Wednesday, January 27, 2010
It’s a gas gas gas
OK, so last night, I was home alone because Wade had to go to Dili for a meeting. It was my first night at home by myself. As luck and Murphy’s Law would have it, the gas bottle decided to run out just as I had put the pasta on to boil. Luckily, we had a spare bottle, but I couldn’t for the life of me crack the nut to change it over (I have since found out – ie since Wade got home – that for safety reasons, gas fittings all turn in the opposite direction to normal ones, so in attempting to crack the nut, I was only making it tighter).
I called out to security (yes, we have security guards at night here, but don’t be too alarmed - it is all merely in the name of job creation) to come and help, so he came inside and tightened the nut some more. After both of us sweating and struggling for around 20 minutes, we shook our heads in disbelief at just how hard this nut was to crack.
The guard said (in Tetun): “Tomorrow I’ll get someone to come and fix it for you”.
(I‘m pretty sure) I said (in Tetun): “No, don’t worry. Wade will be back tomorrow, so he can fix it”.
...
Next morning.
Guard (in Tetun): “Did you get the gas bottle changed over?”
Me (in Tetun): “No”
Guard: “I’ll ask someone from the office to come and help you change it over.”
Me: “No, don’t worry. Wade will be back today, so he will be able to fix it.”
...
Later that morning...
Wade comes back. Attaches new gas bottle in approximately 46 seconds. Advises me on the idiosyncrasies of gas fittings. I am wide-eyed at the wonders of the world.
...
Still later that morning...
Troupe carrier pulls up outside our house. Four men from the office get out and start walking towards our house. Wade goes outside to see what the problem is.
Office man 1 (in Tetun): “We’ve come to change your gas bottle...”
I called out to security (yes, we have security guards at night here, but don’t be too alarmed - it is all merely in the name of job creation) to come and help, so he came inside and tightened the nut some more. After both of us sweating and struggling for around 20 minutes, we shook our heads in disbelief at just how hard this nut was to crack.
The guard said (in Tetun): “Tomorrow I’ll get someone to come and fix it for you”.
(I‘m pretty sure) I said (in Tetun): “No, don’t worry. Wade will be back tomorrow, so he can fix it”.
...
Next morning.
Guard (in Tetun): “Did you get the gas bottle changed over?”
Me (in Tetun): “No”
Guard: “I’ll ask someone from the office to come and help you change it over.”
Me: “No, don’t worry. Wade will be back today, so he will be able to fix it.”
...
Later that morning...
Wade comes back. Attaches new gas bottle in approximately 46 seconds. Advises me on the idiosyncrasies of gas fittings. I am wide-eyed at the wonders of the world.
...
Still later that morning...
Troupe carrier pulls up outside our house. Four men from the office get out and start walking towards our house. Wade goes outside to see what the problem is.
Office man 1 (in Tetun): “We’ve come to change your gas bottle...”
Nativity Wars
A short time later, perhaps after dark, I would at first be intrigued by the groups of young boys that appear to be hanging around these make-shift stables, drinking beer and listening to loud music. This would very quickly turn into all out horror as I witness the thievery that takes place when a group’s back is turned. Steal a Jesus from one, only to have your own Mary taken away by someone else.
“Somewhere along the way”, I would muse, “We seem to have got our wires crossed”.
Our trip to Bali
This is a story about Wade and Gillian’s adventurous journey to the lovely island of Bali.
Starring:
A couple of fairly clueless, but lucky newlyweds
Friendly helper #1: West Timorese colleague
A Nasty President
Friendly helper #2: Angela*
Friendly helper #3: Angela’s friend
Friendly helper #4: Rahman
Two pushy women
A brave, but stupid, bus driver
*Names have been changed.
Narrated by Gillian, in the first person.
Wednesday, 16 December
Discover that all flights from Dili to Denpasar are full between 23 and 28 December.
Bugger.
Employ West Timorese colleague to purchase Merpati Airlines ticket from Kupang (West Timor) to Denpasar on 24 December. Learn that this domestic ticket only costs $70 per person instead of the $300-odd to go from Dili.
Yay!
Also learn that we must travel overland to Kupang, which means Indonesian visa is required.
Thursday, 17 December
Day of rest to gather thoughts.
