Far Side Travel

Moshi Moshi, the Bali Beatniks

2012-03-17T22:23:00.000-07:00

When I get home, it’s going to be as if I’ve never left my room in the Bali Hyatt. Packaged and processed through planes and airports, all I wanted to do was collapse. But the beautiful, comfortable furniture I collapse into– where has it come from? More importantly, is there anyway to take it home with me?

It all began with the owners of Moshi Moshi furniture who I tracked down after falling in love with rattan creations. Not only were my questions answered, but I was enlightened with the ins and outs of fine five star resort furniture.

Moshi Moshi Bali is an Indonesia owned company based in Denpasar Bali. Established 3 years ago, the company has become the leading supplier of high-end rattan furniture to five-star hotel chains, including Bali Hyatt. “The best Rattan is sourced from Borneo,” says co-founder, Mohammad Tohir, who manages their factory and show rooms. “Our motto is top quality products at affordable prices.”

His partner Dr Ferry Agusmansyah nods in agreement. Between them, the two former Javanese who call Bali home have over 20 years of furniture experience. Dr. Ferry, formerly from Jakarta, and a doctor, decided three years ago to team up with Mohammed in creating one of the most creative and versatile furniture companies in Bali. “I’ve always been interested in art. And many of the creations I saw, I thought I could do much better.”

Dr. Ferry shows me a mirror he created from a concrete fountain that he found when he first moved into his Denpasar office. “We used coconut branches, oyster shells, and a bit of imagination to turn the fountain into a functional and idiosyncratic object d’art."

Over the years, Mohammed realized that customers were looking for something a bit different from the off the press furniture that has that sterile Ikea feel. “We decided to actually make furniture that fitted the client. It’s been an interesting venture.” Their catalogue line of furniture features organic materials, from Rattan, Banana Leaf, Water Hyacinth and Sea Grass or any combination with wood. It depends on the customer’s requirements.

“Our Bali teak bamboo combination furniture, a very popular furniture style, originated on the Indonesian island of Java, which is internationally renowned for quality teak furniture,” says Mohammed. “The standard teak frames ensure that the furniture is sturdy; while the non-structure elements are replaced with finely split bamboo lengths are either singly, doubly or quadruple woven to create unique patters.

Mohammed and Dr. Ferry merged two shops and put them under the Moshi Moshi - Bali umbrella. As well as the factory in Denpasar, Moshi Moshi - Bali has show rooms in Nusa Dua and Ubud.

When Mohammed’s waiting for the lights to turn green, while driving his van with the company logo emblazoned over it, people yell out “Moshi Moshi” and smile. “Many Balinese don’t know what it means,” Mohammed explains, “But we ship furniture all over the world. We had many customers from Japan, who over the phone made orders. It was their greeting, Moshi Moshi that stood!”

Later that evening, Mohammed directed his men to put my Moshi-Moshi Bali furniture in a sea container. When I get home, tired out from being packaged and processed by airlines, it will be there waiting for me.

Contact Details:

J1.Lc Noja No. 10 X, Gatsu Timur – Denpasar

Tel/Fax : + 62 0361 -226250

Mobile: +62 813 38217340

Email : moshi2bali@yahoo.co.id

Bali, Obama and Villas

2012-03-17T22:09:00.002-07:00

When Barack Obama came to Indonesia recently, he knew where to meet the region’s leaders, writes I.T.B and Anne Anderson. Bali is the island of the sarong and the smile, and a world-class tourist destination, with something for everyone.

Obama grew up in Indonesia, a country of 240 million people where the global financial crisis barely created a ripple. Space and seclusion lies just twenty minutes from Bali’s airport. Before Obama landed, the island closed its airport to all other planes. As lesser travellers bedded down on airport tiles, many of the Pacific’s most important leaders sat down to set a new standard. Doing business, surrounded by beauty…

Away from Nusa Dua’s five star hotels, Kuta’s swamps of suburban Australians swarming on a famous surf beach, and Padang Bai’s ferry terminal, a group of private villas nestle in a world apart. Well separated from the crowded Australian high streets spotted with Hindu temples, Seminyak is the new playground of the über-trendy sunning by the surfing bay.

But be warned, Seminyak is a bungy-jumping place to be seen, not to surf. In its streets statues hammered by stone sculptors raise swords at cars passing glass galleries of figurines forged by silver smiths. Tailors, and high-end clothing boutiques, take the place of T-shirts and bikini sellers.

Well, after working in Jakarta’s crowded streets and expat bars, we really needed some pampering. We decided to check out the Villa culture of Seminyak. And the charming and cosmopolitan Villa manager Johana Thomas held the keys to a former home, the Bli Bli Villa and Spa.

Bli Bli has expanded into a boutique hotel where a courtyard spills into a pool and leads to one, two and six bedroom pavilions, each with its own entertaining area. It’s style, with service, and aromatherapy support. “We have guests from all over the world stay here,” says Johana. “The location is great – quiet and within a few minutes walk of those nice restaurants and shops.“

For those with time to relax, its spa offers beauty treatment and massages, pedicures from the trained in-house health specialists. Johana tells us that Bli Bli Residence is very popular with newly weds.

Sanity prevailed. We had Jakarta copy still to finish.

Johana nodded. She directed us two hundred meters down a rutted lane, and into a secluded oasis. Discreet and private, only the Balinese gatekeepers know who comes and goes from the Orchid Villa, and neighbouring Maple Villa.

Behind the eight-foot walls of Maple Villa, a pool separated duplex pavilions in a courtyard garden and a pool. Buddha rose in a bust from an indoor pond. He meditated in a Balinese sitting room open to air like a warm blanket. To his left, a fully equipped kitchen closed our eyes and ears to siren calls to fine-dine and laugh the night away in the streets.

Our mobile phones worked. So did the broadband Internet password. Circle K minimarket lay just down the street, and the off switch worked on CNN and a hundred other channels to choose from.

Like foreign ministers and the world’s banking leaders, here in Bali, surrounded by Balinese art, bird song, and breezes, we had found the perfect place to finish our business and connect with family and friends back home.

Tomorrow, we can leave its safety sanctuary, and enjoy being tourists again. There's nothing like being recharged in a Villa ensconced in Paradise.

Jake Needham's The Big Mango

2012-03-17T21:52:00.000-07:00

Jake Needham’s novel, The Big Mango, broke into the expat market at a time when detective genre and most books covering Thailand focused heavily on the Red Light District and clichéd burnt out expats and their jaded bar girlfriends.

With the release of The Big Mango, Needham joined the company of other great writers of Southeast Asian fiction such as Stephen Leather’s Private Dancer, and the detective novels by Christopher G Moore. With Needham now on the scene, the thriller set in Southeast Asia gained a fresh new look with wit, tight plotting, and insights into the people that he wrote about and their various points of views in fresh new ways.

Access to the Big Mango, which was first published in 2000 used to be quite a challenge as it was previously available almost exclusively in Asia, where it quickly gained a cult following, but with the release of all Needham’s books in Kindle format they can now easily be obtained at Amazon and I suspect this and other novels by Jake will quickly gain a new following.

One aspect that immediately stands out as you are reading The Big Mango and which is often lacking in thrillers, is the character development. Mango brings the best of literary fiction and it’s fully thought out characters to the thriller genre.

The book begins in San Francisco. Eddie Dare is bored, a divorcee with an estranged son and a less than successful legal practice. In short, he needs a fresh start. Eddie, a protagonist who hasn’t lost his yearning for a destiny beyond his ordinary life, leaps at the chance to go to Thailand when his past comes back to haunt him, in the form of a cryptic photo, with his head circled in red which Dare notes was penned so aggressively that it tore a hole through the photo.

A lesser man may have sought refuge in his work and the safety of San Francisco, but Eddie Dare with his clumsy, but loyal pal Winnebago head out to the Far East with open arms where they find themselves quickly mired in a variety of thrilling and comic antics.

Both men are in need of excitement and redemption, but the potential $400,000,000 cash prize that a mysterious general mentions has been hidden somewhere in Bangkok adds intrigue and danger to their journey.

The dialogue is sharp, witty and fast paced. Needham captures the absurd and often contradictory elements of the Thai persona brilliantly on just about every page. We are led through grenade blasted massage parlours, swank five star hotels, and the streets themselves as we follow the exploits of Eddie, who finds he might still have his moxie after all. He just needed Bangkok to find it.

Eddie is a fish that can swim at all levels of society.

The vortex is Bangkok. He and Winnebago function brilliantly out of the eye of the storm, and for the next couple of hundred pages, the unfolding story sucks the reader along big time.

Even though they find themselves caught up in the biggest treasure hunt in Bangkok, with an unlimited expense account, on the behest of a shadowy figure called the general, there’s an array of players from all over the globe ready to stab each other in the back to get it.

Now that the door of a promising and uncertain future is opened wide for Eddie, he at first enters it cautiously. Then the subterfuge of Bangkok lures him and his mate. Winnebago Jones, who served in Vietnan with Eddie, is half Indian mate, who runs a bookshop in San Francesco. He doesn’t make much money but picks up all kinds of trivia, and a few languages along the way, that help tremendously, while he’s playing back seat driver with Eddie in Bangkok.

What ever they do on the streets is done on the fly, which makes for surprises on every page. Nothing seems rehearsed, and through omission, Jake lets us decide what’s going on in Winnebago’s head, while there are all kinds of thinking aloud going on with Eddie. This makes for a nice balance, between feeding the reader, and letting them imagine what’s going on.

Winnebago plays lazy and stupid, but in many ways, Eddie respects his decisions and sixth sense on what is actually going on in this invisible tangled web of lies and deception.

Over time, Eddy comes up with a few new tricks of his own, while trying to outwit a former DEA agent, who smells the scent of lots of money, and lets the lawyer lose on the streets of Bangkok. But if its Needham’s center left observations that make this more than the run of the mill thriller book.

Take for example, the interaction between Bar, a Bangkok Post reporter (who seems a close approximation of Bernard Trink, columnist of the defunct Night Owl column of the Bangkok Post,) who ruminates on his DEA buddy, agent Chuck: “Bar liked cruising Bangkok with Chuck for two reasons: he was pretty good company, and he carried a really big gun. Both of those things, Bar thought, were important when you hit the streets, although you could probably get along without the company if you had to.”

Read the book, and be enthralled. Or at the very least entertained. And if you really want to know more about The Big Mango, and it’s characters, Jake is always around on Facebook or Twitter, where you’ll see aspects of Eddie and Winnebago in his posts. After all, he is plugging his newly released eBooks that can be downloaded for a dime, almost!

Time to Smell the Java, Kimung Coffee House

2012-03-17T21:23:00.000-07:00

“Indonesia is a nation of coffee drinkers , and I want to tap into their consciousness in the morning!” says the self-confessed coffee lover Dr. SyahRizall Syarif who by day is a lecturer in Public Health at the University of Indonesia, and at night a barista. ”Its an amazing market of 250 million coffee drinkers,” he adds.

Kimung Cafe in Depok isn’t Four Squared yet (I’ll do that later!) But SyahRizall doesn’t need that kind of promotion. It’s packed most days around midday as government officials take their lunch break. And in the evening, there’s a constant buzz of coffee lovers streaming through his doors.

The sign at the front advertises Ox tail. Located twenty kilometers from Jakarata in the new Grand Depok City, you can’t miss this cafe which is opposite Aladdin Water Park.

The day before, I was on a mission at the local immigration office here in Depok, where the cafe is located amongst a row of new shop buildings. It was a chance meeting and a very unassuming cafe, with tables and chairs outside covered by a green canopy.

Rizall, who finished his PhD in Newcastle, Australia, is the kind of cafe owner who will sit down at your table, and explain his menu. He’s particularly fond of his coffee, and so am I.

Would you go as far to say that drinking coffee is a philosophy? “Yes its an ideology as well. I want Indonesians to drink better coffee. This coffee shop is a medium for that!”

Locally, Depok Coffee culture is despairing. There’s Harvest, a high-class franchise coffee shop, offering great coffee and cakes at inflated prices. But that human touch is lacking. To find place where you can chew the cud with the owner, and explore together your passion for coffee, you aren’t going to find that a Starbucks.

“Nope,” says SyahRizall, ” But here you will. And nor are you going to find good quality Indonesian coffee at an affordable price at those kind of places.”

On the menu, there’s a quote from Albert Einstein: “There’s always room for a cup of coffee with friends.” And many coffees and hours later, I’d say that SyahRizall is a man who practices what he preaches. ”I’m actually a researcher,” he says. He shows me a list on his Blackberry of 62 places of coffee houses he has researched and adds Memory, on Jalan Jaksa to his list. “I will check it out!” he’s says, after my recommendation. He tells me that for the Vietnamese filtered coffee on his menu, which is served with sweet condensed milk, “I went to Ho Chi Min City and visited every coffee shop over a five-day period until I found out how to make it.”

Now that is dedication.The self-confessed hobbyist of coffee not only can boast being a barista of extreme virtue, but he also decorates his walls with photographs of books he has read and cafes he has been too. “I read a book in a cafe, then I take a picture of the coffee cup and book.”

Its time to smell the Java, says SyahRizall. ” I’ve been Star Bucks, I’ve been to Killiney , I’ve even been to Dunkin Donuts. But after a while, the blandness of taste just blends into a blur, and enforces the fact that it’s really hard to find a good cuppa coffee. “

He believes half the blame lies with the Indonesian government who should be promoting home-grown coffee.” What happens is that companies like Star Buck and Killiney, come in from overseas, set up shop, and buy local coffee and charge hight prices.”

In 2010 he opened up this cafe for daughter, who seems to have a flair for running coffee shops. ” I asked her what she wanted to do, and she said she wanted to run a cafe!” He adds that she is a special needs child, and “it was a case of opening up her own business. She can’t read or write, so that really disadvantaged her in the job market!”

Certainly a good ingredient for a successful cafe? “More like a labour of love,” he answers, saying that he will open up two more branches in the next few one months, one in West Kalimantan, the other in Jakarta.

“This is my service to Indonesia, to put coffee back on the agenda, and let Indonesians enjoy what is their right. We have three of the best top ten coffees in the world, yet we can only drink it an expensive internationally owned franchise companies.”

”I want to bring the great coffee back to the people. Everyone should have a chance to have a good coffee at an affordable price. That is why I promote original Indonesia coffee. I gIve my customers the best three choices. Why confuse them with a selection of 16 different coffees, when they don’t know the difference between arabica and robusta.”

How did you learn about coffee. “I leant by myself. If I love a coffee, I’ll try to research it on the internet. Like this one, “he points at the Vietnamese coffee that we are savoring, ” I spent three months experimenting for the best coffee that works with condensed coffee.”

He won’t tell me the brand of the condensed milk. ” Not all condensed milk works with the coffee.”

He says to find the right mix, he spent many months perfecting his blend for his Vietnamese coffee, which is a secret combination of arabica and robusta . As to what condensed milk he uses, I ask him again. “It’s unethical to divulge,” he says, with a mischievous smile.

I went out the back, and can confirm, he only uses the best condensed milk.

“You’d be surprised how a good condensed milk can enhance a coffee.”

“Yes,” I answer, “Carnation sweet condensed milk can really bring out the flavor!”

He’s a perfectionist. And when it comes to coffee that is highly appreciated ! Nothing worse than a bland and uninspiring coffee.” I’m here to create an awareness that our coffee is just as good. That is why I offer three choices, coffee from Aceh, Sumatra to West Papua. I want to show case the best Indonesia coffee growers have to offer.”

