villa sabandari english

Wrong Place, Wrong Time

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Sun, 06 Jun 2010 00:56:00 +0000

Tripadvisor

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Wed, 12 May 2010 07:54:00 +0000

5 reviews of Villa Sabandari in Ubud

Villa Sabandari Slide Show

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Wed, 24 Mar 2010 05:00:00 +0000

With the major renovation behind us, it was time for an update of the pictures on the website of Villa Sabandari.

The top banners have been changed and a new slide show has been added.

How it looks on the site can be seen here http://www.sabandari.com/en/gallery.asp

A stand alone version below.

Villa Sabandari - boutique hotel in Ubud

Working in the ricefields

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 23:44:00 +0000

The ricefields behind Villa Sabandari are being plowed and prepared for planting the new crop.

Balinese team wins!

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 02:35:00 +0000

A team of Balinese culinary professionals won the World Association of Chefs Society (WACS) Global Chef’s Challenge!

To Alang, Ambon, Maluku Islands

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 04:06:00 +0000

Alang is the ancestral village of my wife and quite a few close as well as remote family members are still living there. People you never saw in your life, and to whom you probably are not even distantly related, all of a sudden call you ‘uncle’.

Quite confusing.

Willy Sipahelut, my wife’s first cousin, came to pick us up in Latuhalat where we stayed in the Ambon Dive Resort. A fancy name for simple rooms with a toilet, a shower and a small balcony with ocean view. The underwater world seems to be spectacular but I didn’t see it with my own eyes since I am not a diver. I never even snorkeled.

Anyway, we were glad she came since it is quite difficult to know which small bus (bemo) to take to Ambon. It turned out we had to take a green one, number 18 to Ambon Terminal. There we had to change to a slightly bigger, very noisy bus to Alang. Cost of this trip: negligible although it is a little over 60 miles. It is the transport of the local people and they definitely cannot afford expensive means of transportation.

Agree to enjoy some ‘couleur locale’ however: hard benches, a lot of fellow passengers, deafening engine noise and asphyxiating exhaust fumes, a dying suspension, traditional air conditioning (= all windows open) and unscheduled stops to buy fish or coconuts. The horn is screaming for anything moving on the road or near it: playing children, dogs, roosters, cattle etc. The driver has to avoid numerous potholes in the road while torturing his rattling engine to crawl up the hills in first gear at 10 miles an hour. Fellow passengers are hanging out of the windows, holding onto the luggage rack as if it where the normal thing to do.

Once arrived in Alang another ordeal awaited me: climbing the mountain all the way up to the house of Njong Pai, my wife’s cousin and Willy’s father. The first part seemed easy: a broad stone staircase awaited me. The 100 steps were uncomfortably high; for me they were. The staircase gets smaller, the higher you go and the last 500 feet, there aren’t any steps. You have to go from stone to stone and find your way to the top. Fortunately I had taken the hotel umbrella, which gave me some support when climbing.

My wife decided to smoke a cigarette before starting the ascent, which gave me a head start. It would have been a shame to arrive at the top after the two women. After thirty or so steps, the sweat was running down my spine and I was producing sounds that peculiarly resembled those of an overheated steam locomotive. Everybody greeted me very friendly and observed me closely. After all I am white, a color they don’t often see in Alang.

After about one third of the climb, two men tried to start a conversation, which gave me the opportunity to take a break without losing face. I hardly had started climbing the narrow stairs between the houses again, when a women, somewhere behind me shouted “Bapak mau ke mana?" which means “Where are you going Sir?” She was leaning out of a window, dressed in a night gown. Or something that closely looked like a night gown. My limited knowledge of the Indonesian language was big enough to reply that I was on my way to my wife’s cousin. "Saya mau ke Njong Pai Sipahelut", I said. She shouted something I did not understand and came hollering behind me.