Friday, 18 December
Go to Indonesian embassy in Oecusse. Sign says “closed”. Cleaning staff inform me that embassy staff have gone to Dili to process visas. If I’d have put our forms in yesterday, we would have had our visas by Monday.
Bugger.
DAMN YOU, day of rest!!
Make some calls to a few people “in the know”. Am informed that there is a possibility that the Indonesian embassy in Oecusse will do a “diplomat’s visa”, which they can process in one day. Cost is double the usual price of visa. I wonder whether this is simply code for “bribe”.
Monday, 20 December
Go to Indonesian embassy in Oecusse, ready to make my bribe. Am told that visa forms were due in on Thursday. They will now take one week to process – in Dili. I casually wave the $60 across the window and meekly enquire about the “diplomat’s visa”. Am laughed at and told once again that the visa will take one week.
Bugger.
Need to be in Kupang in 3 days. Have no visa. Will have to get the ferry to Dili, which leaves tomorrow afternoon at 4pm. I think we can manage that.
Tuesday, 21 December
Find out that the ferry isn’t running, because the President has decided to use it to take his family to a neighbouring island for a holiday.
Bugger.
Only option left: pay $600 for a charter flight to Dili.
Leave that afternoon at 2pm, major hole in pocket, but grateful for the miraculous opportunity to fly.
Arrive in Dili and begin the process of getting a visa. Thankfully, Wade’s administration officer, Angela, has a friend at the embassy and has offered to take in our forms.
Yay!
Now, for a bus ticket to Kupang...
Various Timorese staff tactlessly inform us that most of the buses will probably already be full because everyone is trying to get to Kupang for holidays. I can only nod my head and hope for the best.
Am taken to one bus office. “Full”
Bugger.
Next bus office. “Yes, we have two available seats for 23 December.”
Yay!
“What are your passport numbers?”
“Umm, our passports are in the Indonesian embassy – we’re still waiting for our visas.”
“When did you put them in?”
“Today.”
“Well, you know, they take 3 days to process them. I can’t sell you the ticket unless you have a visa”.
Bugger.
“OK, well, can you hold the seats for us until tomorrow?”
“I will try. My name is Rahman. Here is my number. Call me when you get the visas.”
Yay!
Wednesday, 22 December
Informed by Angela that we should have the visa by this afternoon – 4pm at the latest.
Because we are driving overland, we realise we are going to need some Indonesian currency for when we get across the border. I head to the bank, 15 minutes before opening. There is already a very long queue, waiting to get inside – it looks like the Boxing Day sales. I notice there are some dodgy looking people standing around with foreign currency in their hands. I think about handing over my US dollars in exchange for rupiah, but it’s probably best to do it officially, inside the bank.
As soon as the doors open, the crowd surges through and disperses into 3 different but equally lengthy queues. I hesitate, not knowing which queue to get into, and as a result, many people shuffle past me and I lose my place in what was otherwise a fairly advanced position.
Bugger.
I quickly scan the room, see a board with exchange rates on it next to one of the queues, and so decide that that would be the obvious place to line up. I stand, towards the back of the line. And wait. Suddenly, two women push past me and stand in the line just in front of me. I look around me in disbelief to see if anyone else is as outraged as me. All I see is a man, looking at me and holding up two fingers. His expression seems to say, “I’m sorry for your loss, but hey, thems the breaks”. I have no idea what the fingers mean. Maybe it’s a peace sign to try to appease me. Whatever it means, I’ve got no patience for this sort of behaviour today, so I promptly push back in front of the women, saying, in my most assertive voice I can muster, “Excuse me! I was in front of you.” I settle into my reclaimed position and look around me. Then I realise that there are actually two lines, not one, and I was standing in the longest one. The two women were just joining the other, shorter queue (hence the two fingers). I realise that I had just officially, and very loudly, pushed in.
Bugger.
But, I decide to stand my ground, because I know what these crowds can be like. There is absolutely no order, nor courtesy. It is simply every many for himself, and if someone snoozes, they most certainly loozes. Now, this is the type of queue that snakes around dividers, like at the airport, so when turning the corner, you are particularly vulnerable to losing your place if you don’t put into place some territory-marking strategies. I quickly devise a strategy: Stick my foot out, and put my hand on the pole. That way, no one can sneak past me. (This is all done very discreetly and casually, by the way. You have to make it look like you’re just standing with your foot and your hand out because you’re comfortable that way.)