I”m now drinking Sumatra Mandhailing.

People must think we are crazy. We are. But SyahRizall is in form, and doesn’t miss a beat. “Its acidity is medium! And bitter! And rich!” he explains. And this is what Kimung is all about. You’d be hard pressed to find a place like this where you can spend the afternoon drinking coffee and doodling thoughts on coffee and its virtues.

I’m buzzing,

“Yes, my coffee really does give you a ‘boost’,” he says!

Details:

Location: Grand Depok City - Blok C No. 53, Depok, Indonesia

Phone: +62 (0)8121078524

Email:SyahRizalllure@yahoo.com.au

Bandung, a Cool Breeze in a Steamy Archipelago

2012-03-17T20:46:00.002-07:00

In Indonesia, nothing is half hearted. The four-lane highway to Bandung was state of the art. Comparing to Bali, its poor neighbour in terms of infrastructure, you can see that Java is the seat of governance and everything decadent. Surrounded by mountains, gouged away by mining concessions, we eventually make it through to Bandung.

Traffic is our welcoming party. I had been stuck in Jakarta traffic, and while grid locked, looked outside my air-conditioned bubble to see the mobile markets in action. But today, my Indonesian friends, JJ, the male driver and engineer, Mo Mo, and Rita, both sales ladies, and Hanifar, executive Manager of sales of Casa Blanca Residence, showed me how Indonesians interact with the mobile market plying its trade.

Sitting in the back seat, I snapped happily away while my friends bought news papers, local snacks, and glow in the dark accessories. A mute was groaning and carrying on, putting in a great performance. We handed him some lose change. Then his eagle claw hands and spastic expression came back to normal.

He played a good Downs Syndrome kid. It reminded me of a beggar I’d pass every day on the way to work in Bangkok. Fingers bandaged up, and a painful expression, he’d lie on the ground all day begging. One day I caught him in the Seven Eleven, buying a pack of cigarettes. From cripple to walking, it was a miracle similar to the one I saw today.

Mo Mo modelled a set of flashing red devil horns. Another man was selling head lights that you wear on your head. I wasn’t interesting in buying, and he sighed in feigned regret. A young person dressed up in a Chinese costume walked past our window, with a musician closing in behind, just as the car got away again.

The only time I got out of the car was for a local Sudanese meal. All the staff all had a headscarf on, and out the front, a lady sat selling Royal Jelly. I was surprised to see everyone wearing jumpers and jackets during the day. Later in the evening, I knew why. The weather is much cooler than Jakarta. I had heard that the girls of this town are very pretty. “They have Dutch mix in them,” said Hanifar.

I spotted a white skinned Indonesian, and made an introduction. My right hand was covered from food (after eating like the locals with my right hand) and I pretended to shake her hand, with intention of pulling back at last moment. My friends looked on in horror. But the gracious waitress still shook it. Her father was from Texas and mother from Indonesia! How small did I feel?

I went outside for a smoke, and started up a conversation. A buxom Indonesian confirmed that Royal Jelly gives you power. Then we got talking about Karaoke. I think she wanted me to sing with her at the local club.

Being the ugly Australian has its advantages. The Indonesians take it as meaning laid back. When my minimal Bahasa failed me, I slipped into Thai mode, while the waiter, to whom I played the retard when he took me to the table where my friends were sitting – I asked him in English what did he mean – started warming up to me. It was obvious he was saying that my friends had already seated, but the Ugly Australian is a safe mode when you are out of your comfort zone both culturally and linguistically.

Eventually JJ arrived, astonished to see young kids and staff alike, laughing their heads off. I love playing the clown; it comes so natural to me. The food here was great. No coconut used in Sudanese food!

The security guy who directed our car into the parking lot wanted me to take a picture of some people eating soup. I snapped away. And then took a snap shot of him. Yes, the street was beckoning me again.

I was spotted by a beggar carrying her child. She said Al Humdilar, and followed me to my seat. I quickly closed the door. But that didn’t deter her. She just stood outside, looking in and working on intimidation. JJ eventually gave her some change, and we were on our way.

If you spend any time in Indonesia, you will find the beggars can really overwhelm you. Being a bule, a foreigner, just attracts them even more. I’m not mean-spirited and do give to people I think need it. As every Iman in the mosques preaches on Friday afternoons, “Give a percentage of your savings to the poor. Some seem take advantage of this, and today being a Friday, was no exception for this lady. She targeted me shamelessly.

Past the restaurant, the three major telecommunication companies fought an advertising war, their logos emblazoned on building sides, and every available wall. On the side of the high way, there were large billboards, slapped together on any surface. One like a ball, roughly finished, sported a flashy logo of XL, one of the faster Internet providers.

Sometimes visiting Indonesia is like going back twenty years. On the way back, a big sign, the size of the one in Hollywood Hills, advertised Mild cigarettes. I also saw two Marlboro ads. A Marlboro Man on a horse rode through the Rocky Mountains smoking reds, while a white horse, in mid stride, looking god like and majestic, promoted the virtues of Marlboro Lights.

Indonesians are very flexible, and they take their religion seriously. JJ stopped at a gridlocked petrol station half an hour from Bandung. The mosque’s spirals glittered in the cool mountain climes. Stepping out of the car, a cool breeze refreshed me. I was suffering from sleep deprivation after rising at 3a.m. This petrol station had all the franchise restaurants. I gulped a strong long black from a mobile Star Bucks while JJ said his prayers.

Driving back was like driving through collective Javanese memory. Rice paddies chilled out on the hills, with mountain backdrops, and singular sellers on the side of the highway, selling rambutan. Bridges built by the Dutch spanned valleys for the trains traversing the 2000 kilometre island, all remnants of a past coexisting with the present. The Dutch wind mills, from the Dutch Bakery, to the town clock in Bandung, show a legacy of colonization, and Javanese easy going acceptance of its past.

Cultural adjustments aside, after three hours of driving we arrived in gridlocked and hot sweltering Jakarta. Bandung is no different, except that it’s much cooler! Oh, and prettier too, its wide streets framed in its old deciduous trees.

Johore, My Twilight Zone - Malaysia

2012-03-17T20:32:00.000-07:00

There have been comparisons between Jahor and Singapore, one flash and orderly, the other poor and disorganized. Yet they are twin cities. And both mutually benefit each other.

Weekends, Jahor comes alive. Its reactively sleepy during the week. You know something is up when they put the rent up ten Ringet both on Saturday and Sunday, and the following public holiday. It shows you the discrimination the Malays have against the flash and cashed up Singaporeans.

After two months in Indonesia, a short trip to Malaysia is refreshing. I needed to extend my visa as well.

The Indian cafes and rottis and teas. Malaysia is a cafe culture. It has that destination.

Sitting at the Burger King at Singapore’s Changi Airport, over copious coffees, I surfed on the airport’s wifi trying to figure out how to get there.Though it was only 20 kilometers as the crow flies.

Jahor, Jahor Jahor. Just what does that town promise. I had flown from Bali to Singapore, and was very tired. I hadn’t slept the night before. I arrived at 2 am in the morning flying Royal Dutch Airlines.

After getting back from the toilet on the plane, an American man was hogging the isle with his large carry on bag. Instead of carrying his hand luggage, like most normal and decent people do, this gezza had his bag plonk in the aisle. And no one could get past the fucker.

I wanted to slip ahead and get my bags in the overhead luggage compartment. “Wait your turn.” I didn’t and stepped over his bag, and had to endure a public ridicule. The staff just looked at me in sympathy. Or did they think I was an arseole as well.

I walked slowly off the plane, planning my attack. He was quick on my heals. He said I should have waited like everyone else. I said, sure but he should own up to being an arseole. He smiled. Then I said lets shake on it, as I had admitted that maybe I was anxious to get out of the plane faster than he was. His Singaporean girlfriend told him not to listen to me, “He’s only bating you!” Well I was. His face clenched. I could see it turning red. I was disappointed he didn’t’ throw a punch. That would have been an instant $ 500 fine. And I would have felt better.

That’s one aspect of Singapore. The calibre of its expats. It use to attract artists, bohemians, and genuine travelers who were touring around Asia in the 60′s. But after the Asia crisis, explained one expat I met on the plane. “Prices went up. Merchant Bankers entered the island. They were only good at looking after their own skin. Their companies pay for their children’s education. It costs S $200 000 just to get into good school. Most of us can’t afford that, let alone the tuition fees.”

The man sitting next to me on the flight to Sigapore, was Simon, a geologist in his mid fifties, who had just got back from Kalimantan, where he was staking out a lease for a mining venture. He was s old school Singapore, and lamented the island state’s demise with the influx of Merchant Bankers, like the one that had blocked my way in the aisle.

Simon showed me his Blackberry. “I bought that in 2002, been sending emails with it ever since.” And the world is going crazy over Job’s iPhone. ‘No need for fancy phones with me, ” he says. “The e telecoms only rip you off with their data plans.” I couldn’t agree more, an Optus a Singapore company who operates in Australia are rip offs. So is Telstra and Vodaphone. ”They are criminals given a license of legitimacy by paying taxes,” said Simon. I couldn’t agree more, and I told him what happened to me. “Vodaphone took 1000 dollars out of my account for roaming fees without my permission.” He wasn’t surprised.

Changi is a world upon its own. The best time to enjoy this five class venue is to fly in late at night. I arrived at 2 am. It was empty. A few cafes were open and a chemist. I didn’t get out of this twilight zone until six in the morning. I tried to buy cigarettes at duty free but didn’t have a boarding pass. So I just roamed the corridors, discovering smoking room gardens. The information counter is where I tended to gravitate too.

A lady from the Philippines, called Bunny,was so helpful. “I prefer to work the night shift,” she said. Had she just encountered her first vampire customer for the night. We looked up hotels.”Find me a cheap one.” She did, and it was S $70 . She even called up a back packer. They were asking for $27 and it was booked out. I had enough of back packers and smelly socks in crowded dormitories and listening to other people snoring and shagging, and having lights turned on during the night and doors slammed.

I was in Asia, and if this is what Singapore had to offer, I was going to kick back coffee all night and hitch it over the border to Malaysia.

A problem.I didn’t buy any cigarettes. I had two left from my pack of Pall Mall.

I find a smoking room. Its a nice area outside the building, water fountains trickling, a touch of humidity, nice wooden benches,lush vegetation, softly lit. This is twilight zone. I ask a European for smoke. He ignores me. Its his way of saying no. He was guarding his cigarettes. When I eventually got out of the transit zone, which had that feel of casino, but with the new day lighting up outside, discrediting that accusation, I eventually made it to a Seven Eleven.

I was really not in the mood to travel.

I had taken some hard core caffeine that evening with Mohammed (and it wasnt Starbuck!) I’t was suppose to keep me awake but all it did was help me great on my teeth and give my jaw an ache from too much chewing. Twelve bucks for a packet of Marlboro Reds. Twelve fucking bucks. That’s how much they are at the Seven Eleven.

Back inside the terminal, in the Twilight zone, a Dutch guy eventually gave me a cigarette. He even gave me one for later, which I smoked immediately. But now it was confirmed that I was in a segregate state of Australian.

Well the guys from customs who came out for a cigarette felt the same way. I hadn’t slept and was pretty tired. I had been told over and over again by the Information ladies to get a hotel room and then decide where to go next. At 70 bucks a night for a room, I had the motivation to stay awake. Another lady from another tourist booth, who was from Indonesia, told me that I shouldn’t fly, because I looked drunk. Sure, I had three wines on the plane. Hello!! But that was over seven hours ago. She suggested I get a hotel room and sleep off my hangover!

Its interesting to note, that I never saw one Singaporean on the information desk!

One of the guys told me that if you smoked cigarettes bought from Malaysia, to be careful. “They ask you on the street where did you buy the cigarette and then ask to look for the logo!” The logo is stamped on the cigarette that designates its made in Singapore, and four times the price of Malaysian cigarettes.

He told me they also drive over to Malaysia to buy the cheap fuel.”But the Singaporean Customs will make sure that our tanks are half full.” Our conversation began, while I was waiting for a bus to Jahor, which was two hours late because of a break down. I was talking about the price of cigarettes. “We pay 18 bucks a pack in Australia. And I don’t mean to be judgmental of your government, but 12 bucks a pack is outrageous.” I foamed, and they warmed to me.

I was being grumpy. I was half sincere to these group of Sinaporeans. Then one of them offered me a Malbora Red. I smoked it. Later, while on the bus to Malaysia, I realized that I had just met real Singaporeans, who were prepared to talk about real issues. Even in my grumpy state they extended their hand in friendship. That’s one up for Singapore.

I eventually get on the bus. I’m heading to Malaysia. I won’t call it cheap there compared to Thailand or Indonesia, but the deals are definitely much better than Singapore, which has nudged me out big time.

The streets are clean. The trees are all the same size. Its just like Darwin. The prices are the same. I can’t wait to get out of the city state They don’t call it Singabore for nothing. I miss grungy Malaysia. Sure, Malaysia has got its act together. But the places I stay at are where migrant workers and working girls hang out. I miss those open cafes and long long cups of teas with rotes.

“No taking pictures,” says the sign leading into Singapore Customs. I tell the guy who stamped me out that Singapore is too expensive, and I’m out of here. He’s in robot mode, and doesn’t even flinch. Later a friend of mine in Malaysia told he was most likely a Malaysian working on a Permanent Resident Visa. Ha ha!

Get off a bus, get stamped out, and then get back onto a bus. I needed a slash, and ran to the toilet. My back pack was getting very heavy. “Fuck, I only need to go the toilet,” I mumbled to myself, then ran to the bus, that I had caught from Changi. The driver wanted to see a ticket, I said I didn’t have the ticket he wanted, and then I just walked on the bus. Fucking tickets. That was the last thing that was on my mind. Mind you, in Malaysai, they like to see your tickets as you depart the bus, which has got my knickers in a knot a few times!

The 20 minute journey through Singapore was uneventful. I did take notice of the Asian Bikini Contest posters. Where Singapore lacks in real empathy , it makes up with corporate sponsored events. Malaysia has its Grand Prix Formula One and Singapore has its beach bikini shows. I’m sure the babes would be hot, but as I entered into Malaysia, custom guys forcing Singparore number plate cars to stop. There was real power tripping going on at the border. I got my stamp into Malaysia. i didn’t need to have my thumb scanned but Singaporeans did.

I’m in Jahor. Its early afternoon. Now where is the hotel. I go and pay a call to the tourist police. They escort me to the red light district of Jahor. Man, I’ve got it good. And they find me a cheap and clean hotel. I’m liking this place already.

Balinese Burial

2012-03-17T12:18:00.000-07:00

If you hear a whistle blowing, you'll know something is up. Be curious, and follow. But be prepared and have your camera ready.There's always new cultural thresholds to reach in the city of Ubud.

Riding a bike around Ubud gets you close to the pulse of the locals. "What are you preparing for?" I asked a group of Balinese, who were putting white cloth on a ceremonial platform. "We are preparing for a funeral!"

It would be in half an hour. So I rode to the main street, and had a bakso, an Indonesia soup and waited for the funeral procession to pass. When ever there is a procession, the Balinese go for the main arteries of the city.

Security guards started blowing their whistles, and the traffic was stopped. A stream of women dressed in their best ceremonial outfit walked past the noodle shop. Then there was the sound of grunts. The coffin was on its way. I followed on my bike. They were moving at a whip cracking pace.

