An island made up of dogs, gods and beasts of road rage
MY TIME is up on the Island of the Dogs. Gods. There are half a million of one and about the same of the other.
The dogs and gods seem equally benign. The dogs lie in the middle of the road. When you hoot, they lift their head briefly, then go back to sleep. The message is clear. “Just drive around me.”
Two days ago I was attacked by a tiger. A small tiger. Okay, a cat. It was more of a warning than an attack. Don’t touch me unless you have food in your hand. Fair enough. I have known women like that.
This has been a wonderful break. From what, I can’t really say. I write a weekly column. You’d think I need a proper job, not a break. But you’d be wrong. Wrong like Barong.
In case you think I’m drunk and simply making up nonsensical rhymes, I’m not. Not yet, anyway. Barong is two parts lion and one part pekingese. He is leader of the forces of good and the sworn enemy of the naked, child-eating demon queen Rangda. I’m on Rangda’s side.
At around midday today the sea and air temperatures nuzzled up to one another in a steamy 27ºC clinch. Chinese snorkellers were seen meandering through the streets in their flippers and goggles, believing they were still in the sea.
Australians shopping for T-shirts were found drifting out to sea, thinking they were still at the market. I’ve never seen anything like it.
I can’t understand why so many Africans are trying to sneak into England, a country so cold that in January everyone’s nipples fall off. Luckily, they grow back.
Bali is much nicer. And you can get by on so much less. One sarong, two tattoos and a scooter. Free fish in the sea and coconuts in the trees.
No violent crime because nobody wants to come back as a chicken satay. No shouting with angry face. Ever.
An expat running a guest house out in the bush near an extinct volcano told me a tourist once raised her voice to the staff because something or other wasn’t quite to her liking. They burst into tears and ran home.
I am on Nusa Lembongan, an island 30 minutes by super special fast boat from the port of Sanur. I use the word port loosely.
On this sultry, wanton night of nights, I sit quite alone 154 steps above sea level in an eyrie in the skyrie.
Bali steps, not normal steps. You virtually need pitons and croutons to scale them. Giant steps, tiny people.
Eleven hours ago the loinfruit and Captain Congo hired a scooter, saying they were going for lunch. It’s now midnight.
As a parent, I suppose I should be concerned. But I can hear waves crashing on the coral reefs far below and the cloying fragrance of frangipani reminds me of lost loves.
Across the Badung Strait lights glitter along on the fringes of Bali’s east coast. I have cold Bintangs in the fridge.
It’s fiendishly hard to be worried about anything. Anything other than, while I sleep, having my face chewed off by the enormous gecko in the roof that makes a noise like a murderously lovesick waterfowl.
Earlier this evening I went to a local warung. A warung is like our restaurants without the trained staff, dress code, coke-fiend manager, car guards, health and safety standards or food.
My waiter was also the chef and quite possibly the owner. He was barefoot and bare-chested. A pair of stained shorts clung listlessly to his hips.
A gold chain dangled from his neck and his torso glistened like a freshly oiled almond. It wasn’t as erotic as it sounds. I do, though, like the protocol of taking off one’s shoes before one walks into a restaurant or shop.
Try that at home and you’ll never eat or shop again. Try it in Joburg and you’ll never walk again.
The loinfruit and Captain Congo showed up a day later and we moved to Nusa Ceningan, an island that abuts Lembongan in much the same way that Kim Kardashian abuts Kanye West.
If you look at a map, you’ll know what I’m talking about. But you won’t, will you? You’ll just take my word for it. This is how cults are started.
Unlike Kim’s ass, Ceningan is tiny.
A suspension bridge made of wooden slats and dead rats connects the islands. Two scooters and a backpacker and there’s a traffic jam. It rocks and swings, which makes it sound like the coolest bridge ever, but it’s not really.
On the map, there is only one road that goes around Ceningan. Sort of. On the scooter, though, there are dozens of roads that go around cows, roosters and very old women with baskets on their heads.
Some people have an internal GPS. I have a sextant. This isn’t much use to someone who isn’t always sure if we’re going around the sun or if the sun is going around us and what the hell the moon thinks it’s doing, never mind Pluto.
Getting lost is part of the fun of travelling. Unless, of course, you’re white and inadvertently find yourself travelling through KwaMashu’s K-section on a bicycle late on a Friday night.
Also fun is dicing with death on a scooter with shot shocks on roads so broken that your coccyx weeps and begs for mercy.
Taking off on a wave at a break called Lacerations and knowing that if you fall off, there’s a very good chance you’ll spend the rest of the day picking bits of coral out of your face is… okay, maybe not fun, but it certainly improves your surfing in a short space of time.
Heading back from the carfree islands into the mayhem of Bali’s Kuta and Seminyak districts, I felt the beast of road rage gnawing on the back of my skull.
The traffic is insane. The government expects everyone to stay calm but will chop off your head if you’re caught smoking a muscle relaxant. It makes no sense.
On our last night we went for sundowners at a beachfront restaurant called Ku De Ta. I was searched before being allowed in.
Security guards use a mirror to check underneath cars before allowing them in.
It’s a club, disco, bar and restaurant rolled into one. It’s also a gratuitous flesh-fest of hot and heavy tourists hell-bent on getting well and truly cocktailed.
A Japanese girl was the DJ. She looked about 9 years old. A small local beer was R60 and a bottle of Gordon’s gin cost R1 900. No wonder the place was blown up a few years ago.
Right. That’s it. I’m going in. Three flights, four airports and five double whiskies, please.