I get to what I think is the end of the queue, and then I realise that there is still one more step: a row of chairs, which effectively means, two queues merging into one. This is more difficult than it sounds, especially when nobody wants to let anyone in front of them. And the three young girls in front of me are getting gazumped at every opportunity. They keep letting the people from the other line sit down! By this time I am getting incredibly impatient, so I once again use my territory-marking strategy and stick out my foot and put my hand on the pole, making a barrier so that the man in the other line is now blocked. He pretends not to notice, but he still give my arm a little nudge. I ignore him. The young girls give me a grateful smile as they sit down on the next available chairs, and I think to myself, “Yep, it’s a dog-eat-dog world, girls. You’ve got to stand your ground.”
After around 40 minutes, I make it to the front of the line, walk up to the lady at the teller and say, “I’d like to buy some rupiahs, please”.
“Oh, sorry,” she says, “We no have. Go outside.”
“Outside? Where?”
“You will see some men there. They have rupiah.”
Bugger.
As I turn to walk out the door, I notice that the two women who pushed in front of me who I pushed back in front of again, are sitting down at the front of the queue. They both have smirks on their faces.
I go outside and buy my rupiahs from one of the dodgy-looking men, for a surprisingly reasonable exchange.
Yay.
...
Promptly, at 4pm, our passports and visas are handed over.
Yay!
Off to the bus office to collect tickets. They are waiting for us.
Yay!
Which means, in effect, that we are officially going to Bali.
Yay!
That is, assuming our Merpati tickets have definitely been booked and the plane gets off the ground in Kupang. Merpati is not known for its reliability.
Thursday, 23 December
President has called a “National Clean Up Day”. No vehicles are allowed on the street between 8am and 11 am. Heavy fines for breaking the rules.
Bugger.
The bus driver decides to risk it. We stupidly drive around the city, collecting passengers. Manage to do so without incident, until we are on our way out of the city, when we are stopped by a blockade. A police officer walks angrily up to our driver.
Bugger.
Wade pokes his head out the window and catches the police officer’s eye, whose expression instantly softens. The bus driver apologises for not being out on the street, cleaning up. The police officer seems to say, “I understand. Away you go on your holidays”.
Yay! (Actually, “Phew!”)
We’re off.
Sometime later...
Realise bus driver is really, really tired. Witness him slapping himself in the face, driving with his head stuck out the window and sticking his head in a water trough at one of the rest stop.
Bugger.
Sometime later, get to East/West Timor border. Process visas and immigration with no problems. Cross border.
Yay!
Change bus drivers.
Yay!
Arrive in Kupang without further incident.
Yay!
Friday, 24 December
Get to Kupang airport, extra early, in case anything goes wrong with the tickets.
It hasn’t.
Yay!
But...
The plane is delayed for six hours.
Bugger.
We wonder what the hell we’re going to do. Decide to try our luck checking back into our hotel room. We had checked out well before the official time of noon. We are pleased to hear that our room is still available. We put it down to the fact that foreigners like us are a novelty in these parts, and local people want to make foreigners happy. Because they’re usually rich.
Yay!
Kill six hours with no trouble, watching TV in the air-conditioned hotel room, and then walking the streets of grubby Kupang (not one of my most recommended tourist destinations). Get to airport. Merpati flight leaves on time and in better comfort than what we’re used to on the Merpati flights from Dili.
Yay!
Touch down in Denpasar without incident.
Yay!
And that was a little story about how we got to Bali.
Incidentally, Merpati airlines flight from Dili to Denpasar on Christmas Day was cancelled, without notice or alternative flight, leaving scores of Timorese and ex-pats stranded, unable to get home for their holidays. Some had to get connecting flights to places as far away as Brazil.
We were happy for our adventure.
Starring:
A couple of fairly clueless, but lucky newlyweds
Friendly helper #1: West Timorese colleague
A Nasty President
Friendly helper #2: Angela*
Friendly helper #3: Angela’s friend
Friendly helper #4: Rahman
Two pushy women
A brave, but stupid, bus driver
*Names have been changed.
Narrated by Gillian, in the first person.