At the intersection, the coffin bearers heaved and turned the hearse anti clock wise three times. I had seen this with the Ogoh Ogoh festival (Bali New Year Celebration) , and I'm told its a way to purge any evil spirits that might be attached for the ride.

The traffic is moving slowly. So I brave it by riding down the middle of the road. I eventually catch up with the procession, but they have done a sharp right turn, and are now walking up a hill towards the cemetery. A guy is burning fire at the front of the coffin to ward off bad spirits. Villagers are looking on as the guys carrying the coffin are sweeting and grunting heavily. But they are close to the burial place, which is situated under a sandalwood tree.

A lady offers cigarettes from a tray to the men. And a man offers me one of his Marlboro Lights. I guess its a good stress reliever during time of grief. Interestingly, no one was crying.

Now the body is taken off the bamboo hearse. The grave is ready, and the deceased is put in it by four men. I try to stay off the other graves, which are marked by a warn foot path. A pair of green sandals have been thrown inside. Not sure if one of the diggers left it there, or if its' the owner of the deceased, who passed away yesterday .

The woman make offerings of water and coffee and snacks to the the other graves.

Yesterday I had witnessed animal sacrifices. Today I'd see a funeral. But it was far from complete."We bury the body, and then after three years, we'll dig it up and cremate it," said Katut, who is still dripping with sweet. He says most of the cremations are during the cool season between September and October.

The body was placed into his temporary grave. A man jumped in with a knife, and made one hole in the white sheet that wrapped the body up. Now that the dead man could breath, dirt was covered. The bamboo hearse was then burnt. Then as quickly as the ceremony began, it ended. Everyone walked to the temple to be blessed by the priest.

The villager made a little speak. He thanked the eighty strong members of his village. Every one had pitched in since yesterday when the villager had died.

I followed on my bike and spoke to the locals. This is Ubud at its best. And confirms, the Balinese are the most open society. If you show an interest in their culture, there will always be someone to explain what's going on. I rode back to my homestay, and said thanks to the stragglers who were carrying picks and shovel, for a magical experience.

The traffic was moving slowly again. Culture flows freely on the streets of Ubud. And though the passing procession might cause a brief inconvenience, there's a common understanding that the streets are for the people.

Can you hear a whistle calling?

It's most likely Ubud calling the curious traveller for another rich cultural experience that's both spontaneous and quintessentially Hindu.

Bali: the Island of the Gods

2012-03-17T12:01:00.000-07:00

Light and vistas sail ridges where Indonesian mountains slide into the sea. Cars play snakes and ladders on the roads. Far below, surfers from around the world hover on boards. They wait to rise to Bali’s Indian Ocean surf breaks, rolling in from Africa.

This is pulau dewata, Bali: the Island of the Gods. Seminyak may be the new playground of the über-trendy. Uluwatu, south of famous Jimbaran Bay, lies at the other end of the same spectrum. International Uluwatu may be, but ITB andAnne Anderson say it is local, local, local too...

This is an exclusive area and a mecca for seasoned surfers looking for the Indian Ocean’s biggest swells. Once it was a place where only the hardest of hard-core surfers rented cheap rooms in Balinese houses sprinkling jungled hillsides. From them watched the moon and the sea.

Now its ridgelines sport sophistication as well as surfboards. Imagine riding a crystal glass tube, knowing you are safe from the rumble of tumble of the powerful surf, or wandering a paved path go another look out, and check out another idyllic beach scene, with a limestone rock jutting out of the sea, sunbathers in bikinis working on their tans, and, further out, surfers mincing up waves.

Above the narrow gully feeding Uluwatu’s Bluefin Bay, the light and the vistas swirl and reflect and fuse as Moonlight. Soft-voiced, soft-footed Balinese servants transform Moonlight into culture without shock. Moonlight is one of the most special of the special villas of Bali.

It is the stuff of glossy magazine stories, and it reflects the people who made it. Real estate manager Johana Thomas saw the site, and set about designing the house of her dreams. Her American surfer husband, Ashley, built it for her, high above the beach where they first met.

Able to draw the best from both people and their cultures, the former model and mother of two boys has built a new life in the country where she was born. “We used to spend 6 months in America and six months in Bali.” Now she heads a small army of Balinese working with Balinese land owners, villa owners from around the world, and their guests.

Moonlight Villa is her first venture into building villas of her own. Like her four-year old son, fluent in English and Mandarin, and learning Indonesian, Moonlight draws the best from American, Taiwanese and Balinese influences. Inside Moonlight, its glass walls and beautifully shaped spaces and steps harmonize three cultures, and blend them whole.

"In your country, there are standards," says Johana. "You have to build houses in certain shapes. Windows are standard sizes, and doors are standard sizes. Here you can build in a square or a circle if you want. Here it is it is possible to what you want. You can make the windows, doors the size you like.“

"I think about the design. But I cannot see if the builders are building it straight or not. Ashley can.”

In Uluwatu she created Moonlight Villa a ship of light sailing along a ridgeline. Night or day, light, shade, gardens, pools, the valley, and the ocean are never more than a glimpse away. Here honeymooners can shower among flowers, or take a giant spa bath together. The rest of us maybe have a cappuccino, and enjoy the meals, or just get lost in the views, mesmerized by the perfect forming waves.

Even if you don’t surf, you’ll be rewarded by spectacular views of shallow reefs in turquoise water, and waves joining Bali to Africa rolling up to the Wallace Line dividing Asia and Australia.

For sure, Bali has endless scooters to rent, but the man with a car is nearby. And the head of the household team will jump in with you, to fix whatever you need, and see you don’t get lost. It’s like a cruise ship coming into port with a personal guide to the best the harbor has to offer. You can eat the best of Uluwatu local & international food at Yeye's Warong restaurant, or sit at the ideal cafe to watch the world go by, over a Beer Bintang, or be helped to buy a few DVD’s from the locals.

And as the sun starts to sink, it’s time for a quick fix of monkey business at Bali's Pura Uluwatu, an ancient temple of the most southwestern tip of the island. It’s six p.m., and in spite of all the photo stops, we have just made it to famous Pura Uluwatu in time for the Kecak, a male choir without instruments, and the fire dance.

Indonesians from all over the archipelago come to pay homage to this temple of unique sunsets. It is a ten-minute swooping drive from Moonlight, through the undulating hills of a landscape of vegetation growing wild. The views are giddying.

First, though, we need to don yellow waist scarves (“shorts or skirts and it would be a sarong”) and make our way through the guardians, grey-furred pickpockets, with long tails and pink bottoms, sitting and fighting along the path leading up to the temple.

“Watch your purse and glasses!” says the temple tour guide to some tourists walking by. A monkey relieved of a flip-flop bares its teeth at a travelling Italian. Another monkey skips away from him, carrying its new cap.

But Pura Uluwatu is more than sunsets and fur-lined brigands. High on a cliff above the swells, it throws on some of the most spectacular fire dances this Hindu island has to offer. Three hundred meters along on an uphill trail with more than its fair share of hairy vertigo moments, we reach the amphitheater.

On the way I jump the wall to take a picture of the locals wreaking vengeance on a monkey. a monkey on which the locals are wreaking vengeance. It runs towards me, I back off, and realize I’m a few inches from an 80 meter drop to the Indian Ocean. I play it safe, brave the monkey, and jump the wall again, this time to its safer side.

At the top, it’s the Ramayana on high. As 40 men sing, Hanuman, the Monkey-King, and other Hindu deities play slapstick for an hour. This is no hard to follow strict rendition of the intrigues of the Hindu gods and goddesses but first class entertainment, people of every race and language bonded by the beauty of music, watching and laughing at human frailty together.

Framed by last pink wisps of daylight, Hanuman jumps playfully into the audience and rubs the bald pate of a senior. The crowd cries with laughter. The pink fades into dusk falling like a curtain. Village headmen wearing checkered sarongs spread dried coconut husks in a circle. One of the staff tells those tourists to back up, get away from the ring.

Fire licks into the husks, and the monkeying begins in earnest. Hanuman is dancing like a crazy banshee, farting in the face of a man in imaginary handcuffs inside the circle of fire, and kicking the fire at the crowd. Luckily no one gets burnt even if the odd tourist, trying to get a close shot, barely escapes being singed.

Meanwhile the swaying men are singing. Its dark now. Silhouettes compete with the dancing fire. When the last flames and vowels fade into the night, no one wants to go. When fluorescent lights come on, tourists besiege the men of the chorus, handing their cameras to strangers lining up for shots of their own. Outclassed, the long tailed monkeys are long gone.

Back in the real world, the former model says she was doing a fashion shoot for a Taiwanese wedding magazine in Bali. "It was seven years ago. And the photographer couldn’t find a western model, so I called over an American surfer, who was watching the shoot from the sidelines."

To Ashley, she looked so beautiful in a wedding dress that within a year he had married her. Moonlight Villa and two laughing little boys are the living proof that Bali is still a place where fairy tales come true!

Bali, the island of everything

GETTING TO BALI

International direct and indirect flights (Visa on Arrival, $US25, no photos needed, for most nationalities), or by 1.5 hour domestic flight from Jakarta, watching Java’s mountains catching sunlight over the clouds, on Indonesia’s national airline, Garuda.

http://www.garuda-indonesia.com/

GETTING TO ULUWATU

Taxi from the airport, 150,000 Indonesian rupiah ($US18), 35 minutes,

or by arrangement through your tour operator or travel agent.

GETTING AROUND

Walk, rent a bicycle, taxi, rent a car, with or without driver, using the British system of driving on the left

MOONLIGHT VILLA

http://www.villamoonlight.com/

Reservations:

Telephone +628155716817, Fax +62-361-769946
Email johanaths@yahoo.com

Desperately Seeking Krakatoa

2012-03-17T11:41:00.001-07:00

Krakatoa is illusive. And spotting her wouldn’t be easy. Later, I’d survey three volcanos. One loomed larger than life on the way to Merak, the port town where the Ferry plies back and forth to Sumatra and Java. I swore that was Krakatoa. But my driver, Indra, said it was one of the bigger volcanoes on Sumatra. But when I arrived to the most westerly point of Java, I didn’t see that large volcano.

It had disappeared.

I’m no volcano expert, and no, I wasn’t on drugs!

I really wanted to track her down. Like the 1883 spontaneous eruption, I made a similar snap decision. “Let’s go to Krakatoa,” I said to my friend at the apartment I was staying at. A flurry of calls, then Rudy the security guard drives up with a rented car. “It’s going to take your hours to drive there,” said Indri.

I decided renting a car and driving to the Western most tip of Java and trying to have a peek of Krakatoa from there. Seemed an easier option. And it afforded its fair share of impressions and guesswork.

“I’m off to Krakatoa.” I sms-ed my fallow travel writer, Miss Anderson. “I’m green with envy!” she replies.

The thought of seeing Krakatoa had me excited to. I speak singular but there is three Volcanoes that constitute the Krakatoa family. It’s little kid, known as Anak, or Baby Krakatoa, reared its newborn head in 1936. Ever since then it’s being growing at a rate of 8 inches a year.

Krakatoa has entered the lexicon of Indonesian words. It’s used as an exclamation of shock, “Krakatoa, you scared the shit out of me!”

Indra is our driver today. He use to be an advertising executive. Recently he fell ill. I was told that his partner, who fell out with him, put a spell on him. “There’s a serpent around our house,” said one of his family members. But only those with ‘occult’ eyes could see it. But the doctor said that Indra just had a heart attack from a two pack a cigarette and ten cups of coffee a day habit.

The mention of doing a road trip really excited him. He jumped at the opportunity. The last time I saw Indra excited was when I woke up at five minutes to twelve on New Year’s night, and bumped into down stairs, as we both ran to get our cameras to capture the new year fire works.

The highway to the port town is a tollway. It’s a state of the art highway, two lanes going in both directions. We paid the 70 000 Rupiah First sighting of Krakatoa. A large conical shape mountain loomed as pulled into the petrol station for a coffee break. It was massive. I took a picture of it on my iPhone and sent it to my traveling friend in Australian, with a note, “Here is the elusive and majestic Krakatoa.”

We arrived at the port town of Merak. The loud whistle sounded the departure of the ferry that bridged the nation, a similar one I had caught from Bali to Java. This was heading to Sumatra. It was tempting to get on that ferry and make our way to Sumatra.

But Indra had found an ideal viewing point for seeing Krakatoa on the Javanese side. On the way, I decided to take out the camera and snap from the front seat. I really thought that I wouldn’t see Krakatoa, so I was prepared to make the most of the trip. Besides, my bum was starting to get sores from all the sitting. So I thought I better get this story going with a few pictures.

We had to make out way to Marlboro Point. We drove along the coasts The first 20 kilometres of road was good. As soon as we made it to Krakatoa Industrial Estate, the paved road turned into potholes. Every shop owner was hosing down his or her part of the road. Trucks kicked up dust. A convoy of busses from the chemicals factory caused one major gridlock track jam. You’d think we were in Jakarta.

I got out of the car to take a picture of a chemical processing plant. To the left was a spanking new oil refinery. During the day, it looked bland and ugly, but on the way back, the processing towers were lit up like Christmas, and glowed all the colours of the rainbow.

The action that takes place outside my window is very interesting.

A hobo, with matted hair and a Rasputin beard walks by. I show Indra. “Crazy man!” he laughs. I’m not sure what was funny. But told them that in Islam, one of the tenets is to be charitable to those less privileged. He laughs again.

White beaches, hidden coves and bungalows. A very low key Bali. The transition from heavy industrial zone to a tourist destination, in such a small time, was welcoming, as the dust settled. The trucks and dirty road stopped, and bungalows and paved bitumen started to appear.

Towering above the landscape was a lighthouse. And behind that was a communication tower. It was interesting to see the two, side by side, both sending out their pulses to Krakatoa, far out on the horizon. For a bit of light relief, I started singing, if you are happy and you know it, clap your hands. No one clapped. And fair enough, he was driving after all!

To get our bearings, we stopped at one bungalow, and were told to drive further down the road. Before we left, I got out of the car and walked around the resort towards the beach break. To the right of me was a small marine were few fishing boats and one large white speedboat. Indra asked the driver how much it would cost to charter that boat to Krakatoa and back. Eight million Rupiah was his price. But later, when we asked a few locals at the Navy Depot, we were given a better figure of one million five hundred to charter the speed boat for the four-hour return trip.

Like Krakatoa, the lighthouse at the Navy Depot looked like it was from another era. Well it was. Made from sheets of steel and rivets, and white washed, this lighthouse is a throw back from the 19th Century.

The Navy Depok is basically a resort. Bungalows surrounded the lighthouse, and a path with bamboo huts selling snacks lined the shoreline. Ahead were the peaks of the most active volcanoes in the world. It was nearing sunset. We were getting tired. Or I was at least.

Coffee break was needed. But when a man came up and produced a parking ticket for 20 000 Rupiah, I almost choked on my coffee. Then I scrunched up the ticket and threw it on the ground. The parking guy looked on, his face not betraying any emotion.

Then I calmed down looking at a flat-topped island far out to sea, about 40 kilometres. “That’s Krakatoa,” informs Indra. So I take a picture and send it to Miss Anderson. But later, I’d be sending her another picture, which I thought really was Krakatoa. This game of volcano spotting is new to me.

I think if you asked an Indonesian on the street to which volcano was Krakatoa, you’d get as many answers as I got today.