It turned out to be a very skinny woman in her seventies with more holes than teeth in her mouth and wearing a thin cotton dress with a floral motive. She started to tell me all kind of things, most of which I did not understand. Except for ‘pelan, pelan!’ which means ‘slowly, slowly!’ Although she probably climbed as slowly as she could, she ran away from me in no time. After having waited for me a few times, she gave up and went ahead. Later it turned out she had ran to the house of Njong Pai to announce the arrival of a strange visitor. The old lady and Njong Pai came down the hill, looking for me. When we met, I was more dead than alive, completely soaked and more tired than I had been for years. That was not so exceptional, given the fact that, due to my back problems I had spent most of my time sitting down, resulting in a degree of physical fitness close to zero and a mere 30 pounds overweight.

I had just about caught my breath, when my wife and Willy started the last part of the climb. That gave me the chance, faking relaxed, to ask them ‘Hey finally! What took you so long?’

We had to take off our wet clothes and ‘mandie’ (pouring water with a cup over your body until you are clean), were given sarongs and sat down on the porch, overlooking the forest. It was already rather late in the afternoon and it was out of the question to go back to our hotel in Latuhalat. A few kids were sent to the village to buy toothbrushes, auntie cooked some extra rice and we stayed for the night in the little house on top of the world.

Dirk Weemaes at Villa Sabandari - intimate lifestyle hotel in Ubud, Bali

Almost ready?

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Sat, 12 Dec 2009 04:20:00 +0000

Shopping at Singapore airport.

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 03:59:00 +0000

Man, I was so tired!

We had to wait 8 hours in Changi, Singapore’s airport for our connecting flight to Frankfurt. And so many boutiques in that darn airport! A shopper’s wet dream. Not mine, let me make that absolutely clear. I refuse to waste my wet dreams at futile stuff like that.

‘I’ll wait at the gate’, I said to my wife, ‘go look at the shops, it’ll shorten the time’. Just out of curiosity (yeah right…), we checked the exchange rate of the Singapore dollar. That was pretty easy: 2 Singapore $ = 1 Euro. Or there about. It couldn’t be simpler. We didn’t change any € to the local currency. Our plastic friend Master C could always come to the rescue if required.

I went for a little nap at gate 3B.
Already half asleep, I noticed the gate change to A17 and sleepwalked there to continue my nap. A Korean guy sat down two chairs from me to the left. It might have been a Chinese man. He took a pile of documents, carefully stapled, from his bag and started to read the English text. He half mumbled, under his breath. From time to time he repeated a word or part of a sentence. It irritated me a little at first but it also had a calming effect, almost like a lullaby.

‘… to improve the accessibility…’ gave him a lot of trouble and he kept repeating it. He pronounced it as ‘… akchessibility…’.

Again and again, and again: ‘… akchessibility, akchessibility…’.

It turned me crazy.

‘Just change the sentence a$$hole!’, I thought. Why don’t you say ‘… facilitate the entrance…’ or something like that.
It started all over again!

‘Fachilitate’ he kept saying now. ‘…fachilitate, fachilitate,…’
The voice in the loudspeakers must have given an update for the transit passengers because the man jumped to his feet and ran in the direction of the toilets, repeating in a high pitched voice:’… to fachilitate the transit …’ faster and faster, spreading his papers left and right.
Then my wife woke me up.
She asked if I had been sitting there for a long time and told me that she had bought an early birthday present for herself (little smile). Still half asleep, but nevertheless vaguely aware of possible trouble ahead, I asked her ‘Oh yes, what did you buy?’ ‘A handbag’, she answered.