Wednesday, 16 December
Discover that all flights from Dili to Denpasar are full between 23 and 28 December.
Bugger.
Employ West Timorese colleague to purchase Merpati Airlines ticket from Kupang (West Timor) to Denpasar on 24 December. Learn that this domestic ticket only costs $70 per person instead of the $300-odd to go from Dili.
Yay!
Also learn that we must travel overland to Kupang, which means Indonesian visa is required.
Thursday, 17 December
Day of rest to gather thoughts.
Friday, 18 December
Go to Indonesian embassy in Oecusse. Sign says “closed”. Cleaning staff inform me that embassy staff have gone to Dili to process visas. If I’d have put our forms in yesterday, we would have had our visas by Monday.
Bugger.
DAMN YOU, day of rest!!
Make some calls to a few people “in the know”. Am informed that there is a possibility that the Indonesian embassy in Oecusse will do a “diplomat’s visa”, which they can process in one day. Cost is double the usual price of visa. I wonder whether this is simply code for “bribe”.
Monday, 20 December
Go to Indonesian embassy in Oecusse, ready to make my bribe. Am told that visa forms were due in on Thursday. They will now take one week to process – in Dili. I casually wave the $60 across the window and meekly enquire about the “diplomat’s visa”. Am laughed at and told once again that the visa will take one week.
Bugger.
Need to be in Kupang in 3 days. Have no visa. Will have to get the ferry to Dili, which leaves tomorrow afternoon at 4pm. I think we can manage that.
Tuesday, 21 December
Find out that the ferry isn’t running, because the President has decided to use it to take his family to a neighbouring island for a holiday.
Bugger.
Only option left: pay $600 for a charter flight to Dili.
Leave that afternoon at 2pm, major hole in pocket, but grateful for the miraculous opportunity to fly.
Arrive in Dili and begin the process of getting a visa. Thankfully, Wade’s administration officer, Angela, has a friend at the embassy and has offered to take in our forms.
Yay!
Now, for a bus ticket to Kupang...
Various Timorese staff tactlessly inform us that most of the buses will probably already be full because everyone is trying to get to Kupang for holidays. I can only nod my head and hope for the best.
Am taken to one bus office. “Full”
Bugger.
Next bus office. “Yes, we have two available seats for 23 December.”
Yay!
“What are your passport numbers?”
“Umm, our passports are in the Indonesian embassy – we’re still waiting for our visas.”
“When did you put them in?”
“Today.”
“Well, you know, they take 3 days to process them. I can’t sell you the ticket unless you have a visa”.
Bugger.
“OK, well, can you hold the seats for us until tomorrow?”
“I will try. My name is Rahman. Here is my number. Call me when you get the visas.”
Yay!
Wednesday, 22 December
Informed by Angela that we should have the visa by this afternoon – 4pm at the latest.
Because we are driving overland, we realise we are going to need some Indonesian currency for when we get across the border. I head to the bank, 15 minutes before opening. There is already a very long queue, waiting to get inside – it looks like the Boxing Day sales. I notice there are some dodgy looking people standing around with foreign currency in their hands. I think about handing over my US dollars in exchange for rupiah, but it’s probably best to do it officially, inside the bank.
As soon as the doors open, the crowd surges through and disperses into 3 different but equally lengthy queues. I hesitate, not knowing which queue to get into, and as a result, many people shuffle past me and I lose my place in what was otherwise a fairly advanced position.
Bugger.
I quickly scan the room, see a board with exchange rates on it next to one of the queues, and so decide that that would be the obvious place to line up. I stand, towards the back of the line. And wait. Suddenly, two women push past me and stand in the line just in front of me. I look around me in disbelief to see if anyone else is as outraged as me. All I see is a man, looking at me and holding up two fingers. His expression seems to say, “I’m sorry for your loss, but hey, thems the breaks”. I have no idea what the fingers mean. Maybe it’s a peace sign to try to appease me. Whatever it means, I’ve got no patience for this sort of behaviour today, so I promptly push back in front of the women, saying, in my most assertive voice I can muster, “Excuse me! I was in front of you.” I settle into my reclaimed position and look around me. Then I realise that there are actually two lines, not one, and I was standing in the longest one. The two women were just joining the other, shorter queue (hence the two fingers). I realise that I had just officially, and very loudly, pushed in.