Things are looking up. “For 2000 Rupiah, we can walk up to the light house,” informs Indra.

That works. Twenty cents Australian, what a bargain! Sukano, our lighthouse guide was recently moved from another lighthouse in Sumatra to be a caretaker here. There was none of, “Watch your step,” or, ‘are you taking medication, and physically fit?” I wasn’t counting but the nine floors to top of the 40-meter lighthouse wasn’t easy work.

In fact I was breathing heavily. But that didn’t stop me taking in the views at each level, from one window on each floor; and lighting up a cigarette at the top. Windows were broken on some floors. I opened up a few on others to let some air in. It was a solid structure, but walking up those endless flights of stairs, added with the minimal and empty interior, the feeling of deadly silence and isolation kicks in.

The dead stale air doesn’t help. It had that 1885 vintage taste to it!

The light houses a gift by Dutch King Willem III to honour those who died in Krakatoa explosion. It was built in 1885. It was still a magnificent structure and in dedication to the destructive power of Krakatoa. At the top, the wind blew hard. It was cool up here. All around us, mountain ranges hugged Western Java. And far ahead, in the straight, was a family of volcanos known as Krakatoa. Baby Krakatoa, which first surfaced from the water in 1936, lay east of Mother Krakatoa.

My Indonesian friend texed me. “Don’t go there, it’s still active!” I replied that it was active in 1883. I was glad there was someone else out there just as ignorant on volcanoes as me.

The man who took us up the lighthouse also was in charge of turning the lights on. The sun had set. Then I heard the generator come one. I went up to the last level of the lighthouse, and watched the light rotate. The lighthouse ran off a car battery. It was kind of humbling to know that every boat out there would see the constant twinkling of light from the forty-meter lighthouse. If only they knew that I was I a solitary figure looking over them.

My guide had long gone. And it was time to descend. Excitement over. The interior of the lighthouse was dark. They don’t have any working light on its nine floors. I was playing blind man and had to use the rails to make my way down. Darkness setting in, and rain on its way from the nearby mountains. The view of the terrain that rolls gently to the end of Java, dips drastically into the Strait. And rising far out to sea as Krakatoa.

I’m sure Krakatoa saw us wink at her from the main land. And one day, no doubt, she’d return her own.

Jogjakarta's Hindu Temples Defies Ravages of Time

2012-03-17T11:32:00.000-07:00

The little bus pulled into side loop of fruit sellers and soto, soup, vendors. “Mango!” yelled out every second seller. Guavas and rambutans had also just ripened on the trees.Glimpses of tall thin building tantalised through trees and a long walk along a fence. From afar, they looked faintly Khmer, but they weren’t.

Building finished at Prabanan soon after 850A.D. Situated on the flats and outskirts of Jogjakarta, this Hindu temple, one of the best examples of early Hindu Indonesia, served as inspiration for Cambodia’s Ankor temple-building god-kings.

Prabanan’s sea of steeples confirmed, in stone, that after a century Javanese kings had recovered lands and waters rightfully theirs. They had thrown the yoke of the Sriwayan overlords, emanating from Palembang in Sumatra, who had built a Buddhist temple, Borobudur, in their eyeshot, on the slopes of Mount Merapi.

Next to navigate through the gate of cheap tickets and the marble lined “foreigner’s entrance” (“free coffee” after ten times the entry fee).

“Why do they do that?” I asked.

“Because they can, “ said my travel partner, the intrepid Miss Anderson, whose center left observations were invaluable in this co-written travelogue.

Steps up to the temple complex, on a knoll, parted a jumble of rubble. Guides held back tour groups, explaining, at length, a long sign board detailing the temple’s original sea of steeples, and devastation wreaked by earthquakes, most recently a few years before.

Earthquakes were why we were here. Though it stood its ground for 1150 years, and big as it is, leave seeing Prabanan for too long, and there may be nothing left to see. Its Hindu kings lived on a volcanic plain set squarely atop the infamous Pacific Ring of Fire.

From outside, the complex Prabanan looked divorced from terrain around it. Inside, it was an integral part of a far larger landscape. To the north Mount Merapi framed it, a triangular mountain vertically split by a cloud. A range cupped it from the south.

Perhaps seven bullet shaped buildings still challenged the domain of aeroplanes and clouds and swallows. Juggled behind and around each other, they were too hard to count and be certain. A last remnant gate stood in the south wall. Entrance over the steeple rubble was from the east.

A block headed Naga watched us from a square foundation as we split apart. Underneath it, animals gambolled in the stone: monkeys and rabbits, peacocks and cats. People stood in bands, in blind windows, above it, near stone entrances to dark shrines deep under the tall shapes rearing skyward. What had looked like trees growing as weeds on high turned out to be stabilising wire netting: stopping high stones tumbling.

The statues here weren’t the busty Boddhivistas and Apsaras of Buddhist Borobodur, legitimating lifestyles for foreign rulers. Austere, these Indianised servants of Hindu kings invoked the adjectives of fashion magazines: stylish, elegant, and refined.

Looking at the vertiginous staircases shinning up to the shrines, I made my way to one of the shorter temples. The tour guides with firm treads propelled their charges not up steps but to the shade of a tiny tree in a back corner. Some were not just well heeled but wedge heeled as well.

As with Wat Angkor in Cambodia, we are finding the sheer size of the complex disorienting. Prabanan is more contained, but every angle of the temple, north, east, south and west, displays its different personalities.

“You don’t get the shot unless Pramanan wants you to”, said my new nephew, “As you walk closer, the temple takes on another dimension. Its not until you enter the main pavilion that you get a grasp of the sheer audacity of it. It seems to have Shiva written all over it, and screams from the past of Kali’s blood thirst send chills up your spine.”

He disappeared with my camera as well as his own.

Watching tourists is always just as much fun as watching temples, and here it was no different. Sometimes people abroad are just as puzzling as understanding the ritual needs of Brahmin priests. The wedge-heeled well- heeled, perspiring in sleeveless shirts and shorts looked under dressed beside smartly dressed Asians in sleeves, jeans and sneakers. A woman with hair neatly hidden by a red headscarf skipped up shrine steps in pink sandshoes. A young man straight from the streets of Hong Kong wore a black fedora swirling with silver stripes as he filmed everything around him on a white mobile phone.

Hawkers pestered an older woman girt in white cotton harem pants under a shirt covered in impossibly soft pink roses. Makeup had cemented out the lines of her face. “Indonesia map 100,000” soon became “maybe 80,000,” “Here, here Prabanan book.” When she cleaved herself away from them, they stopped to swap notes on the sales from their satchels.

By now, Miss Anderson was as lost as she'd been at That Luang in Vientiane. There’d been but a single sighting, gazing up a lens at magical light in the clouds, too far away to call, and too busy to interrupt. Here, though, there was only one exit he could leave through. It was time to take it.

A cool wind came from the base of a black cloud. Seated hawkers sold fans, drinks and Buddha statues at a Hindu temple in eyeshot of Islamic minarets. To north and south, sunlight turned the minarets to gold. Further on a hedge of fine leaved bamboo clumps reflected the tall shapely buildings behind. Two men in uniforms were posing in the bamboo, taking photographs of each other, and the wings on their shoulders.

Beyond was an avenue of fig trees pruned to high crowns. Among them over amplified voiceovers interrupted a broadcast of wind chimes. The bad sign was a stand of bicycles to rent. The good sign was a little blue shuttle train. It took the longer road still, circling through the ruins of other temples, leaving the tour groups in its wake.

Small spotted deer lazily pushed each other with antlers like spiky sticks inside a yard near the last gate. The men with wings on their shoulders fed them underneath signs saying “Do not feed the Himbuan,” in English, and in Bahasa Indonesia.

Through the gate out of the park, was a sea of hawkers and stalls full of sales traps for grandmothers, from gorgeous little dresses to drums for small boys to use to do their parents heads in. Close behind the well heeled wedge heeled had not taken the train. and they were hobbling now. The eyes of the hawkers lit up.They fell away in search of easier prey, prey that spoke no Indonesian. Their prey tried everything but “Tidak,” not looking, speaking firmly, in desperation, even pushing them away.

All but a set of limp harem pants with sodden soft pink roses and now raddled cheeks. She made a seller’s day. She bought a wooden fan. Now she looked like a kind woman, a long way from home. It was impossible not to like her.

Finally came a last gateway everyone must pass through, one with a little pavilion by a car park. On its wall a man sat smoking clove cigarettes was taciturn, until he discovered I was Australian, not Dutch. Then he was loquacious. He was a driver, he was waiting for Indian tourists, and as it was getting dark they should have been out by now. He wanted to get home. Then the triangular mountain still just visible in the gloom caught his eye.

“Mount Merapi. Explodes BOOM!” he explained. “Every 5 years. In 2006, big explosion, temples fall down. Every 5 years fire in the air and um, um...”

“Lava?” I asked, doing a quick calculation of the time gap back to 2006.

“Yes, yes, lava”

“How long since the last explosion?”

“Last explosion last year.”

There was another explosion, yelling, from outside the fence, and it wasn’t Merapi this time. “I.T.B, I.T.B!”

Grinning ear to ear, we high fived each other. "That's another temple under our belts," said Miss Anderson. And like Borobodur, which we visited the day before, it was just as intriguing and a testament to the Malay people whose ability to absord different religions, makes Indonesia today a diverse and tolerant society - and a great place to be intruged by its culture!

PRABANAN TEMPLE COMPLEX

Hindu temple complex completed in 856 A.D. near Jogjakarta, island of Java, Indonesia.

GETTING TO JOGJAKARTA

Direct international flight or by domestic flight from the Indonesian capital Jakarta or from the island of Bali

GETTING TO JOGJAKARTA’S TEMPLES

Bus, taxi, car with driver, organised tour group

ACCOMMODATION

International tourist centre with range of clean and comfortable accommodation from low end to high end both in the city centre and also close to the temples.

Source www.farsidetravel.com.au

Jalan Jaksa, Jakarta's Misfit Child

2012-03-17T11:17:00.000-07:00

Indonesians have always been fascinated with this street, a place that's portrayed as where east meets west, in the 2005 soap opera named Jalan Jaksa.

The street Jalan Jaksa wears many hats. Pick one and wear it for your occasion. That's the charm. This street can morph into what you want it to be. If its hookers, the streets got it. If its lady boys, the streets got it. "Its intimate, rude, sensual, dodgy, well heeled, or a neglected mongrel," says long term resident. "But more importantly," he adds, "its non judgmental."

Perhaps that is what appealed to its forefathers, the Dutch students of the Jakarta Law Academy during colonial times, who made this street their home.

Jalan Jaksa, a 400 meter long street, is located in Central Jakarta and only a stone's throw from Sarinah Department Store, the National Museum, and the Gambir train station. But for many, who live here, it's a self contained universe. Only recently, Circle K opened up its first branch here, which is a statement, "The street has arrived!"

"Everyone has their take on this street, but mine is positive," says Vera Wijaya, 28, who is waiting at Memories, a popular cafe and bar on Jalan Jaksa, to meet her friends. She's bubbly, beautiful and professional accountant from Tangerang (a Jakarta suburb near the airport), who stays over here when she's in town to party.

Vera says with pride that Indonesian woman are liberated. "Now we have equality. If we want to hang out in Jalan we can."

But the stereotypes and stigmas of Jalan - dead beats, junkies, conmen and hookers - sticks. She is here to meet some of her gay friends, and is very much in her comfort zone. A few of her sisters come up, dressed to the nines, which is in stark contrast to traditionally dressed Muslim ladies who are passing by Memories, one of the institutional cafes on this street.

Jaksa offers all kind of accommodation, from the sweat boxes with fans, to the modest two star hotel like Margot Hotel, to the upmarket Morrissey plush apartments at the end of the street.

Located on a little lane, next to Memories, Margot Hotel is a hideaway of sin -- small rooms, good air con, cable TV and room service. Its narrow, four floor building is standing stoically against progress. On the stair way, is a large old oil painting of the Bali fire dance, and an original. Next door, in a vacant lot, a five star residence is being built.

Next door to Margot Hotel, is Memories. It's a a a place to be seen. Its seedy, enlightening, and plain interesting. Its also a place where you can watch life go by; and also a place where you can feel part of Jalan Jaksa. "If you aren't in Memories, and looking in from the outside, this street can really feel intimidating,' said one punter.

Its 2 p.m. in the afternoon , and I'm onto to my third coffee. Now the tempo is picking up. The vampires are waking up.Its always dark. Even during the day, the lights are off, giving it a dim appearance. Flags of all nations are flying on the rafters.

A Britney Spear's song being looped, over and over , for an hour! A Middle Eastern tourist is looking with bemusement at a West Papuan, who is now playing the invisible guitar to Britney.

He is Upah a regular fixture here and introduces me to an old guy with a pony tail. "He's Australian!" That's the extent of the conversation. There's more back packers here than usual. But later in the afternoon, the regular expats like the pony tailed dour Australian will take over the evening shift.

Kyiahsa, another Diva, enters Memories. She's wearing a short red skirt and tank top, and she's showing her long tapered legs. "I met you before," she says. And we exchange details. I get a text message from her the next day, "Are you with Lady Jaksa!"

I rely back, "Who is she?"

"It's Vera!"

Now another Lady Jaksa arrives on the scene. Dianna is pretty and hails from Sumatra, and is another regular of Memories. She now has me taking photos of her. "You post them on my Facebook!" she says. Then I take a picture of her with Upah, who has pink nail polish. He's addressed as Pappa by the ladies.

No doubt, the girls of Memories have attitude. And Jaksa is the place where Indonesian women can truly be themselves.

Jalan Jaksa is going through growing pains, and it won't be long before it becomes another trendy Koa Sahn Road, the now upmarket back packer area of Bunglumpoo in Thailand.

In many respects, Jaksa is a refuge for the last bohemians and misfits. It's a loosely knit community of English teachers, travelers, business men, and loners. "You either love it or hate it," says an Indonesian model agent, who trawls the street for new Western talent for local television. "Its a unique place for now."

"Eventually it will be gentrified," he says. "At present, Jaksa offers solace to outsiders." He adds, on a more personal note. "I'm gay, and feel that this street is a safe haven for similar minded people! If I want to be camp, I can! And that's saying a lot in a very conservative Muslim country, where gays tend to be ostracised."

Leave Kuta in Bali, and Kao Sarn in Bangkok for the budget travelers, Jalan stands alone as unique place, where the world collides and clashes in cultural diversity. But there are fears that with rapid development, Jalan Jaksa will go upmarket and push out all the characters, that live on the fringes of society.

Jason Daniels, an American expatriate TV presenter, of the popular TV series Walk the Talk, who first arrived in Jaksa, back in 1999, after a 30 hour ferry ride from Singapore. He is a permanent fixture of this street and feels very passionate about its demise. "It's in the process of being renovated, bull dozed and torn up. Its such a strategic location. Now traffic jams are getting so bad, rich people want to live here. The real estate is gold!"

It's the low season and the torrential rains have come. Compared to Bali, its really slow here. One of the main reasons for the general down turn in back packers, says Jason, was the introduction of the 30 day visa, which was cut from a free 60 day visa, in 2005." I suspect tourism isn't' equal to Malaysia, which gives you a free 90 day visa on arrival. Here they get you to pay for a one month visa. It's totally detrimental to the tourism industry."