‘A little expensive,’ she said, ‘... 1375 Singapore $’. ‘S$1375!!?? That is almost €700!!’ I thought, hoping that I made a calculation error with my sleepy head. ‘No, affirmative. €700.’, the computer confirmed; wide awake.
‘And…? What do you think? Nice isn’t it?’ she said, as if she wanted to add to my misery. ‘Yes, nice I muttered’. It was a birthday present and she almost never bought anything for herself. It wouldn’t be nice to rain on her parade. ‘… and I got a protective bag with it’ she said. I thought: ‘A bag of that price indeed needs protection!’ but I wisely kept my mouth closely shut. She had such a lovely smile when she stretched out her arms and looked at the bag, her head slightly tilted to the right.
Stupid bag.
At home, she couldn’t wait to show her purchase to our son who immediately recognized the brand. ‘Ah, a Fendi’, he said, in admiration. ‘That will have cost you a bundle!’. ‘Yes’, my wife replied, ‘almost €70, but it is an early birthday gift to myself (little smile). I intended to buy a small, matching one, but hey, I can do that later.’
‘€70’, I grumbled. ‘Surely you mean €700!’ I looked at her and saw the expression on her face change from pitiful to disbelief and then to desperation. ‘Do you mean I bought a €700 handbag!!?? Tell me it ain’t true!!’ she whispered.
I savored every second. That €700 will be worth it, every darn cent.
Well into old age I will be able to tell this story and use it when necessary.
I love Fendi..
Muwahahaha!!!

Dirk
Villa Sabandari

Cremation

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 11:37:00 +0000

Last week we were informed by Komang, our gardener, that he would like to work next weekend because he had Upacara (ceremony) this week and would like to have a day off.
That day became two days in reality but that is not the point. Through Made, our pembantu (housekeeper), we learned that the ceremony Komang was referring to actually was the cremation of his grandfather who passed away last week, aged 87. I asked Komang if we could attend; it was no problem, on the contrary, we were welcome.

For us, foreigners, there is no specific dress code. The Balinese wear a sarong, women and men. We rented a car and left for Blahbatuh, the village where the cremation would take place. The driver stopped at a small crossing with an improvised traffic sign. ‘Hati hati, ada Upacara’, the sign said, ‘Attention, we have a ceremony’. From a distance we saw a high, colorful tower-like construction, further down the street. A lot of people dressed in white had gathered there. Komang, wearing traditional attire, was at the lookout for us and guided us through a narrow alley to the house where we saw the coffin in a small, decorated pavilion. Chairs were brought and we each were given a bottle of Sprite and a piece of sweet bread. The coffin was covered with a white cloth and surrounded by offerings. My question about how the body could be kept at home at these temperatures was answered with one word: ‘Formol’.

At the other side of the compound: the sound of traditional songs and recitations. A woman singing, a man reciting what seemed to be Balinese prayers. It sounded horrible and threatening. To me anyway. It made no impression whatsoever on the Balinese people in the compound. They strolled around, greeting people left and right, joking or smoking a cigarette. It looked like a reception rather than a funeral. After what seemed an eternity both was in fact just 45 minutes, the singing stopped and men started to demolish the railing of the pavilion with the coffin. A lot of people approached and were given flowering branches or offerings from the pavilion after which they left the compound, as in a procession, and positioned themselves in front of the colorful tower outside. It was a bizarre cortege, little children as well as elderly people with walking sticks, passed by carrying flowers or small braided baskets. I saw an important man with a ritual spear, held in front of him and other men with roasted ducks or piglets on a stick.
At the end, the coffin was taken from under the cloth, lifted on a multitude of shoulders and carried outside while the music of the gamelan went crescendo. The coffin was lifted to the top of the tower, using manpower only, and fixed with bands of cloth as secure as possible. The priest and a few men stayed on top of the tower, some 5 meters (17 feet) above the ground. Then the procession started moving. The mobile gamelan orchestra as well. The deceased paid a last visit to his village.
At important crossroads the tower was turned around a few times. The traffic came to a standstill. By turning the tower, and also the coffin around, one hopes to confuse the deceased, thus preventing him from finding his way back home to haunt the living.
The locals calmly wait in their vehicles. No sound of horns, no shouting. Tomorrow might be your Upacara. We were the last to join the procession that went in the direction of the graveyard. Contrary to the Balinese Hindus, Chinese inhabitants of Bali are not cremated but buried in graves covered with colorful tombstones.

The statue of a big black bull was the first thing we saw once arrived at the cremation field.
The bull stood on a bamboo frame and the back was really a big lid that could be taken off.
A big group of men struggled to get the coffin out of the tower and into the bull. The lid was put back on. Fire was set to the decorated tower and the paper flowers, that had decorated the coffin, were thrown into the flames. I expected the bull to be put in the flames also. It did not happen that way.