Bugger.
But, I decide to stand my ground, because I know what these crowds can be like. There is absolutely no order, nor courtesy. It is simply every many for himself, and if someone snoozes, they most certainly loozes. Now, this is the type of queue that snakes around dividers, like at the airport, so when turning the corner, you are particularly vulnerable to losing your place if you don’t put into place some territory-marking strategies. I quickly devise a strategy: Stick my foot out, and put my hand on the pole. That way, no one can sneak past me. (This is all done very discreetly and casually, by the way. You have to make it look like you’re just standing with your foot and your hand out because you’re comfortable that way.)
I get to what I think is the end of the queue, and then I realise that there is still one more step: a row of chairs, which effectively means, two queues merging into one. This is more difficult than it sounds, especially when nobody wants to let anyone in front of them. And the three young girls in front of me are getting gazumped at every opportunity. They keep letting the people from the other line sit down! By this time I am getting incredibly impatient, so I once again use my territory-marking strategy and stick out my foot and put my hand on the pole, making a barrier so that the man in the other line is now blocked. He pretends not to notice, but he still give my arm a little nudge. I ignore him. The young girls give me a grateful smile as they sit down on the next available chairs, and I think to myself, “Yep, it’s a dog-eat-dog world, girls. You’ve got to stand your ground.”
After around 40 minutes, I make it to the front of the line, walk up to the lady at the teller and say, “I’d like to buy some rupiahs, please”.
“Oh, sorry,” she says, “We no have. Go outside.”
“Outside? Where?”
“You will see some men there. They have rupiah.”
Bugger.
As I turn to walk out the door, I notice that the two women who pushed in front of me who I pushed back in front of again, are sitting down at the front of the queue. They both have smirks on their faces.
I go outside and buy my rupiahs from one of the dodgy-looking men, for a surprisingly reasonable exchange.
Yay.
...
Promptly, at 4pm, our passports and visas are handed over.
Yay!
Off to the bus office to collect tickets. They are waiting for us.
Yay!
Which means, in effect, that we are officially going to Bali.
Yay!
That is, assuming our Merpati tickets have definitely been booked and the plane gets off the ground in Kupang. Merpati is not known for its reliability.
Thursday, 23 December
President has called a “National Clean Up Day”. No vehicles are allowed on the street between 8am and 11 am. Heavy fines for breaking the rules.
Bugger.
The bus driver decides to risk it. We stupidly drive around the city, collecting passengers. Manage to do so without incident, until we are on our way out of the city, when we are stopped by a blockade. A police officer walks angrily up to our driver.
Bugger.
Wade pokes his head out the window and catches the police officer’s eye, whose expression instantly softens. The bus driver apologises for not being out on the street, cleaning up. The police officer seems to say, “I understand. Away you go on your holidays”.
We’re off.
Sometime later...
Realise bus driver is really, really tired. Witness him slapping himself in the face, driving with his head stuck out the window and sticking his head in a water trough at one of the rest stop.
Bugger.
Sometime later, get to East/West Timor border. Process visas and immigration with no problems. Cross border.
Yay!
Change bus drivers.
Yay!
Arrive in Kupang without further incident.
Yay!
Friday, 24 December
Get to Kupang airport, extra early, in case anything goes wrong with the tickets.
It hasn’t.
Yay!
But...
The plane is delayed for six hours.
Bugger.
We wonder what the hell we’re going to do. Decide to try our luck checking back into our hotel room. We had checked out well before the official time of noon. We are pleased to hear that our room is still available. We put it down to the fact that foreigners like us are a novelty in these parts, and local people want to make foreigners happy. Because they’re usually rich.
Yay!
Kill six hours with no trouble, watching TV in the air-conditioned hotel room, and then walking the streets of grubby Kupang (not one of my most recommended tourist destinations). Get to airport. Merpati flight leaves on time and in better comfort than what we’re used to on the Merpati flights from Dili.
Yay!
Touch down in Denpasar without incident.
Yay!
And that was a little story about how we got to Bali.
Incidentally, Merpati airlines flight from Dili to Denpasar on Christmas Day was cancelled, without notice or alternative flight, leaving scores of Timorese and ex-pats stranded, unable to get home for their holidays. Some had to get connecting flights to places as far away as Brazil.