The self confessed "white trailer trash" who is known as the crazy bule from a show he did eight years ago, says back in the late nineties, Jaksa was very busy, and is now only a former shadow of itself. " I couldn't find a room, so I slept on a balcony of a guesthouse, being eaten alive by mosquitos. And when I heard the magrib, evening prayer, I thought, wow, how exotic it sounds. Finally I'm on the island of Java, I thought."

Back at Memories, Didi is selling Dayak blow guns from Kalimantan. The forty-three year old's claim to fame is killing a bird with his blow gun on this street --he sells poisonous darts to special customers. I had seen Didi many times and today decided to engage with him.

"No money this month," he moans in his bad English, adding that he only sales three blow guns a week, "no tourists". Eventually he orders an ice tea and puts it on my tab. Then he mumbles about being poor, and wants food and cigarettes. He sleeps on a couch at the nearby Bloem Street hostel where he does cleaning in exchange for free rent. "Don't' hustle me," I say. He walks away with his blow gun, mumbling "Blah blah blah".

Next, is a street beggar, asking for cash from clients, , and staring them down with a smile, until someone pays. Eventually a wait staff hands over 2000 Rupiah note. Following her is a troupe of singers. This time I give 2000 Rupiah.

Today, Jaksa is having another face lift. Jason, who only lives five minutes from this street, feels passionate about Jaksa , believing it could be the next Kemang soon. "Aston is being built next door," points Jason at the construction site, next to Margot Hotel, where we are having a coffee. " Its a new condominium catering to the rich Jakarta. When they live here will beer still be 30 000 for a big bottle? It's likely to be 30 000 for a small bottle."

Jason, who is wearing his trademark shorts and sandals, says he's not into " hoity-toity places like Kemang," but concedes: "But this street could sure do with an upgrade of better restaurants. The food here at Margot Cafe is terrible. "

Yet stereotypes remain, despite the new make over of the street. " I was recently interviewed on Indonesian TV about Jaksa. I remember the journalist asked me, 'Is everyone a back packer or English teacher?' I was with an English investment banker, who makes six figures!" He laughs, and adds, " But he didn't offer to buy me a beer!"

No doubt, Jalan Jaksa is a total mystery to many, and an intimate lover for the select few who are brave enough to experience it.

"Once you see past the facade of Jaksa, of freaks, losers, hippies, whores, drunks, reprobates, you eventually become one of them!" jokes Jason.

The jury is still out on this street! I'll let the judges decide!

"How will Jaksa reinvent herself?" I ask him. A long pause. "Only time will tell."

This place grows on you. Though the misfit child of Jakarta might wear thin on you at times - and isn't that the charm? - it's well worth getting to know the characters of Jaksa which make this street so unique and quirky.

Trancing in Bali

2012-03-17T11:09:00.000-07:00

As the waves splashed against the volcanic shoreline, the Balinese procession arrived at its destination. A select few holy men went into traces. One man, eyes rolling, wanted to sacrifice himself for Shiva, the God of Water. But a quick snap of the jaws of the temple’s barong (good spirit), he snaps out of his trance.

Another ceremony, another location, this time Sana my tour guide from Ubud took me to Batu Klotok, the temple of stone, on the east coast of Bali.

Trance I wanted, trance I got. Like most Balinese festivals, this was full of color and traditional outfits. After the prayers, the patron god, barong, was to be carried down to the water. Muslims from Lombok sold soft drinks and colorful balloons. The sun reflected harshly off the sand, heating up the area more than what is customary for the locals, up in the cooler climes of Ubud.

The villagers from Bang Li made the hour drive in a convoy, over 100 cars, to this seaside village where the waves washed up on the black volcanic sand.

This is an annual event for the village of Bang Li. Igusti LakSana, a health official from the local mental institution, who is also one of the event organisers , says that it cost 500 million Rupiah. Paid by the villagers, to make an offering to Shiva, their God of Water . I had taken the usual pictures, was told to sit down at the temple,” So sorry, I don’t know Bali culture.”

I sat under a tree trying to escape melting in the early afternoon sun. There was no wind, and the promise of coolness hovered in the nearby shape of Mount Ijen which last blasted its top in 1963. No trance yet. But then the chanting from the temple got louder. I got off my seat outside a shop on the beach, and made my way to the temple. And en mass, the villagers made their way down to the sea, to make their offerings to the Mother of Water.

The placid elderly holy man I had seen earlier ringing a ceremonial bell and saying Hindu prayers had transformed. His eyes rolled. He spoke in tongues. The security guard had to knock him to the ground for his own safety. A strong rip tide would have taken him out to sea. Another man, who was at the front of a float is also in a frenzy. His 1000 yard stare out to the ocean is transfixed on something and its not the post card perfect views. There’s always a tug of war going on between Rangda, and Barong, and this is the ideal condition to induce trances, advises Sana. His gaze is also diverted by the security men, who wear black shirts with the word Pecalang stenciled on it.

As this was happening, I was taking photos on the water’s edge, a big wave came, and nearly swept me away. A local fisherman, who caught the live offerings of chicken and ducks, also caught my camera. For one brief moment, the serious devotees of Shiva chuckled.

As quick as the procession began, it ended. The villagers made their way back to the temple, paying thanks to water, one of five elements that Hindu’s devote to creating Shiva symmetry.

Maybe the god’s spared the camera. Meanwhile, I was in a trance of my own, being swept ashore like bloated seaweed and getting a body scrub from the volcanic sand.

Bali's Mystical Lake Batur

2012-03-17T10:50:00.000-07:00

Images of cadavers hanging from trees, and being purified though the sap of a sacred tree located on the shores of a mystical lake surrounded by an active volcano had piqued my macabre side.

Friends had referred me to Trunyan village as a must see destination in Bali, a village that had a weird burial ceremony.

"If you haven't seen the cemetery where bodies are left open to rot under a tree, then you really haven't seen Bali." said one friend. "They leave cadavers under a fragrant tree, and it mummifies naturally with a fragrant smell," said another. A bit ghoulish but well worth checking out, I thought.

It was stuff of fables.

These were the images I took with me. But I was skeptical. If I could make it to the village today, I'd be happy. If I didn't well at the very least I would see the volcano and views of the lake.

Trunyan is on the eastern show of the lake, and only accessed by boat from Kedisan, a ten minute drive from a scenic view point. That's what the guide books said, but with Sana, a local from Ubud as my guide, I was determined to find another and cheaper route to the village.

I had been in Jakarta for the last month. And all I can say it was a welcome relief to see mountains, and wild vegetation, and roads that winded up to the spectacular mountain views of Mount Batur, set in a vast caldera with the lake of the same name that lays placidly at its base.

Getting there from Ubud posed its own challenges! Leaving midday didn't help. The drive to Kintamani was scenic. Decorative bamboo bended over the roads. It was the beginning of the kuningan, a four day Hindu festival on the island, following the ten daygalungan festival. The ceremonial bamboo, called the Penjor, is symbolic of the mountain spirit.

Our first stop was at a roadside check point that signified we had arrived at Kintamani, a high altitude village that affords great views of the lake and volcano. I paid the13 000 Rupiah fee. A lady with a baby comes up to the window, and offers me bracelets and post cards. Next stop was a couple of hundred meters up, to the view point.

No time to enjoy the view of the scarred landscape of the Volcano that erupted in 1963, leaving a baron scarred side of the mountain. We spent more time telling the lady selling postcards of the volcano and lake that I wasn't interested. This gives you an idea of how aggressive the street hawkers are.

We drove a few hundred meters more, to a quiet spot where I could get a nice photo, uninterrupted by street hawkers. Too late, two young girls were trying to sell me bangles. "No thanks," I said. They smiled, and we made out way down to the lake, where we'd catch a ferry to see the open aired cemetery where bodies of this particular village would bury their dead.

Same thing. Swarmed again by street hawks. I was given all kinds of outrageous prices to visit the village by boat. All I knew was that to reach the village, you needed to take a boat to the village. One guy, who said he was an artist, had offered to take me by motor bike for a handsome price. I told my driver to continue driving on. This place was just insane and not pleasant.One lady placed a sandal wood fan on my lap as we were leaving, saying, "But you asked 20 000 , and I give you price ten thousand." Not bad, considering her asking price was 50 000.

Surprise, there was a paved road, and it was accessible to the village we were heading to. The artist said we could only make it by motorbike - another blatant lie, and all the more absurd since we had our own transport.

The government had built this stretch of road three years ago making the village accessible. Sana, who had been here over 15 years ago, said it was a strange village back then. "They had all kinds of tricks in getting money from tourists. It was so bad, that this village had the reputation as the begging capital of Bali."

Driving along the ten kilometer bitumen road, we passed onion and cabbage plots. The lower temperatures of this area allow them to grow vegetables that can't normally grow in tropical conditions.

We arrive at another check point. We are now at Trunyan village. They wanted a donation. Nothing new. You got to give a donation just for parking in Indonesia. I don't have any change, I tell them. But I will pay them on the way out. The three men, dressed up in traditional outfit, were cool with that , and gave me a a respectful wai, and let us be on our way.

I'm getting good vibes already. We drive into the fabled village, that has been given the bad press by foreigners and locals.

The main esplanade leading is paved with tiles. It's work in process, almost complete, with bags of sand and tiles piled up on the side of the road. This sleepy village is getting it self together big time.

The mountain rose up steeply behind the village, and the temple glittered in the mid day sun. We were only three kilometers, or a 15 minute boat ride to the cemetery. Two guys followed us to the end of the paved road. "You should come to the office, if you want to see the cemetery." I said let me think about it. The prices seemed just as steep as at Kedisan.

I handed them my press card and asked for a discount. "Come to the office, and we can work something out," said a young impressionable man, who was head of the organization that ran the traditional boats.

I was given a good price. A local price. "Normally foreigners pay double the price, but I'm giving you Jakarta prices," said Daro, who seemed keen on getting good press for his village. And he was doing a great job.

Curious children flocked around me. Two European tourists got off a boat. "How was it, " I asked. "Very strange, " answered a middle aged lady who was still buzzing from her amazing macabre trip. Her husband slipped the rower 50 000 tip to show his appreciation.

Daro helps me put on a life jacket and he's all smiles. Now its my tern to experience something very bizarre. I had seen an Balinese burial ceremony in an open clearing in the forest. But this would be very different.

"Enjoy your trip!" says Daro, as two fishermen row our boat. It is slow going, as we hug the shoreline. And the views of the rising mountain is spectacular. The only thing missing was the sound of Orang Utans swinging on trees of the virgin forest.

Once we rounded the peninsula which is only accessible by boat, Nosman, one of the paddlers,points out a large sandal wood tree. "That's where we bury the bodies." To the left was the ceremonial temple. We moored next to the cemetery, and got out of the boat with the help of Nosman, who kept it steady. It was something from an Indiana Jones movie.

And it would be skulls and corpses which would remain prominent in my mind.

Bamboo fences surrounded the grave. There was one recently deceased body in a white sheet, which lay open in its grave. It smelt, but the guide told me that the roots of the sandal wood tree kept the smell at bay. I wouldn't go as far to say that it made it fragrant. Later, in the office, I asked who was the deceased. "We don't talk about the dead," said one villager. I totally agreed. Offerings for the dead were scattered all over the place.

Skulls in bamboo baskets stared at visitors. To the right, were about 20 skulls on bones, arranged on a stone temple, near a large tree, with tangled roots. " We only have 11 bodies in the grave yard at a time," says Nosman. "We have four cemeteries. One for children, two for the deceased, and one for accidents." He says anyone who didn't accrue enough merit in this lifetime would put in the grave for children, which is a general term for those without enough life experience to make merit.

"How do you ask permission to take photos of the deceased, " I asked Sana. "Just say Suk Sama, its a polite way of asking for permission or thank you." Nosman told me that a few years ago, one foreign tourist took back one of the bones of the deceased to his hotel room as a souvenir. He says the foreigner quickly brought back the bone, after many doors started slamming and lights turned on and off in his hotel room.

The feeling of death, and its fatality over powers you at this place. But it's not morbid if you understand the Balinese acceptance of death. This village is different, in that it doesn't cremate the bodies. After the body has been resting in the grave for a year, the bones are placed nearby.

Afterwards we signed the guest book at the nearby complex.There's a plaque, set up by the head of the police department in Denpasar, that says to respect the traditions of the locals. Two of the points is to accept death, and don't be greedy. And there was a poster, recently set up by the government, explaining the culture of this village. At last, these villagers are getting their recognition for being unique and a tourist magnet.

A few musicians played traditional music only after I insisted they play. It has been a slow day. "Only 15 foreign tourists have come today," says Nosman. When we left the musicians and security guards followed us on their motored boat.

Going back, was slow and enjoyable. The view of the volcano, offering a symmetrical view, was spectacular. Local fisherman throw nets from their boats. "Did you catch any," was the idle banter. "Yes a few, " he answered. We passed fish farms, the life blood of the villagers, who are also farmers.

I'm in the open aired office. A young boy is playing music on a traditional instrument. The children are playing around. Guys are playing chess. An old lady serves me up coffee. The village seems to flock to the office. They look on at the strange man with his iPhone and Mac Pro, the former teething the later for internet. They really seem disconnected with the trappings of modern society. But I can see them eying off my gadgets!

Prahu Dayang, a traditional boat organization, was set up in 2011. A list of its 159 members is on noticeboard in the office. "We were sick of the village getting a bad name," explains Daro, 28, the president, who represents a young generation of villagers who want to dispel the bad reputation of their village.

"There were many illegal operators who were charging high prices. And there was begging going on at the cemetery." He says since the organization was set up, prices are fixed, and the proceeds are being pumped back into the village. He shows me the new esplanade. " We are also creating employment and steady income for the fishermen who take the tourists to the cemetery in their boats and who act as guides."

Three things worth noting about this village. One, they don't have any punjars; two they don't cremate their bodies; and three they celebrate Nyepi festival with a wild party, not silence, like the rest of the island.

"We are different in that way, "explains Daro. "During Nyepi New Year festival, we believe in celebrating, and having a party." Normally its a time of total silence. He feels that because of their unorthodox approach to Hinduism, that the greater Bali community have scorned them with bad press.

"We just do things differently here!" he repeats.

They do, and you won't be disappointed. The only strange thing about this village is that they are very hospitable. On the way home, the road was blocked by a jack fruit seller who was taking his stock to the market. He gave us two in compensation for the ten minute wait.

"See you next time," says Daro, as the whole village waves us off.

I'm missing this place already.

Trunyan village may well be the last destination in Bali that time forgot. But with the clout of the young generation, the newly built road, and their strident ways of doing things differently, this is one place that will leave a lasting impression.

Contact details:

Daro, Mobile: +62(0)81936014646

Balinese Cock Fighting, more than a sport

2012-03-17T09:54:00.000-07:00

Ubud is the cock fighting capital of Bali, and the locals don’t try to conceal it. You see tell tale signs that Balinese love this sport, which is more than a pastime writesAnne Anderson and I.T.B.

” Ejo Ejo!” shouts a crowd hungry for blood and fast profits. The cockfight handlers hold up their cocks and this time another raw reverberates around the stadium. “Gasal, gasal!”

Outstretched hands wave wads of money, and the blood curling yells of 2000 fanatical fans urge a white rooster on. Then comes the response, the gamblers betting on the red rooster.

This is entertainment at its best, a gruesome sport with money and blood in the mix, a volatile cocktail of hi jinx and four-inch spurs attached to the fighting cocks for good measure.