Notwithstanding the heath, it was around noun, I felt a shiver when I noticed the gas canisters, partly hidden in the bushes some distance away from the bull…
Two thick hoses, that looked like brown snakes, ran from under the bushes to what seemed to be big high pressure cleaners. The sound of the music increased dramatically when the pressure cleaners suddenly spit fire. It were huge flame throwers. Time has not stood still in Bali and the traditional wood fires have been replaced by devices that make me think of dying people in bunkers on the Atlantic coastline and naked men with beards in Auschwitz.
But of course I am a bulé, a white man with too much imagination and no eye for progress.
Ten years ago a cremation took three to four hours. Nowadays it is over in an hour or so.
Time is money, also in Bali, also in the cremation business. It was macabre.
The bull was gone in seconds and the color of the smoke changed constantly.
After a few minutes only the base, made of green coconut stems, remained. They were placed parallel with a space of around 70cm (2.5ft) between them. That is where the half burnt bones of the deceased ended up, the scorched skull clearly visible.

Willy didn’t see a thing. She was sitting on the ground, safely hidden behind the backs of the spectators. Shivering I presume. The ‘undertakers’, in this case two young men with a piece of cloth tied around their heads, against the blistering heath, put a piece of corrugated iron over the stems, thus creating an oven, open at both ends. They regularly poked in it with long bamboo poles and from time to time one of them lifted up the lid and peeked inside, his hand as a little roof above his eyes. I don’t want to think about what he was controlling in there.
When the gas was turned off, we said goodbye to the family. The ceremony would go on until late at night and part of the ashes would be scattered in the sea near Sanur. The rest would be kept in the house temple.
On the way back home, we told Willy that we also would like to be cremated. She looked at us in disbelief. ‘When my father would be cremated, I would jump after him in the flames!’ she said.
She didn’t know that, until the beginning of the 20th century, the wives of a king indeed jumped in the flames at their husband’s cremation.

Romeo & Juliet, the Balinese way…

dirk weemaes

Snow White in Bedulu, an impression.

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 00:57:00 +0000

dirk weemaes

Snow White in Bedulu

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Fri, 22 May 2009 04:23:00 +0000

dirk weemaes

Swimming in the pool.

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Tue, 19 May 2009 06:04:00 +0000

Almost half a century ago, the village of my youth didn’t have a swimming pool and school swimming hadn’t been invented yet. The closest swimming pool was in Antwerp, 7 miles by bicycle, one way. Cycling home afterwards was torture; my legs felt heavy and numb.
The building was called ‘The Urban Swimming Basin’ and it had the smell of chlorine and the stale odor of wet clothing. You learned to swim by yourself in the shallow part of the pool. Hence everybody developed his own style; one more efficiently than the other. Because I had foot surgery as a baby and spent a long time with one leg in a plaster bandage, I got strong arm muscles by pulling myself up at the vertical bars of the playpen. My swimming style therefore was a combination of a breaststroke movement with the arms, and some unclear swabbing with the legs. I honestly thought I was swimming just like everybody else until, years later, the children had learned to swim at school. They left me behind with a few powerful leg movements. For years I messed about like that. Swimming wasn’t fun and it made my back and neck ache.
Gijs Kerkhoven, the father of Inge, Saar’s soul mate from high school, was the director of the municipal swimming pool in Hoogeveen, Drenthe, The Netherlands. He is retired now, but still swims almost daily. During a dinner party he once tried to convince me of the benefits of swimming, even for people with back problems. I’ve never forgotten that and have continued practicing the breaststroke.
Now, in Ubud, it is as if I’m getting closer to my goal. There seems to be coming some coordination in the movements and the pain in my neck and back is almost gone. I try to swim 500 meters every day: 3 times 10 laps of 15 meters and 4 more laps to reach my target distance.
After every 10 laps I relax by floating on my back. Just eyes and nose (and probably belly too, but I obviously cannot see that myself) above water. It is an Infiniti pool that tricks you into thinking that you will swim straight into the rice paddies.
The swallows, as Red Baron wannabees , come nose diving from behind me, almost caressing the top of my head and slightly touching the water when they pick up a floating insect. Much like the flat pebbles we used to throw, bouncing several time on the surface of a pond or lake.
As soon as I am on my back in the water the relaxation is complete. Just the pounding of my heart in my tympanic membranes, the warmth of the water and the apparent weightlessness.
A fetal experience.
When I open my eyes, I see the crowns of five palm trees and playful swallows that flash to and fro above me. At times when Made has just placed the offerings beside the pool, the smell of incense is added to all that. Add more zen and you start floating above the water.
Swimming will be my sport! Thanks Gijs.