We were happy for our adventure.
The Honeymoon. The Highlights.
• Realising that getting there was half the fun.
• Discovering that the entire island of Timor only has one mix tape that has been copied and distributed to all bus drivers, shops and airports for continuous and painful repetition, 24 hours a day. And each song has EXACTLY the same bass line. Since getting back, have realised that it is the same stuff that our little diva neighbour belts out most hours of most days of the week.
• Noting the fully sick detailing on the windscreens of all the local buses - a word or short phrase in a whacky font - as if giving the bus its title, while at the same time diminishing visibility by at least 30%. Here are some of my favourites:
“Simples”
“Blessing”
“Predator”
“Alfa Omega”
“What’s the Greek connection?” you ask. I don’t know.
• Catching an unusually large number of men doing up their pants after urinating in public.
• Learning how to make hibiscus tea (among many other, wondrous tasty treats) at the Casa Luna cooking school (a wedding present from my naughty friends, Tara and Will).
Here’s how: You get 3 hibiscus flowers, put them in a cup. Pour over boiling water. Watch it turn dark purple. Take the flowers out. Squeeze in the juice of a lime. Watch the liquid turn to pink. Add sugar to taste. Chill if desired. Drink.
• Marvelling at young children asleep whilst riding motorbikes with their families. One little boy was standing, slumped over the handlebars, dead to the world.
• Discovering that using a banana leaf as an umbrella may not be all that effective, but it sure looks cool.
• Being oblivious to the fact that our fancy “Honeymoon Special” masseurs from our hotel in Amed were not the same people that come along from the beach and say: “You wan massaz?”. We’d booked for 3pm. The hotel masseurs were late. The beachcombers were not. We weren’t to know. We undressed. The beachcombers started with their baby oil. The fancy ones turned up at the door in their fancy uniforms and their aromatherapy oils. Then there were four masseurs in a room with two half-naked tourists looking confused and guilty, feeling like we’d been caught cheating. We wanted the good stuff. We ditched the baby oil (paid for it) and spent the next hour and a half in aromatherapy heaven.
• Getting loved up on New Year’s Eve with my two favourite men in the whole world: Wade and Michael Franti. Watched and listened to the smooth acoustic tunes with our legs dangling in the pool. Then went back to our own villa*, with our own private pool and had a night time swim as the rain started coming down. (That part was a bit luxurious).
• *Shaking my head in disbelief at the traffic congestion while walking back to our villa on New Year’s Eve. At one end of the road the cars were at a stand-still, motorbikes weaving in and around them, as well as speeding down the footpaths, until eventually, the motorbikes came to a gridlock, leaving only small spaces for us lowly pedestrians to squeeze through. Eventually even we were unable to advance any further, with all the available spaces being taken up by cars, motorbikes and other pedestrians.
• Discovering that the entire island of Timor only has one mix tape that has been copied and distributed to all bus drivers, shops and airports for continuous and painful repetition, 24 hours a day. And each song has EXACTLY the same bass line. Since getting back, have realised that it is the same stuff that our little diva neighbour belts out most hours of most days of the week.
• Noting the fully sick detailing on the windscreens of all the local buses - a word or short phrase in a whacky font - as if giving the bus its title, while at the same time diminishing visibility by at least 30%. Here are some of my favourites:
“Xpressi”
“Stand by You”
“Google”
“Posh Boy”
“Don’t cry”
“Buser”
“Forever Power”
“Predator”“Gentlemen”
“Cleopatra”
“Corinthia”
“What’s the Greek connection?” you ask. I don’t know.
• Catching an unusually large number of men doing up their pants after urinating in public.
• Learning how to make hibiscus tea (among many other, wondrous tasty treats) at the Casa Luna cooking school (a wedding present from my naughty friends, Tara and Will).
Here’s how: You get 3 hibiscus flowers, put them in a cup. Pour over boiling water. Watch it turn dark purple. Take the flowers out. Squeeze in the juice of a lime. Watch the liquid turn to pink. Add sugar to taste. Chill if desired. Drink.
• Marvelling at young children asleep whilst riding motorbikes with their families. One little boy was standing, slumped over the handlebars, dead to the world.
• Discovering that using a banana leaf as an umbrella may not be all that effective, but it sure looks cool.