Driving around Ubud, a man on a bike beside me hugs his white cock close to him, as he turns on to the main road. A man waiting to cross the street is wearing batik swirling with red roosters. And outside the city, in the villages, its common to see locals putting their roosters through mock fights, testing their mettle against other cocks.

I tell my landlord here that I had spent a week on Koh Tao in Thailand, covering the Thai cock fighting lifestyle. Every day, over my morning coffee, he would give me tips on where the fights were. “Maff, get there before midday” was the tip today. It’s the largest stadium in Ubud, holding 2000 people, entry fee 20 000 Rupiah, a ten-minute scooter ride away. He says its where the Balinese do tajin, gambling.

In three days I had been to three pits. I’d never come across such avid breeders and fans, nor seen so much money flying around. At one small ring next to a temple, I met a distinguished man. He was a gentleman, a man from another era. ‘You came here to watch the cock fighting?” I asked him, looking at the Ralph Laurent cap he wore, the only signal of his stature and standing.

He told me he came to cock fight gatherings for the joy of being around other Balinese, “simple rice farmers, and time out from running my family business in Ubud. “ But he made it quite clear that he never partook in tajin, which is gambling in Balinese. He adds that cock fighting is a very old sport. “The King’s of Ubud use to play it, and the tradition has continued to present day.”

Though the Indonesian government outlawed Sabung Ayah, as cock fighting is known in Java, in 1981, in Ubud cockfighting is here to stay, its origins entwined in ceremony and history. It was once a source of income for Kings, who allowed their dominions to raise their funds from gambling.

Perhaps the distinguished man was from their lineage. Now, though, ten percent of the gambling proceeds go towards the building of local infrastructure. Balinese cockfighting also fits into Hindu ceremonies offering blood or water to the gods. Taboraj, the cockfighting ceremony, sacrifices chickens to appease bad spirits.

The fight to death is about to begin. Thais love their cock fighting, and have magazines devoted to the sport, and onsite veterinarians to stich back together the fighting cocks ripped to shreds. But in Bali, when the rooster loses, it’s chicken stock. “Good meat,” said one breeder. These fighters are fed only the best.

Today’s compound is next to a temple too. Outside the stadium, the police were hovering. Money changed hands. Steroids were a hot item, and so were quail eggs. A few nights back I went to a wedding. One man was prodding me to put down my camera and dance too. Today the same man was here at the cock ring. “Men’s business!” he said, and gave me a wink.

Inside, young ladies walked graceful amongst the sweaty crowd in the pit, selling smokes, freshly cut fruit and drinks, balanced on their heads on trays. No beer on the menu here. Balinese take their gambling seriously.

Sometimes foreign tourists would pop their heads in, look for a few minutes, and walk out in disgust. Blood was splattered all over the place. The heady mixture and the tribal gathering, made you realize that you weren’t at a shopping mall looking for designer bags.

The judges were sitting in front of me on a platform. They banged a gong when one of the cocks was wounded, before another round was decided. Next to one of the judges were the fresh remains of a losing cock. Dead meat, and a reminder of what damage can be done when you attach a four-inch razor sharp knife to a rooster’s feet. The handlers attach the razor sharp knives with a ball of red string and white heavy duck tape.

In Thailand, I had witnessed fights lasting five rounds or more. Here in Bali, the roosters were lucky to make it past the first round before getting slashed to pieces. One minute, and each fight was over.

The dead cock was unceremoniously thrown to the corner of the fighting ring. A man plucked it , so that the winners could eat them at home. The man responsible for plucking the defeated chicken receives 10,000 rupiah. He also hired the taji, the knives attached to the chickens’ spurs.

Before the second fight begins, I jump in the ring. A concerned man tells me to get out, “It’s dangerous!” As the fighting cocks got closer to where I am standing, a tornado of feathers and glistening steal, I quickly push through the handlers for the safety of the exit. Then the gong sounds, and the white cock is stone dead.

The third fight was about to commence. The fighting cocks were displayed and then the fight began. The white rooster ran for the corner. But this white rooster was spared, for another day. I quietly gloated over Whitey’s win.

Ayu Put Eviyanti, one of the sellers, 18, and a temple dancer, asked me in English where I was from. I say Australian. It transpires that this young lady who is studying English in Denpasar to better herself, and works a few days a week, helping her parents sell at the cockfight venues.

So what does she think about the brutal sport of cockfighting? “During the ceremony,” she says, “the sport has religious significance, and the death of the roosters is a sacrifice for the gods. But outside that, cockfighting is just another excuse for the Balinese to gamble.”

She’s not wrong. As a side event, and just as much zealous, are little betting pits. Puffs of clove cigarette and incense rise up from a group who are laying cash on a colorful mat, which has an assortment of visual images, from a naked lady to Ragoda, the evil spirit of Hindu mythology.

Ayu says that her family, coming from a tradition of holy men, does trances at religious ceremonies. “I’m a faith healer, and when I’m in a trance, meditating with the spirits, I go crazy and can’t stop screaming.”

A few days later I was able to witness these trances at her village in Bang Li, a half hour driver from Ubud. which seems quite famous in Bali for that.

“Bali likes Australian, but Indonesia doesn’t,” says another man, who is resting on the rails of the cock fighting ring with a pair of crutches beside him, He shows me his scarred knee. “It was broken in three sections after I got hit by a truck,” he explains.

Later that the evening I saw the man who was flashing lots of cash at the cock fight today. I wondered what his fate was. We were at Ubud’s cool spring water where the locals bathe and cool down in the cold water that comes from the nearby caves. He told me that he lost 700,000 rupiah, but tomorrow he would be back in the pits to chance his luck again.

No doubt, cock fighting is a past time that some may say personifies human’s struggle for existence at the expense of the roosters breaded to appease the lust of their Hindu gods. But the locals might argue otherwise.

The pain and the glory and the ugliness, Balinese cock fighting has it all.

Vishnu's Centennial Thirst, Bali

2012-03-17T09:10:00.000-07:00

"Every village has Pura Darem, or cemetery," says Sana, my cultural guide, as we past a sign that says Ngusabe Desa. It means a big ceremony. We drive into a temple compound of the Mumbal Village, 20 kilometers from Ubud. "Vishnu is the god for the dead," he adds.

Today's preparation is part of the hundred year cycle festivities, and nothing is spared to appease their god, Vishnu. There will be many more animals sacrificed today. A few days earlier I was near the temple at the local private swimming pool, and spotted a white baby buffalo. He was mulling around with another young cow. I went up to him, and it made a pathetic kind of plea. He will be sacrificed in a few days.

Today the same 'holy' cow, tied up to a tree, is watching on as the hide and legs and head in tact of a young cow is dried out on a stretcher and cured with coffee. I was surprised to see that beautiful creature still alive (it was suppose to be slaughtered at 10 am this morning, but was rescheduled in a few days.) I go up to it. It sniffs my hands. It smells no fair. At least not with me anyway.

Coffee aromas wafts across the temple grounds of the Pura Dalem, the cemetery temple, in the Balinese highlands. But there's no idle chatter or long black being served here. There's a sense of industry going on. The coffee is sprinkled over the skins of the sacrificed cow and dog hide to alleviate the smell of this open air slaughter house.

Tables with fresh kills of pigs are being chopped up. A dog carcass is being wrapped up carefully in red cloth,on a bamboo base. The hide of a cow, that was sacrificed this morning, is also being spruced up for the temple offering.

It's an open air butcher. Here they are being knifed, bleed, minced and made into sates for tomorrow's offerings .Surprisingly, the Balinese coffee is keeping the dead smell at bay. But the noises coming from the frightened animals suggests something else is at hand.

"Duck, do you like duck," says one Balinese local who is grilling ducks on open coals. Other's are fanning it. The whole compound is a flurry of activity. A few young chickens to be killed run away. The Balinese run in all directions to catch them.

Laughter again.

Vishnu's hunger is insatiable. But after the offerings are made, the fresh meat from the sacrificed animals will go home to the 700 families of this village. "So nothing is wasted. And eating the holy food gives us better luck," says Sana, who is also preparing for a big ceremony in his village in Ubud for next week.

Now a cool wind blows. The smoke of fires cooking sate waft with the aromas of spices, as the bamboo ceremonial decorations that will be used at tomorrow's ceremony rustles. The temple dedicated to Vishnu is hungry. Someone will go in a trance, and the message from the gods will be relayed tomorrow. Auspicious tidings no doubt.

Today there were no priests. It was just a villager good with a knife who slit the animal's throat. "It's a different situation," says Sana. "The priests only make the sacrifice when bad spirits need to be purged. But this is an offering so no need for them. "

Now a kid goat is about to be killed.Two of them were tied up on a tree. The one that is to be spared cries. The other goat is taken to the temple nearby. A man pulls out his knife from his sheaf. Two other guys hold the goat. Another puts a bucket underneath the goat's neck. Then there's a resistance, but soon the sound of air leaving the goat's throat signifies another sacrifice for Vishnu.

A young man asks me, after the goat kicked its last nervous kick, "Do you want to die?"

It put a whole new meaning on the sacrifices. I thought about it, and asked my friend and cultural guide. "He was joking. The whole point of the ceremony is to bring good luck to the village."

While relaxing, and taking this all in over a Balinese coffee, Sana said that a turtle would be killed. "No thanks, not interested in seeing that." A big guy, who had earlier had a meal with us, had tasted the sate turtle, "Its really tasty," he said and rode off on his motor bike.

At the temple, a statue of Vishnu and a slaughtered cow, waits patiently for tomorrow's offering.

And I'm sure, I'm not going to be on his menu list.

Black Magic Woman of Java

2012-03-17T08:54:00.002-07:00

The full moon is overhead as we arrive in Banyuwangi, East Java, at 3 a.m. The trees cast shadows across the road in the moonlight, and within the hour, the mosques’ speakers will broadcast the call to prayer.

Banyuwangi, the most easterly town in Java, is replete with stories about both black and white magic practices. In 1998, more than 200 black magicians were killed by locals fed up with an exceptional spate of deaths. Just three years ago, the house of a black magic practitioner burnt down to the ground.

These practitioners of the black arts, known as dutak, offer supernatural services. Politicians, models, and perhaps even your own mother have used them.

“Better you go to Jakarta faster. Come to me and please don’t go to any black magic place again,” read the SMS I received from my friend Ben, who was very concerned for me.

Another 3 a.m. text, this one from a white magician who is fighting evil 24 hours a day. “I have many enemies,” he said. The magician learned his trade in the forest, like many people I have met in Asia, where he prayed and fasted in the jungle until the powers of healing came to him. He doesn’t sleep until after 3 a.m. “Before then, I’m vulnerable to magic.” We are going to see this man, this white magician, later today.

An hour’s drive north of Banyuwangi, we arrive at a cheap hotel. The next morning, Mohammed comes to get me. It’s Red Bull “pick me up” time, but I’m still feeling tired. Lethargy has come over me. I won’t shake it off until 24 hours later, when I’m safely back in Denpasar.

Through Mohammed’s uncle (who shares the same name), we arrange to meet the local faith healer, the white magician, on behalf of a good friend of Mohammed’s. Dragon fruit grows over his property, and a family mosque is situated on the front. We are to meet him in his house, which is painted pink, but he isn’t there. His wife says he has to help a customer who lost a card in an ATM.

So we come back a few hours later, and now he has a steady flow of people going through his door, hailing from Medan to West Papua. Like any good doctor, he’s on call 24 hours a day, which sometimes takes him to Borneo or Bali, where his skills are used as a last resort when modern medicine can’t find a cure. Later, he shows me a belt. It’s on a wall and made from deer skin with verses from the Koran inscribed on the other side. These penangkal bala are lucky charms to ward off evil spirits.

When we eventually meet him, Mohammed explains to the moustached practitioner of white magic: “We have big problem with [the good friend’s] wife. For weeks at a time, he disappears with his mistress.”

Mohammed is convinced his good friend doesn’t have a simple case of mid-life crisis. In fact, Mohammed believes his friend is under the influence of a potent spell, and we are about to find out if his diagnosis is true.

Mohammed writes his friend’s name on a piece of paper. The magician puts Rp 100,000 ($11) next to it, then dangles a thin leaf made from metal on a string. It’s now resting on the note. When the magician asks if the man named in the note is under a spell, the leaf moves, of its own volition. When the white magician commands it to stop, it stops.

We have the verdict. Next, a strong perfume is smeared on the leaf before it’s dangled in water. That water is now holy, and a mental barrier to boot. It will block the magic from entering the good friend’s body. The mistress will tempt him no more.

After showing off his swords and the other tools of his trade, I give the faith healer a big hug and tell him I know he’s not a black magician. He doesn’t understand a word of English, but that doesn’t stop him from giving me a sloppy kiss on both my cheeks.

Mohammed asked me if I had any cash. I said no, I had left my wallet at his house. As we were heading out, though, I found my wallet and handed the doctor Rp 100,000. He was extremely grateful and never even hinted at money.

Children were playing around the mosque as we journeyed, late into the night, back to Bali. The full moon guided us through windy roads. I get another text at 3 a.m., the safe time, when spells can’t enter the body easily.

“I dreamt ghosts were all around you, trying to kill you,” the white magician writes, saying I should be careful. As a precaution, Mohammed and I face toward Mecca and pray.

“We are safe from the evil now,” says Mohammed, who seems in a better state than when we left. We cross to Bali on the ferry, the moon reflecting off water littered with plastic bags.

Back in Denpasar. “Hello vampire,” says the lady on the other end of the phone. She’s the good friend’s mistress, a marketing manager at a restaurant. She really has got the short end of the stick in all this, but Mohammed is convinced she is concocting her own magic. “She is using her menstruation blood and mixing it into his coffee,” he insists.

I told her I went to Banyuwangi. She asks if it worked. “Yes it did,” I say.

“Impossible!” she replies.

We left the holy water in the car, and the driver took it to Ubud, in the heart of Bali. Today in Denpasar, Mohammed’s good friend is smiling. “I’ve never felt better!” That is, until he received a text message…

Fentoozler, Indy Band of Ubud

2011-11-29T01:39:00.000-08:00

Base guitarist, Adzi who wrote the song Yesterday for his band Fentoozler was recently released in a compilation by Indy music label Addicted Invaders clothing label.

Two of the three members of the band Fentoozler are hanging out at my bungalow here in Ubud. Fentoozler, the name of their band, was taken from the name of a song from Bling 182.

"We don’t have our own album yet, but we have recorded four songs” says Adzi. His father is the owner of the Etzy Bungalow here in Ubud.

He and the lead singer Pura, ask me to help write them a few songs, so we compose two and rehearse one, “I hate Steve Jobs,” the other one, still in the early stages, is titled “The Venus Fly Trap” a lurid tale of a Balinese promoter of a popular music venue in Kutu, Bali.

I get to put my dirty mitts all over the story, and get the impression that I am a control freak like Jobs, when I tell them to scream, with teenage angst, “I hate Steve Jobs.”

You trendy bule in Seminyak, at uber cool cafes, playing with your mac airs, and your accessory barby dolls, who are only interested in your money, you suck , steve jobs suck, you pretentious twats

The lead singer sometimes plays at the Lunar Bar, when they are short of a band member. He works at the hotel Uma Ubud hotel but music is his game, and like many musicians I have met, they have day jobs to pay for their hobbies.

A third song he plays for me at my make shift office -ashtrays, bottles of Kranting Dang energy drinks, and week old crackers lay strewn on my table -- is Father Mother, "its about parents," says the lead singer who wrote the lyrics.