dirk weemaes

A trip to Ambon

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Thu, 26 Mar 2009 10:00:00 +0000

We got up at 6 o'clock, checked out at Puri Santrian in Sanur and took a taxi to Ngurah Rai, Denpasar's International Airport.
The first part of our trip was with Garuda, the national airline. Destination: Ujung Pandang which is officially called Makassar. Nobody seems to use that name however.
A Boeing 737, clean, a small breakfast and a calm flight.
We had to change airlines in Ujung Pandang and needed to check in our luggage for the connecting flight to Ambon on the Moluccan Islands.
The name of the airline was 'Lion Air'.
'Must be a sister company of Ryan Air with a Chinese owner', I said to my wife, joking.
I shouldn't have pushed my luck.
The passengers for other flights were informed in a professional way that: "... passengers for flight GA752 with destination Manado are requested to board at Gate number 15". Or something like that.
Not so for our flight.
Around boarding time, at gate 14, our gate, a uniformed man started shouting 'AMBON!!!, AMBON!!!' and everybody rushed to the door. We started to realize that the procedures at Lion Air were slightly different from those at Garuda.
The publicity on the seats seemed to confirm my assumption regarding the owner of the airline and I couldn't help the image of a raised middle finger that popped up in my head. When we had to pay for our drinks we were sure to be on board a low budget carrier.
Why did they add a penalty clause (10 million Rupiah) to the 'Life vest under your seat'- card for theft of the life vest!? Who, for heaven's sake , would steal a life jacket?

Instead of the sickness bag, I found a folder with prayers for a safe landing.
An Islam-, Protestant-, Catholic-, Hindu- and Buddhist version was available.

All the praying helped because we landed without problems at 'Pattimura', Ambon's airport.
Even our suitcase had made it.
A man asked us if we were Saartje and Dirk. It was the driver of the 'Maluku Divers Resort' in Latuhalat where we had booked a room. He offered to go to the police station with our passports. After a few minutes he came back. The policemen had gone home. No stamp in our passports. We were illegal immigrants in the Propinsi Maluku Selatan.
It took us an hour to reach Latuhalat. 65 kilometers around the bay of Ambon in an air-conditioned car.
Ambon had changed a lot since our previous visit in 1996. Notably more motorcycles and becaks and even more hectic traffic.
Still many burned and deserted houses, churches and mosques, silent witnesses of the bloody civil war.
The driver told us the buildings were being 'renovated' but he didn't fool us. They had been completely destroyed and were being rebuilt.
We had to pay $25 for the trip.
The same trip with a bemo, a small bus used by the locals , would have cost $1.50.
In that case you don't have airco and are squeezed in a narrow space with your fellow passengers, their luggage and the goods and animals they will sell at the market. Deafening music and diesel fumes are free supplements.
The next day we would visit the small village of Allang. First a bemo to Ambon and then a slightly bigger bus to our destination.

Arrival at Puri Santrian, Sanur - Bali

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Wed, 25 Mar 2009 09:28:00 +0000

My wife was away to Jimbaran for the second day of her ‘Balinese Massage Techniques’- course. She had been picked up in Mercure Resort by the driver of the Spa that organized the training. It was our last day in that hotel and after changing some money I checked out and took a taxi to our next residence: the Puri Santrian Hotel in Sanur.