• Being oblivious to the fact that our fancy “Honeymoon Special” masseurs from our hotel in Amed were not the same people that come along from the beach and say: “You wan massaz?”. We’d booked for 3pm. The hotel masseurs were late. The beachcombers were not. We weren’t to know. We undressed. The beachcombers started with their baby oil. The fancy ones turned up at the door in their fancy uniforms and their aromatherapy oils. Then there were four masseurs in a room with two half-naked tourists looking confused and guilty, feeling like we’d been caught cheating. We wanted the good stuff. We ditched the baby oil (paid for it) and spent the next hour and a half in aromatherapy heaven.
• Getting loved up on New Year’s Eve with my two favourite men in the whole world: Wade and Michael Franti. Watched and listened to the smooth acoustic tunes with our legs dangling in the pool. Then went back to our own villa*, with our own private pool and had a night time swim as the rain started coming down. (That part was a bit luxurious).
• *Shaking my head in disbelief at the traffic congestion while walking back to our villa on New Year’s Eve. At one end of the road the cars were at a stand-still, motorbikes weaving in and around them, as well as speeding down the footpaths, until eventually, the motorbikes came to a gridlock, leaving only small spaces for us lowly pedestrians to squeeze through. Eventually even we were unable to advance any further, with all the available spaces being taken up by cars, motorbikes and other pedestrians.THE Honeymoon Highlight
I didn’t know I was so clever. In fact, I had absolutely no idea what I’d done until it was happening. It’s the sort of thing you do for someone and keep it as a surprise, because it’s so GOOD.
Somehow I managed to surprise both of us.
After half a caprioska on an empty stomach, I forgot about Don and started looking forward to the food. With our drinks we were served a canapé of black truffles in puff pastry - gourmet vegetarian sausage roll – and as soon as I bit into it, I immediately realised something:
I don’t like truffles.
Is that a faux pas?
Of course, I didn’t complain. I still scoffed the lot.
I just went off and vomited quietly in the corner afterwards.
And here are a few of the dishes:
Somehow I managed to surprise both of us.
I booked us into Mosaic – reputedly Bali’s best restaurant. We were to have the degustation menu (our second such indulgence for the trip – the first being at Lamak, with my friend Beverley, where my fellow diners and I shared our first sweetbread experience. For those that don’t know, sweetbread is not bread. And it it’s not so sweet either. Some say “testicle”. I have heard “pancreas”. But don’t let that deter you from this otherwise delightful dining experience. However, I digress...).
When we arrived at the restaurant, I gave my name to the maître-de, but it didn’t appear to be on the list. “That’s bloody typical,” I thought, “‘Best restaurant in Bali?’ I doubt it!” Just when I was about to start rifling through my bag for my booking confirmation, I heard the maître-de exclaim: “Oh! You’re having the Chef’s Table! Follow me!”.
We were at once ushered into a posh lounge area where a man was playing the piano and a few other guests were sitting on plush couches and sipping elaborate cocktails with a general air of self-importance. The whole scene seemed ridiculously inappropriate to me, considering the economic climate of our broader location. This notion was compounded by the man sitting opposite us who was, for all intents and purposes, Don Johnson from Miami Vice, complete with ridiculously long side-parted fringe that he seemed to enjoy flicking back dramatically with both his hand and his head at the same time, with great aplomb. He just made the whole thing feel downright tacky.
I don’t like truffles.
Of course, I didn’t complain. I still scoffed the lot.
I just went off and vomited quietly in the corner afterwards.
Only joking.
We were then collected by a waitress and whisked off to our second location. We walked through the restaurant and down the stairs out the back. Then we were led into a smaller building with around half a dozen tables set up (Don was sitting at one of them, flicking his hair and looking generally seductive), and a fully functioning kitchen. It was then that I twigged: OH MY GOD. WE’RE GOING TO WATCH OUR FOOD BEING COOKED BY REAL CHEFS IN A REAL KITCHEN!!!!!
It was something I’d been dreaming about for a very long time.
Our six-course degustation came with matching wines and it was perhaps the most fancy, French-influenced Asian meal I’ve ever had.