What are you influences?

Lead singer: Green Day, I love Billy Joe Armstrong.

Adzi: I love Green Day too, and my surf green base guitar, which was signed by Mark Hoppus, from Blink 182.

Where have you played?

We played at a few festivals, because we aren’t famous yet its hard to get a gig. Ubdu music scene is mainly R& B , reggae, and Top Forty, but our music is different, alternative, so its hard to play here. We have to go to Denpassar or Jokjarkata to play.

Why don’t you write lyricks in Balinese?

Lead Singer: It’s hard to write the lyric in Balinese, coz any time I write, it could be about love, and that sucks, I hate songs about love, I love songs about life.

Adzi: In my opinion, because we are influenced by western musicians so we use English, its difficult to use Indonesian or Balinese, we are influenced by Green Day, and prefer to write and sing in English, it gives us greater expression, something totally different from the bahasa scene.

If you want to check out their songs, and down load for free, go to the Reverbnation site. They are available for booking and want to blow away the Kuta music scene with their original music - no pretense here!

Going Local in Ubud, Bali

2011-11-25T22:45:00.000-08:00

"If you haven't been to Ubud, then you haven't been to Bali", said the bespectacled middle aged lady sitting next to me on the flight from Jakarta. “She knew what she was talking about” said self appointed eavesdropping Auntie Anne, who’d been sitting on my other side.

So what is really going on in Ubud, beyond the ticketed activities sanctioned by Tourism Boards and spread all over glossy magazines? As we caught a taxi, I called up my cross-cultural expert in Jakarta. He told me that Ubud might look like a town but it is really fourteen villages, each run by a village committee, and gave me a phone number.

The drive from the airport to mountainside Ubud, the resort, takes about an hour and a half, depending on the traffic. You get the feeling you are actually in Indonesis, not a tourist resort, but the billboards advertising rafting and Safari World never really go away. Our driver pointed out where we could buy batik, silver and even where to turn off to go to the volcano.

Ubud is a cloistered city, and if it’s party time you want, Ubud is strictly a “no go” zone. People living here strictly enforce the noise factor, putting a 10.30 pm curfew on live performances. A meal and a quiet drink is the order of the day at the many local and international restaurants.

Picking up our lessons from Seminyak’s Villa Maple, we booked straight into the first homestay we found in a side lane. (Name) had it all. Clean, two adjacent bedrooms with en suite, sitting room, good locks, power points, hot and cold water, no TV, no Internet, but within a few hundred yards of a Circle K minimart and a café with free wi-fi for uploads.

Too high to need more aircon than a fan, the manager makes you Bali coffee as you watch the local way of life go by, and explains the finer points of the fighting cocks he keeps in rattan cages. The lady from the warung across the lane brings mee goreng, fried egg and noodles, to people she knows.
These are the type of local contacts that make Ubud so charming, and so hard to book. The only way to stay in a family’s home is to see the local Long Man and hope he likes the look of you.

I sent a text message to my cross cultural contact, asking what’s going on. Sana texted back, “There's a big procession going on, and I’ll pick you up immediately.” A man, mid forties, turns up at my homestead in traditional dress.

“If you follow the procession, you can follow the real story. Many guide books write about Hindu culture, but to actually experience is best,” says Sana.

I jump in with Sana, leaving Miss Anderson to plunge singlehanded into the market of Jl Monkey Forest and Jl Raya Ubud. It’s a double storey warren of stalls bursting at the seams with wood carvings, batik shirts, sarongs, toys, and all manner of other souvenirs aimed specifically at tourists. The market’s merchants haggle for a living, and think nothing of asking for ten times the going price. But their wares are colourful and cheap, if you get the formula right. "If you want it, drop the ‘best price’ price five times”, says Miss Anderson, “Then walk away, until you hear them say, ‘Yes.’ It works.“

A quick stop at Sana’s house, and he shows me the mango tree that shades his house and which is dripping in large mangoes. “I bought the plant for 1000 rupiah when my daughter turned four and went to kindergarden.” And on shells, are examples of Sana’s wood work, from dolpins, to large wooden phallus carvings, popular items at the market.

“The women in my house have a ceremony in my household every day. At the new moon, the village make procession to protect us coming into the new month. We have other festivals, too, that are every seven months. It depends on the temples and size. “

His father is making the Hindu offerings that you see all over the place, to ward against evil spirits. His wife makes them too, and sells them at the market, keeping a tradition alive. “Many of the Balinese are working in hotels and other places, and don’t have time to make these things.“

Sana’s talking about canang, thanks to the gods, for example after cooking. Saeban is a small offering of thanks for our meal. Sana is also unique man in own right as he points out to his pet monkey. “That was given to me by Hiroshi, who gave it to me as a present.” Hiroshi is an artist, who came to Ubud twenty years ago to learn the art of dancing, and Sana is one of the best dancers in Ubud. “Hindu is my life.”
He wraps a few sarongs around me, and a local headscarf. Now we were ready to enjoy one of Ubud's amazing festivals, the celebration of the sixth full moon. The intention, today, was to chase out the bad spirits before the full moon arrives, tomorrow. “You are very lucky,” said my culture guide.
I was. And to be an honest, as an outsider stepping into another mind frame and religious practice, I’d like to say it was a feast of colours that radiated in the early afternoon, with no seasonal shower down pour to ruin the light-fest.

Every Balinese temple is a Pura, an open air place of worship within enclosing walls, compounds connected by intricately decorated gates. Each temple has a more or less fixed membership; every Balinese belongs to a temple by virtue of descent, residence, or some mystical revelation of affiliation. Some temples are associated with the family house compound (also called banjar in Bali), others are associated with rice fields, and still others with key geographic sites.

Ritualized states of self-control (or lack thereof) are a notable feature of religious expression among people famous for their graceful and decorous behaviour. One key ceremony at a village temple is a dance-drama telling a tale of battle between the mythical characters Rangda the witch (representing evil) and Barong the lion or dragon (representing good), in which performers fall into a trance, and attempt to stab themselves with sharp knives.

“Today is Friday, in my banja (community temple), we had a festival for three days last week, praying for this time, leading to the last night before the new moon. This temple festival is once a year, its auspicious, praying for this time, leading into the new moon cycle. “

People throughout the island present offerings and pray for blessings from Sang Hyang Widhi in ceremonies at the main temples (Pura Desa, Pura Dalem and Pura Baleagung) and their family temple.
We went to a temple dedicated to Shiva, and a post card perfect place to photograph. The temple Pura Dalem Gede Peliatan, is located in Peliatan village in Ubud. Sana is a member of the village and the temple. "That's where I was sitting when you texted me, " Sana said. The celebrations were under way. I had caught Sena in one of the most important days of the Hindu calendar, but that didn’t stop him from picking me up, and inviting his village's festivities.

The only foreigner locally dressed, I was lucky to arrive at the famous Pura Dalem Gede Peliatan in time for the procession, before the monsters paraded on the streets. Barong, is the good spirit, was at work, protecting us from the evil spirit of Rangda. The black and white tall man was Barong Landung. A white one with a big nose was the symbol of husband and wife.

Sana gave me a quick course in sembahyang, Balinese prayer. Repeat it, five times, pick up a flower from the bowl , and make offerings. I had no idea that I would be joining in the ritual of purging out evil spirits, and making my own offerings to Hindu Gods.

The temple , devoted to Shiva, Pura dalem gede peliatan temple , is located in Peliatan village in Ubud. He is a member of a village and a certain temple, as he drops me off to my bungalow, he points out his banjar,one of seven communities in the village of Peliatan.

I looked up on the web for any events. There was Barong Dance at Ubud Palace. Yet today the streets were closed off as the procession followed the four cardinal directions of North East South West. I had really striked culture pay dirt.

As I was to be part of the parade, the only foreigner dressed up like a local, I would be able to see it from the local side. Sana, my guide, who has worked with Ali Sharyf, a cross-cultural expert based in Jakarta, quickly got me up to date. We went to the Shive temple. "That's where I was sitting when you texted me, " he said. The celebrations were under way. But I was lucky to arrive at this famous temple before the monsters were paraded on the street. I've never seen such a post card perfect place to photographer. I had no idea that I would be joining in the ritual of purging out evil spirits, and making my offerings to Hindu Gods.

Obviously I had caught Sena in one of the most important days of the Hindu calendar, but that didnt' stop him from picking me up, and inviting his village's festivity.

Later in the evening the ceremony continued from the Temple of the Dead. Statues of earthly delights looked down tempting the flesh, the pendulous breasts one ornate statue, representing evil, says Sana. This temple is where they have the open-air cremations and where the King of Ubud was cremated.
And the spirits are being mischevious, for the life of me , I can’t get one photo in focus. Then as we leave the temple for another two hours of parading in the street, every photo becomes sharp in focus.

As we headed North to our last destination, and back to the safety of the village temples, the procession had upped the ante. It was moving fast. I was almost running to keep up. At the West junction, the priests set up shot and baby pig was sacrificed. The music before the sacrifice was a constant tribal drum beat. The music from the bamboo instrumentsreally made for eerie tunes.

Then the pig's throat was slit. The gods were appeased, and from a speaker; upbeat and more festive music started playing. And so did the rising notes of mourning by a select few ladies who recited prayers though out the evening, while carrying burning incense from a pot balanced on their head.
I had enough of the rituals, which seemed mostly lost upon me, and headed back with Sana to his village temple. We all say down, spilling out of the temple and sitting on the road, and did the last prayer for the night.

When I got back to the homestay around midnight, Auntie Anne was playing with a centipede toy she bought at the market. Ubud has something for everyone. I got my culture fix while Miss Anderson test drive her presents for her grand children.

Street Kid Style :Facebooking for survival

2011-11-16T06:01:00.000-08:00

"Rian Rian," calls out Sacha, a local celebrity in Jakarta, and entertainer and lead singer of the Bugirls and documentary maker. She's been taken in by Rian, an 8 year old social experimenter from the hordes of street kids in Jakarta. And this is the beginning of the Youtube series- she's documenting the life of the street kid.

The Canadian producer and 10 year resident of Indonesia writes of on Rian's nearly opened Facebook account: “Everyone on the street said he was stupid and naughty and I'm wasting my time, but just wait until I upload what he did when I trusted him with my camera. He not only returned it, but he took amazing pictures.”

She’d given her father’s camera to the young boy. “It had meaning to me, because my father past away six months ago. If my father knew that the young street kid was taking photos with that camera, he’d be so moved.”

I ran into Sacha at the Memories bar in Jakarta, with Rian, an eight year old living outside the Mini Mart on Jalan Jaksa. She was selling her video on roller-skating across Java, part of her Green Movement campaign. Later she would tell me that really her adventure was a journey of self realisation. A bit like this new one with the street kids of Jakarta.

A few days ago, I was was outside Circle K, taking pictures of Rian who was taking pictures of me. We were with the expat crew who hang out here, last of Jakarta’s Bohemians. Jason Danials is a local celebrity with a TV show Walk the Talk, and a band called The Bugles. Rian is lightly slapping him.

"Stop slapping," says Sacha. "He really needs love," she softens, then adds sternly. "Stop throwing those peanut shells!"

He's running around, free as a bird, working the tables, being playful, as only an 8 year old can.

She goes into Circle K and offers a proposition. "I will pay Rian 10 000 Rupiah to clean up the mess, what do you think about that?" Then she asks us what we think about it. We are all moved by her enthusiasm.

She’d opened a Facebook account, and taught Rian to post his pictures from the camera she gave him. He couldn’t read or write but when it came to computers he was a fast learner.

Another idea of hers. "He could take one of those cheap net books produced in Indonesia, and ask the tourists if they want to check their Facebook for 5000 Rupiah a shot. How's that a way of generating income, and fostering new technology?" She's going to contact the founder of the net book company and pitch her idea of getting these cheap computers out into the country side. "If the villagers can afford to buy a motorbike, then why not a lap top." Her enthusiasm is contagious...again!

I saw her tonight at Margot hotel. "We got a Facebook account for him, but he can only have 5000 friends. " I was friend number 11. "We are hoping to create an awareness of the plights of street kids and give them another option of generating income, besides begging from strangers, " says Sasha, of her ambitious and worthy project.

Back to more physical concerns, she says she took Rian to the doctors today because of an ear infection. "It only cost 10 000 Rupiah to treat his ear infection!" When she took him to the doctors, Rian told her that he knew that clinic. "Just think, he had 10, 000 rupiah, he could have seen a doctor himself.” I said eight year olds don't think of that, when there's lots of chips and confectioneries he can waste his earnings on at the mini mart.

Tonight Sacha will camp outside the mini mart. "I want to create awareness. If no one does anything, they will when they see me with the street boy and do something." She has a rolled up mattress and will for the next two weeks camp out with Rian.

On Rian's Facebook account, Sacha explains the reasons for setting up the Street Kid Style social networking hub, from a blog, Facebook to a Youtube channel: " I don't know what will be the key factor in changing Rian's life, but we are doing everything we can to give him love and support... but you guys have to help his little blog grow into something bigger... something inspirational. “

Rian's updates on his wall will be a great start in creating awareness of young children living on the streets of Jakarta. says Sasha, who plans to work on the other kids who hang out on the streets of Jalan Jaksa. "And more importantly, it will help them get off the streets and back into safe homes where they belong"

Note: Sasha did eventually leave Jakarta, and took Rian with her. Rian is now at school, living with her on a sleepy village. Last I heard he plays around with other kids, goes to the beach, and is now taking care of Sasha! I'm so happy to follow this story through to the end, and to see a happy ending.

Borobudur Temple, a Javanese Cosmos

2011-11-08T00:50:00.000-08:00

An old rickety bus takes us the 40-kilometers from Yokjarkata in central Java to the village of Borobudur temple. Winding around the rice fields and crossing good sturdy bridges, the river runs frothy below with the beginning of the monsoon season. The banks expose grey basalt rock, the building blocks of the 12^th century temple that I’m on the way to witness for the first time.

This temple was once the religious centre for Buddhists, and during auspicious days, devotees would walk around the temple and pay their supplications. Another modern day right of passage is getting to the temple on the local transport system. But thankfully for me, I had met some Indonesians from Jakarta, who offered to take me to the temple. All I had to do was hang on tight and enjoy the ride.

Sitting next to me, is a gnome-looking lady, shrivelled up in her seat. I grab her hand, and feel the warmth of an eon, a hundred thousand sunsets that have descended on her life. I imagined that her ancestors over twelve centuries ago were devout Buddhist practitioners, or maybe stone masons whose skilful hands chiselled this colossal structure dedicated to Lord Buddha.

“Hay Mister!” breaks my reverie, and the touts jump onto the bus signifying that we have arrived at the Borobudur village, which is only a two-kilometre walk to the UNESCO World Heritage site. They are the horse and cart drivers, each one vying for our business.

The last leg of the journey to the temple is on a horse cart. Crammed into the buggy, a healthy pony -- it seemed very well fed -- trots us to our destination. This is very 18^th Century well worth the price of 15 000 (US$ 3) Rupiah for four people! On arrival, the touts swarmed around us like flies. They were selling needful things, like fans, caps, and renting umbrellas. It was midday, and very hot.

The wet season has its benefits, besides the temple being quieter. The taxi driver who took me from the airport said the best time to take pictures is after a storm. He wasn’t wrong, and three hours later, the clouds hung heavy around the valley and the temple took on another more enigmatic look.

