There are two seasons in Bali, Indonesia – the wet season and the dry season. The temperatures remain the same but we are here in the wet season. It is sunny one minute and chucking down with torrential rain complete with monsoon-like winds and bending palm trees the next. My first impression of Bali hits me immediately when we leave the airport. I am struck with awe and the realisation that this is nothing like anywhere I have been before. Detail springs at you from every corner, everything looks as if it is hundreds of years old. This can be contributed to the fact that moss grows in days and weeks here and the countless statues and buildings appear like ancient monuments.
Christmas Eve and five of us in are the car, complete with luggage and surfboards, from Denpasar to Balian River via Legian, 3 hrs for approximately 50 kilometres. Traffic is a chaotic mess. Scooters seem to multiply and swarm while lanes become undefined. Everyone for themselves as we inch forwards, Christmas Carols on repeat start ringing in my ears. Our delayed but relieved arrival is met by a lamp lit Pondok Pitaya and a roaring beach bonfire. A Christmas Eve dinner of Mie Goreng (fried noodles with egg) is washed down with an ice cold Bintang beer. Beautiful bamboo style rooms and houses are complemented with pristine stone pathways and natural orchid gardens. Eloquent stone bathrooms and only cold showers punctuate the rural feeling of this area alongside the Balian River. Various smells abound as your nostrils are assaulted intermittently by river water, rotting forest debris and over-chlorinated pool water. None of this could possibly detract from the absolute peacefulness which encapsulates this country.
The Christmas carols sing of peace on earth and, listening to these, one realises that this is the essence of Bali. A truly honest and gratitude rich island. The Balinese are not exaggerated as they never seem to frown or over-smile. All emotion is pure and exudes through their dark eyes and gentle demeanour. They are seemingly uninfluenced by Western trends, save for a few areas of intense boutique and deli shopping. The restaurants are mainly local and are known as ‘warungs’ and they keep things simple. The locals here are said to eat at least one meal a day at their neighbourhood warung – so the food is generally fresh. The fish is spiced with flavours I struggled to identify, wrapped in banana leaves and steamed close to perfection. Prawns are tossed with garlic, spring onion and lemon grass, served with a handful of crispy French fries. Sometimes they poach them in coconut milk and spices, poured over rice and vegetables. The fruit juice is freshly squeezed on order and the mango, banana and watermelon are welcome the mornings after Bintang nights. My favourite is the lemon juice served with loads of crushed ice and a touch of vodka if requested.
Wine is hard to come by and one has to generally settle for beer, beer or perhaps beer. If you are adventurous (in other words, have no more space in the slowly growing beer belly), Barry the bartender will serve up his ‘abracadabra’ cocktail, the ingredients of which are never disclosed. Bali coffee and plain omelettes are our daily breakfast but most days I settled for the absolutely morish banana pancake drizzled with a burnt caramel-like syrup.
I ease into the Bali rhythm and relax, feeling inspired by somewhere so foreign and new that there is a never ending supply of discovery and amazement. I exchange shorts for loose fitting summer dresses and combat the heat and my slowly expanding Bintang waistline.