The room, really a small bungalow, was available at 2 p.m. After a light lunch of duck breast salad and a glass of chardonnay, I felt like having a little siesta. The bungalow had a porch at the front and you stepped right into the spacious bedroom. The bathroom had a bath and a shower and was clean.

When my wife arrived at the hotel around 3 p.m. and asked for the room number, she was given a telephone number instead. She was instructed to call the room. Room numbers were not just given to anybody. I was harshly awakened by the ringing of the phone. My wife said ‘Hello Mister, it’s me…’ Still half asleep, I hadn’t recognized her voice, especially since she had spoken with a sultry voice to make fun of me. I mumbled something like: ‘… yes, who is this?’ and when I finally realized who I was talking to, she gave up her little charade and asked me to pick her up at the lobby. I told her I was having a little nap and didn’t feel like getting dressed to go to the reception. ‘You just go out, turn right, room 150’, I said and closed my eyes again.

She must have double checked the location of room 150 because a receptionist had asked her: ‘He is your boyfriend, ya?’ My wife had replied, somewhat embarrassed, ‘No, no, he is my husband!’. The man apologized and instructed another staff member to accompany her to room 150.

I must have been so sleepy that I had left the key in the lock at the outside.

My wife’s chaperone, with Balinese galantery, opened the door for her and stepped aside to let her enter the room.

The first thing they both saw was yours truly, stretched out on the bed, wearing nothing but his briefs.

You could see the man think: ‘yeah right…’

With a scornful glance at yet another decadent pervert, he swiftly turned around and hurried away.

I had established my reputation and it was not brilliant.

We had booked 5 nights in Puri Santrian.

Time for a charm offensive.

dirk weemaes

An eventful pedicure

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 14:21:00 +0000

My wife is taking a 3-day course in Balinese massage at a Spa in Jimbaran, a half an hour drive from our hotel in Sanur.

We already paid them a visit to get to know each other and to discuss the training possibilities. Since we were there anyway, it would have been unwise not to take some kind of treatment. All in the name of business research.

Saar decided to have a manicure and pedicure; it would take one and a half hours. So I thought “What can happen to me after my Hot Herbal Ball experience?” and decided to have a mani-pedi too.

I know, it sounds a little “gayish” but here’s the deal:

• you either sit there watching the grass grow with a cup of (oh so) sweet ginger tea, more irritated by the minute;

• or you put your faith in the capable hands of elegant Balinese girls for 90 minutes.

Not a difficult choice.

Nobody but my wife ever gave me a pedicure or a manicure.

I have been her guinea pig all through wellness training.

For her a pedicure is not just another treatment; it is a quasi-religious act. Or so it seems.

Just the meticulous positioning of the instruments takes five minutes. Scissors, scalpels, brushes, flasks with unknown content, cotton tips and a big selection of undefined, sharp objects. Most of the time she also slips into a pair of disposable surgical gloves to let you know that this is not going to be fun.

The result has always been very satisfying, and (until now) she just clipped my nails, never my skin.

The routine in this Spa was slightly different.

For starters we had to leave our slippers outside and enter the treatment room barefooted.

I could see the disbelief on Saar’s face.

“But this is unbelievable”, she said“ and I just knew a lecture on fungi would be next.

We were seated next to each other and got a foot bath in a small, plastic bucket.

Then two young ladies in traditional clothing sat down in front of us on strongly colored ,plastic tabourets. Instruments in small, enamel trays, beside them on the cement floor.

“If my toenails needed clipping?”, my pedicure asked.

Why, in the name of all Balinese Gods, was I sitting there if they did not need clipping!?

Anyway. “Yes please”, I answered and she immediately attacked my toenails with an oversized nail clipper.

I could hear the hissing sound of air, inhaled through tightly clenched teeth next to me, but did not look at my wife. Instead I closely monitored my toes.

After a while girl number 2 replaced girl number 1 and continued working on foot number 1.

The lady owner dropped in from time to time and at one of those occasions gave an instruction in Balinese to one of the girls. The girl hurried away and soon came back with Madame’s glasses.

She planted herself on the stool in front of me, took a nail file and…,

“You are bleeding”, she said. She hardly touched me!