“Locals believe that if you touch Buddha’s belly and make a wish, your dreams will come true,” said Novi, my guide from Jakarta.

A dozen elderly tourists with distinct American accents clamber down the pyramid wearily, but by no means disappointed. “ Come on everyone, hurry up!" says guide number seven who holds up a card with the same number. Then tour guide number four cuts through, and his group starts heading up to the top of the temple summit.

I take my time, taking in the reliefs – there are over 5000 of them - that tell the story of life’s struggle and the wheel of attachment, the main tenets of Buddha’s teachings. These are the same type of imagery I have seen in Thai temples. As you make your way up to the pinnacle of the temple, which is capped with a central stupa, and a metaphorical ascension to Nirvana. The symbolism is that we can all attain enlightenment if only we concentrate and be mindful like the stone Buddha’s that are encased in the mini stupas surrounding the main one.

A few levels were being renovated today. It was just a matter of stepping over the worker's tools, and hoping you don’t fall in the hole. The workers were juggling the heavy blocks and putting them back into the jigsaw puzzle. I actually Google earthed the temple to see the tantric design from outer space.

It’s really a wonder of the world the way the builders were able to execute the structure with such precision. Then a thunderstorm erupts, and a streak of lightening, traversing down from the skies, signals the change of guards, and another mood of the temple is revealed.

Looking out over the temple, you get a distinct feeling that there was some divine intervention in creating it. There seems to be a symmetry between the man made structure and nature. As far as you could see, manicured grounds, terraced rice paddies, and coconut trees just added to the Garden of Eden beauty of the place.

At the top of the temple, a security guard is keeping paternal eye on the tourists. Signs are posted all over the place - one says no scratching, the other 'No Smoking". I just couldn’t help scratching myself like a monkey hosting a family of fleas and the temptation to light up was also there. I think they meant no graffiti or engraving your name on the structure.

When the rain got heavy, everyone scattered. I took the opportunity to take a few more pictures without the frame being cluttered with tourists. One Muslim lady, who was also trying to beat the downpour, covered herself with the batik sarong. At the bottom of the temple, an Indonesian man was posing on the guardian Lion at the base, while his girl friend took a souvenir photo.

The atmosphere here is less reverent than at other Buddhist sites I have visited. There's a touch of carnival spirit about it. Maybe its because the temple isn't strictly a site for Buddhists, but attracts tourists from all walks of life’s and with different beliefs.

Now the same touts trying to sell me stuff on the way in were now following me, trying to sell me their wares on the way out.

Before making our way back to the city on the same rickety bus I buy a t-shirt. Been there and done that, emblazoned on it, and a matching cap. Then on the hour ride return trip; I tweet, creating a little buzz with the hash Borobudur.

One final surprise, before this magic day ends, as if there weren’t enough already. The bus driver points out to the spray painted artwork on the front of his bus. Deep penetrating blue eyes with matching mascara stare me down. “You like Mister!” He asks me. Of course I do. The resemblance to Lord Gautama Buddha replications was uncanny.

My limited Indonesian gets him going again. I’m starting to feel like Jim Carey in this country. The Indonesians are always laughing at me and I know I’m not funny. Or am I? It’s a testament to the Javanese who live every moment to the fullest.

I have to agree with British photographer Tim Page who coined the term: the journey is the destination. It really is and Yokjarkata is as good a place as any to start it!

And who knows, you might get what you wished for, as the locals believe, after making a pilgrimage to this sacred site.

The Big Batik Scam : ROFL

2011-11-03T01:21:00.000-07:00

After a big day at Borobudur temple, I got back onto familiar ground near Marlboro Street. I have since found out that they don't hand out free cigarettes but for one Australian dollar a pack -- I’m not complaining.

Why couldn't I take a picture in the gallery, of renowned National batik artists from all over Indonesia?

A guy near my hotel befriended me (you are never alone in Indonesia). And we walked, and just drifted closely to a street of prominence (more like disrepute, as rats scuttled past me and the drain stench assaulted me like a fart from ten-tone tessy – I made this part up! Its like I knew this guy for a lifetime. We were the best of mates after 30 seconds, and this isn’t an exaggeration.

He had been talking about how it was my lucky day. “Its 256 years of independence for Jogjakarta, and an exhibition of Batik artists are celebrating it today.”

"It’s free,” he adds. “And it’s your lucky day, but the show closes at 8 pm. So hurry, if you want to see it."

He said usually you had to pay entrance fee, but thanks to the government, on this auspicious day, the show would be open to public for free.

But we only had ten minutes left before closing time.

Ok, I'll take a look. This man had a sister in Mosman, Sydney. "She imports antiques from Indonesia." He was all-jolly. I could see he was almost coming in his pants, as he found a fresh tourist just off the plane to buy his tour packages and maybe an original batik artwork.

I got to the shop. I started filming. "No filming," said one man. He was one of the prized National artists, I assumed. I said I could film what i want. Then I left in a huff.

An hour later I met that same distinguished artist on the street. “Hay, you Mr. Australian!’ he greeted me. I said I was sorry for my behavior. He had changed his mind, and said I could now take pictures of the famous artwork. So I followed him on the back streets, thinking we would return to the same batik exhibition I had saw an hour ago. No, he was taking me to his own shop.

The brought out the tea, and then said I could film. “ This is Javanese hospitality,” he says. “Not only do we show you around our unique gallery, we also off you’re a fresh jasmine tea.”

In front of him on the table was the bee wax and another form of wax, which was good for a certain effect, he said. Then he showed me the canvas, with its four stages of processing, and explained why all the art in his shop was original. He offered me a wayang batik, which he took from the wall and put over a light for visual effect.

The waying glowed in the dimly lit batik show room, and even if it was a copy, it looked like a million dollars. " You can have it for 300 000,” he offered me, as if I was getting a deal of a lifetime. I was impressed with his knowledge and appeased by him letting me take pictures. “ You can take a picture of my art work, see the surreal one over there.”

I asked him later if he had done any recent work, and he said, “No, I’m only the seller these days.” Oh, “like a curator?” I asked him. I really was genuinely bought by his spiel and believed him to be a master batik artist.

I’m still questioning if he has ever done any batik art in his life, but that’s a silly notion when you are player in a real time make believe story.

I really felt that this guy wanted to be my friend. And I said in return, I'd do a little promo story on my blog. And also maybe take a tour of the city on the back of his motor bike.

The next day I see him, "You want that piece mister Australia?" and "Why didn't call me?"

"I'm still thinking!" And to add salt into the wound, I said I had already been on a tour, which is why I was too busy to call him.

"Well I need money, it’s been a bad day, so don't think for too long!"

Tough luck, I thought, and smiled and said good bye politely. But I really should buy him a beer after what he prepared me for.

I went back a day later to the place I had stormed out of. Of course a motorcycle guy invited me. But this time I had come prepared thanks to the first artist I had rebuked. He had given me the batik spiel.

When this charming suave and svelte artist (yes he was a sleaze bag and con man who would sell his grandmother for a quick buck) told me to stop taking pictures -- "No filming because only last week I saw another artist had copied my work and is now selling the same art work in a batik shop down the road.” – he softened, and allowed me to film him, and only the demonstration batik canvas and pictures of his choosing. One was of a Buddhist statue at Borobudur. He gave me the exact spiel. I looked interested. When the jasmine tea came out, I said I had to go. "But we won't be here tomorrow. Now is your last chance to buy that Buddhist piece. Only 1 million and a half."

Sure, I told him. I will come back tomorrow. But on one condition.

"But we aren't open tomorrow,” he said before I could expose him. Where had I heard that before?

I proceeded, this time uninterrupted " I will buy that piece if you are open tomorrow. But on one condition, that you tell me that you had lied to me."

"You can buy the piece tomorrow, what time you come?" He didn’t hear the last past of my sentence!

I said, “I thought you were closed, and that your famous exhibition was moving onto to another location.”

Batik exposed. His jovial mood turned sour and I legged it out of there(it was a leisurely stroll kinda of leg it).

The batik scam wasn't sinister or nasty like the gem scams in Thailand. Besides being lied to, I thought that the whole charade was quite artistic. It's like watching the hands of a magician. You know the tricks are fake, but some how you got to to go along with it. The element of disbelief is a welcome break from the hard sale. Or is it?

Lion Air," We make people fly!"

2011-11-02T22:05:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Jogjakarta . I flew Lion Air. They are the cheap Indonesian carrier. My flight was for 1.45 in the afternoon. I checked in on time. Then I was told there was a half hour delay. "Lion time" said one punter, who must be use to their delays. I heard another announcement of another half hour delay. I showed my phone to the staff to make sure this was correct. Then I went out, and had a cigarette and coffee. Twenty minutes later, I go up to the counter to see if there is another delay. The flight had just left I was told, in a very indirect way.

Then staff promptly took me out of the boarding area. This is not looking good. But no one dared explain what had happened. I had to assume I had missed my flight. I was taken into their management room. Waiting. Then three pissed off Indonesian ladies came in. They had missed their flight because Lion Air had changed the gate number without any announcements. By the way, my name wasn't called out over the speaker to say that the flight was leaving. They were pretty much told tough shit and pay 90 percent of the flight. I was given the same answer. I said that was unsatisfactory and argued, " Your staff told me twice, two separate occasions, that there were 30 minute delays, that adds up to one hour delay!" Still he wouldn't budge, and I was looking at paying 90 percent of another flight. Ok, time to bring out the big guns. "I'm a travel writer." The threat made, response seemed imminent. Haha, such a lame call, I agree, but it's getting the results needed.

Then the man rushes back to his office, and comes back with a better deal. " We can give you 50 percent off.' I saw the three ladies who missed their flight to Denpassar, and told them about my deal. "Make sure you don't have to pay the departure tax again!"

I paid my 150 thousand Rupiah, half the price of a ticket. So that brought my ticket expenditure to almost 500 000 which is what Air Asia would have charged me but at least I made it to Jogjakart, the land of Batik and magical madness.

Jakarta Madness

2011-10-31T04:11:00.000-07:00

The drums roll, signifying something is going on outside the Wayang Museum in Old Jakarta. I get up from a stall where I am eating ketroprak - a popular rice noodle dish served with chips, peanut sauces and sweet soy bean ketchup - and take a look.

A monkey zooms by on a toy motorbike.

The trainer tugs hard on a long chain to give the dare devil monkey some momentum, and the crowd quickly disperse. It seems the puppeteer is the one terrorizing everyone along its path, as the crowd again quickly disperses. The monkey crashes into a cart, and the crowd gives nervous smiles.

Monkey troubadours are quite popular fair in Jakarta, and usually are brought in from the poorer suburbs of the city, where tips are guaranteed.

Old Jakarta is not only a National Heritage site but it’s the playground of the Indonesians, “the heart and soul,” says social critic, Ali Sayief: “ Old Jakarta is a place that we learn from the past and learn to criticize what has been happening in current situation. “

The shows are less than politically correct. Nearby in the main courtyard, a human circus is underway. A young girl is sealed and stitched up in a hemp bag like a mummy. She stands frightened as a man who makes Indiana Jones look tame, is wielding his large whip and making deafening cracking sounds.

She is carried like a bag of spuds and put underneath a red tent. The sadist wields his whip again. Crack!!! And the tent is uncovered and the young Houdini is out of her straight jacket. A man walks around with a hat, and spectators drop donations. Not to be outdone, the duo, father and daughter, are now blowing fire. Flames cut across the courtyard and petrol fumes and mingle with the smells of clove cigarettes and deep-fried Indonesian snacks that pervade the air.

The young girl plays up to the crowd and runs her flame stick between her legs, all smiles. And I’m thinking, is this some kind of Salvador Dali painting I’m inhabiting.

Nope, says and inner voice. This seems very normal for Jakarta. And it’s confirmed when I visit the Wayang Museum. After seeing a great selection of Wayang puppets, I go to the show to buy a few souvenirs. The retail assistant asks me if I am Russel Crowe. “You look so big!” Then he goes on about his male assistant who is in the corner, telling me he’s an exotic dancer. “See these puppets? “ – he’s holding up two lead figures of the Ramayana, “They are Romeo and Juliet.” I buy them and head out of the museum.

A quick rest at a street stall, then some Indonesian mariachis come up to the table and play a Mexican song. Be prepared to be surprised in Old Jakarta, and have your senses rattled. It’s a sensory overload, or as Hemingway might say, “A veritable feast!”

Suka Suka Suka, Do you have Facebook?

2011-10-30T22:53:00.001-07:00

I met an Indonesian blogger and journalist, Mr. Ali Syarief. He suggested I write a blog post on Facebook and "Like" and said he would post it on his blog to help promote my story and get me more likes. I said I'd write up 500 words so here it is:

I am a travel writer for Trip Atlas. Recently the editor of this travel hub that gets over a million hits a day sent out an email to all contributors announcing a competition. I rose to the occasion and wrote a travel feature on sky diving in Perth.

Over the weeks I had asked people on the street to click the Facebook 'Like' button on my story. Most of the people I asked were fellow travellers who were staying at the same back packers.

I had booked a ticket to Bali. I arrived on the 20th of October. My like count was around 230 but fell far short of the 500 I needed to actually win an Ipad 2. The leader was a female writer from Canada who wrote a story on dog sledding.

It seemed she had the backing of the whole Canadian Tourism Industry while I was doing it alone. To get my like counts, I had physically ask people to log into their Facebook on my computer and click the like button on my story which was then posted onto their wall. It has worked so far.

While in Bali last week, I managed to get another 200 likes, which really put me close to the lead. But Sarah Sekula's 'likes' were still way ahead of me.

I really don't need an Ipad 2. I have met wonderful Indonesians while asking them to click like. I was hanging outside a Circle K on the beach; place only locals went to. I would go around from table to table and begin with: "Excuse me, can you please help the crazy bule?" As I found, Indonesians are always helpful and found this bule to be a bit bold and funny. Every ‘suka” I got, I would ask their names and we'd have a nice little chat. . Most time they’d put a Bintang in front of me. One night some local Balinese came up to me with a bottle of Tequila. A few ‘likes’ and shots later, I was almost under the table. But that didn’t stop me asking fresh Indonesian customers who stopped off at Circle K for one last drink. One Indonesian man was so impressed with me; he had his wife take a picture of me with him, saying, "He's the sky diver!"

Another night I as offered arak. The next day I had a horrible hangover so decided to get a flight to Jakarta. At this point, I had 400 likes, and need another 100 to win an Ipad. I knew if I went to the capital city I would get a few more likes. And only yesterday, while spending my Sunday in Old Jakarta, I met Ali at the Bavaria. The first thing I asked him was if he had Facebook, then I went through the ritual of getting my ‘suka’. I was surprised to find that he was a journalist himself, and our friendship began from there. So if you are bored and need to spice up your life, just ask a stranger on the street, “Do you have Facebook?” It works all the time!

Tiramakasi Indonesia and a big thanks to Ali for hosting this piece.I currently have 558 like and would like more!

Please click like on this link and post it on your Facebook wall , I need more likes!

Now in the lead

2011-10-28T00:23:00.000-07:00

I'm now winning Dog sledding in Quebec: To mush, or not to mush?
has 345 likes, while my story Drop Zone - sky diving @ Perth has 454 likes. I'm about 50 likes away from winning an ipad 2.Thanks Indonesia for being a great player and good sport , and a big thanks to Jason who I met at Memory who has been fantastic!