Here is the menu (you will note the chef’s preoccupation with truffles. Personally, I think truffles are passé, but that is perhaps one of my only complaints):
(Click on the image to enlarge, and then drool, if you wish)
And here are a few of the dishes:
I was on a silly high for much of the evening, but it was one of those nights that will definitely be one to remember, and a lovely way to spend our last night in Ubud. Even Don Johnson couldn’t spoil it.
After the ferry
Sitting on the verandah, just me and my computer again. It’s the wet season. There’s a distant roll of thunder signalling the likely storms we’ll get today. There is no breeze, the sea is calm. For now, everything is still.
Except for me.
I’m still swaying.
Except for me.
I’m still swaying.
Flies
Flies buzzing around my feet, tickling my legs.
Not one, not two, but five (at least).
I shake them off.
Within milliseconds they’re back again.
Breaking my train of thought,
Making (swat)
This (swat)
Silly (slap)
Poem (slap)
Very (swat, swat)
Difficult (swat, slap)
To (swat)
Write (slap)
Gorging themselves on my mosquito bites,
Reminding me of the kids in the desert
Who used to squash flies in their scabs
Or in the corners of their eyes.
Not one, not two, but five (at least).
I shake them off.
Within milliseconds they’re back again.
Breaking my train of thought,
Making (swat)
This (swat)
Silly (slap)
Poem (slap)
Very (swat, swat)
Difficult (swat, slap)
To (swat)
Write (slap)
Gorging themselves on my mosquito bites,
Reminding me of the kids in the desert
Who used to squash flies in their scabs
Or in the corners of their eyes.
The Legend of the White-tailed rat
(File photo: not actual image of rodent in this story)
When we first arrived in Oecusse and moved into our house, we were talking to a couple of Australians who had lived in the house before. Upon eyeing our sensible plastic tubs that we had bought to keep our dry foods in, the couple warned us about a particularly vicious native rodent that wanders these parts: The White-tailed rat.
“They’ll eat right through that plastic”, one of them warned.
I got the sense that they were know-it-alls, trying to both impress and scare us with their local “knowledge”. A bit like the stories a sixth-grader hears a few weeks before starting high school, about the eighth graders who flush the new kids’ heads down the toilet. Scaremongering. That was all it was.
Six months later...
It’s the middle of the night and I hear an empty tin can scraping across our kitchen floor. In my recent past I have become rather accustomed to the sound of rummaging mice in the middle of the night, so I’m pretty confident it is a rodent of some description. In my midnight slumber I vaguely recall a few sparse but related words: rat... white-tail... plastic...
My eyes spring open. I give Wade an urgent nudge and inform him about our visitor in the kitchen. He dutifully gets up and has a look around to see if he can see anything, but comes back to no avail.
In the morning, we come to understand the cunning nature of this beast. In order to get inside the house, it has EATEN THROUGH THE WOODEN DOOR. While on its midnight feast, it has successfully climbed on top of some very high shelving and EATEN THROUGH A PLASTIC TUPPERWARE-STYLE CONTAINER, like some rodent-shaped can opener, in order to get to the rice – not the cheap local stuff, mind you – the expensive Arborio rice imported all the way from Dili.
Some nights later, the familiar sound once again disturbs me in my sleep. Once again, Wade – the brave, the gallant – stumbles out into the dark abyss, donning his head torch as he goes. I hear nothing for a few moments, and then a sudden crash as plastic boxes, tin cans and whacking implements simultaneous collide. Then, a flabbergasted chuckle from Wade, and all goes quiet again as the energy moves into the lounge room. All is calm for yet a moment before I once again hear the sounds of struggle; this time the coffee table being pushed across a stubborn tiled floor. More whacking, more whacking and even more whacking, and then...
“OK, it’s dead.”
In the morning I am informed that my side of the bargain is to dispose of the corpse, which has been placed respectfully in a cardboard box. I am to take it over the road, far away from the house, where a dog or a pig will likely enjoy the remains for lunch.
I decide to do this without delay, to get it over and done with. I pick up the cardboard box, take it into the bushes a little way down the street, upturn the box and witness only a brief glimpse of something stiff and furry, before running quickly away with a nauseous shudder, saying, “OHMYGODIT’SSOFUCKINGBIG!”
I didn’t get time to find out whether it was in fact a white-tailed rat, but I do hope it doesn’t have friends.
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