our little toddler. Her name is- according to the locals- an Indonesian name, meaning something along the lines of Celebration (how pertinent). This coupled with their love of children and strong family values meant we were made to feel so special and rich for what we have: a beautiful daughter and a happy marriage. So far removed from the typical westerner’s views of family- where families with kids are made to feel excluded from ‘normal’ activities or any hint of fun. The Balinese embrace children (figuratively and literally!) and find their behaviours exactly what they are: normal! No being made to feel uncomfortable if your child breaks something by accident or widdles on the floor. As one man succinctly said, “That OK, children do things like that.”
At all the restaurants where we enjoyed Balinese cuisine, Beela was handed around amongst the staff, cuddled, kissed, prodded (gently) and photographed. She loved being swept away to be the centre of peoples’ attentions and lavish hugs and smiles. Any children that she met she instantly liked, including one little local boy (about six months older than she) who she shared a coy cuddle with, and a kiss!
After being made to feel so welcome, we barely needed to tour the island. Soaking up the way of life of this country was enough for us, particularly on our limited time frame.
We did tour around a little, however. Taxis are very cheap and so we found that flagging one down (usually within seconds of looking) and travelling on the meter was the most comfy, if not the most efficient, way of getting anywhere. Efficiency isn’t really expected in such bustling, narrow-laned chaos. To walk the same distance may take you an equal length of time, however the sun beating you to a sticky glop is usually enough to force a retreat into a cool taxi.
We briefly visited Nusa Dua- a neat tourist resort of little interest to people who like to get away from the familiarities of their home country, but with a calm swimming beach to cool down from the bubbling heat outside. We sat on reserved-for-hotel-guests-only loungers, eating street stall-bought nasi goreng (fried rice) and fresh whole mangoes, dripping sweet nectar over the plastic armchair and washing the stickiness away in the ocean.
On another day we visited Ullu Watu Wat, a temple south of Kuta, perched high up, overlooking the Indian Ocean from the cliff top. There, hugging the cliff-top, we took in rich green views peppered with orange and red blossoms. We looked down on the might of the sea as it crashed continuously against the slowly eroding cliff face, with the temple stood watch above: a silent sentinel and shrine to the Balinese own branch of Hinduism.
What we enjoyed most from our multitude of taxi drives was the ability to sit back and watch the country speed by and listen to the drivers interesting conversations.
One time, as Nabeela perched sleeping on my own knee I watched as a family sped past on their scooter. A baby of around Beela’s age sandwiched and also asleep, between mother and father was oblivious to the heat, fumes and clamour around her.
An old man, reminding me so much of my own father (who of course could never be described as an old man!) grumbled on and on about his life. He spoke of his immersion in the tourist market and of the politics that renders him unable to leave.
As he talked I noticed his black hair, sprinkled with white, poking out from under his baseball cap, crinkled eyes portraying the gulf between himself and his grown-up children, the resigned tilt of his head as he told of the necessity of tourism, the curled half-smile as he mentioned the corruption permeating the country. “So many scooters and many accident!” He answered when we asked about the traffic problems, “People don’t even wear helmets.” Though they are supposed to, most tourists get away with a cursory warning and the underhand loss of ten dollars. Corruption in practice.
Another joy in Bali was the food. This may not be much of a surprise to anyone who knows us. For us life does revolve around eating, after all! We began the holiday eating in tourist restaurants, which were fine and still reasonably cheap. But quickly we noticed the small roadside stalls and the unobtrusive cafe’s which locals frequented. We began eating in these instead. Much cheaper than tourist places, they had an expectant and friendly feel to them. The staff often watched us as we tucked into the gloriously rich nasi goreng, fluffy plain white rice, crisp tempeh, fried tofu, sautéed greens and salty garlic sauce- I think they were pleased we had chosen them instead of the typical tourist hang- outs and were impressed by our wish to eat true local cuisine.
We all gorged ourselves on fruit. The juices are sensational. We enjoyed papaya, mango, pineapple and creamy thick avocado on plenty of occasions. My IBS didn’t bother me once and I have put it down to eating mainly cooked food. The amount of fruit we ate should have had me doubled over in bloated belly agony, but I was fine. So I may replicate this diet back home and go back to cooking most of my food. I love the idea of a highly raw diet, but after persevering for several months, my bowels are not allowing me to enjoy it or benefit from it.
Being vegan was no problem in most places, particularly when eating at a local place. We only encountered problems with egg, as it seems to be added to everything, and possibly fish. I am quite sure we unsuspectingly ate these two items on a few occasions, much to our disappointment. There is little to be done though, but move on from it.
I left as an Australian tourist and came back as a fully-fledged Permanent Resident! During our stay in Bali I checked my emails, just to make sure my visa was coming along ok and received the exciting news that my CO had granted me a P100 visa.
Initially my heart sank, as I thought it was only the temporary version and I would have a two year ‘trial’ period before being able to apply for the permanent visa. I was, happily, wrong and he had actually granted me permanent residency! The relief washed over me and (once back in the hotel room, away from curious eyes) I danced my ‘I’m-a-permanent-resident’ jig to Ryan and Nabeela’s raised eye-brows.
Entry back into Australia was somewhat of an anti-climax. My eagerness to get back to my new home was stifled when my expectations were squashed. I don’t quite know what I was expecting- a fan-fare complete with brass band and dancing? That would have been nice! If not that, then at least the customs official could have welcomed me to my new home. Instead she didn’t even mention it, only giving me congratulations when Ryan pointed it out. I do have a stamp in my passport commemorating the momentous occasion, however. That will have to do!