In all honesty I have to admit that I had a small wound on that toe that had taken a long time to heal.

She tried to stanch the bleeding without success and gave an instruction in Balinese to one of the girls.

I clearly recognized the word “alcohol”.

“Is it painful?” she enquired.

What else could I do, amidst all those women, but to sit quietly, as if I was used to much more than a little blood and a little pain.

Was it in compensation for the inflicted wound or did she mean it, fact is that Madame was informing everyone in the room that Mister’s feet were incredibly soft and that he hardly had any callosity.

In the meantime the afternoon had passed and a fluorescent lamp was brought in.

I guess it had become difficult to distinguish one toe from the other. Madame had been replaced by girl number 3 that gave me a foot and calf massage. A well earned reward.

The manicure and hand massage did not bring unexpected surprises. I just got pampered a little longer because Saar’s nails had to be polished.

Why I have been treated by 4 ladies and Saar by only one will remain a mystery forever.

According to her, the job had to be divided among 4 girls because my feet are so heavy and coarse.

I have experienced the gentle pressure of the hands and the rhythmic movement of the massage.

I have seen the expression in those dark eyes, each time they asked: “Do you like it Mister?”, so I know better.

When I close my eyes I can still see them fight in the backroom over who could treat Mister’s feet next.

“Soft as a baby’s skin”, that’s what Madame said.

I wonder when Saar will have to go there again and whether I’ll be allowed to accompany her.

Do nails grow faster in a tropical climate?

I’ll have to google that.

dirk weemaes

Tanah Lot

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Mon, 19 Jan 2009 13:02:00 +0000

Sometimes you just have to be a tourist for a while and visit one of the highlights, nothing wrong about that.

One of the places every visitor of Bali goes to is the temple of Tanah Lot, on a small island, 100 meters from the shore.

Since we didn't have lunch yet, we decided to go to Seminyak first. A village on Bali's west coast that has become 'the place to be' in recent years. A lot of new villas and a main street that everybody calls 'Jalan Makan'. [Jalan = Road and Makan = Eat]. One restaurant next to the other. One of them has been opened by a Belgian guy a year ago and is called 'Mannekepis'. [manneke(n) = little man in Flemish and, by the way, the origin of the word 'mannequin', pis = what you think it is. The small statue of this naughty little man is one of the tourist attractions of Brussels.]

They serve delicious steaks and stewed meat as well as nasi goreng and ikan bakar (fried fish). I ordered the scampi fritti with home made tartar sauce and a Leffe Blonde. Saar had the roasted sardines. Jazz and blues music in the background. Too loud in Saar's opinion, exactly right for me. I have older and, probably, more worn out ears.

The Bluebird taxi we hailed after lunch, was driven by a younger version of our brother-in-law Apeth. A skilled, discrete driver who brought us to Tanah Lot and waited for the drive back home. Tanah Lot turned out to be a Hindu place of pilgrimage with vendors, small shops and other commercial activity as could be expected. The worshippers where all dressed in white, and there were a lot of them. A sea of white. On our way to the ideal photo spot, Saar was approached by a little girl that was selling pencils. She looked a little like our niece Céline.

Saar was immediately softened up. She, who will scream and yell at the first suspicion of child labor, was ready to be caught in the trap.

The girl was professionally trained and started by asking:

"Please buy, only twenty thousand".

(cute, funny but also pitiful smile + Bambi eyes)

I gave the expected answer: "No, thank you. Too expensive".

(again that cute smile, inquiring, the charming little head tilted at the correct angle)

"Your price?"

"Twelve thousand"

"No, Eighteen"

"O.K. Fifteen"

"Just a minute"

(a short conversation with the mother in Balinese)

"O.K."

(cute smile and fast exchange of pencils and money)

Then it was mammies turn. She tried to sell postcards. Just 20.000 Rupiah she asked with a smile that seemed vaguely familiar. She was not bad looking but not cute either. She lost that sales weapon years ago. So, no sale. On our way back to the car Saar realised she had fallen for the oldest trick in the book and that she was a collaborator in the exploitation of a child. She was disgusted and and angry at herself.

I had spotted the two pythons, at least ten feet each, immediately. They crawled on the grass and everybody was taking pictures. "Don't let her see them", I thought, " or all hell will break loose!" It is common knowledge that all Sabandar women suffer from severe Ophidiophobia, fear of snakes. Saar's mother never vacuumed the house for fear of the hose. Even the word 'snake' was taboo in rumah Sabandar. The 's'-word inevitably resulted in irrational and high volume behaviour. I expected a scream that would chase the white masses into the sea.

Fortunately, the drama was limited to "...are they completely out of their minds!!!", under her breath with a quivering, angry voice and switching to fifth gear to get away from there as quickly as she could.

'Apeth' brought us home safe and sound.

dirk weemaes

The witch

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Sun, 04 Jan 2009 12:41:00 +0000

You will stumble upon a small temple when walking in the garden of the Mercure Resort in Sanur.

A little neglected, somewhat messy even. In other words: exactly the way a small Balinese temple is supposed to look.

I have always pictured the witch in Grimm’s Hansel and Gretel story as an old, malicious looking, little women with a kerchief and a thick wart on her fat nose. Crooked and bent, leaning on a walking stick. The last time I saw her was in a theme park in Holland, called ‘De Efteling’. Our children were still small then, so it is a long time ago.

She must have been expelled from Holland because of excessive drug abuse, since I found her in this little temple in Sanur. Her ‘total makeover’ must have been done locally. It was not a good job. Someone had transplanted the wart to her forehead but that was not enough to fool this keen observer.

I recognized her immediately and she still had that malicious look in her eyes.

She even has some kind of godly status in Bali now, judging from the fact that her feet were buried in offerings.

Unfortunately, she also seems to have a bad influence on the other gods, and there are a lot of them on Bali, ‘the Island of the Gods’.

I caught one of them red handed with an almost finished joint in his mouth.

The picture is proof.

Tags van Technorati: witch,Grimm,efteling,temple,bali

dirk weemaes

Warm Herbal Ball Massage

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 14:02:00 +0000

“Now we’re here, I really would like to learn an additional massage technique” Saar said. Sounded like a good plan to me.

“A 2 hour training only costs 400.000 Rupiah and you get a free massage, an English manual and a selection of herbs to practice at home; a bargain isn’t it? And you get a certificate on top of that!”.

That was only 30 euro and you got your money’s worth it seemed.

“And what technique are you going to learn?” I asked, interested as always.

“The ‘Warm Herbal Ball Massage’”, she answered. “ …and I’ll practice on you after the course”.

Why did I hear the film score of ‘American Pie’ all of a sudden?

Who she would practice on during the training remained unanswered.

“Oh well, if I can help you, of course you can practice on me”, I said, trying my best to sound as neutral as possible.

During ‘Madame’s’ training, yes they call her Madame here, I floated on my back in our private little pool, fantasizing about how the massage would be. With herbs? Warm? It lasts and hour? Wouldn’t that be painful?

She returned very enthusiastic and accompanied by my masseuse of the day before who carried an oversized steamer. Normally water is boiled in the bottom part, allowing steam to come through holes in the bottom of the top part. It sounds complicated but it actually isn’t. You prepare a perfectly steamed rice in it. I got a little suspicious and asked what the steamer was for.

It was for warming the herbs that Saar was chopping; that’s what I was told anyway. I wisely withdrew to the air-conditioned bedroom.

After dinner we came to the point of no return. In the half open dining room, Saar had transformed the dining table into a massage table, using cushions and bathroom towels. The humongous steamer was simmering on the stove. It made a threatening noise. I was summoned to the treatment, wearing just the linen kimono of which two were available for the guests in each villa.

“You’ll take that off before laying on the table”, Saar instructed.

“And then, in the open air, naked on that table?” I muttered.

“Nobody will see you! Do you really think they will come barging in like that? And no, they will not go peeking over the wall. As a matter of fact, the non-treated parts will be covered by a towel. Don’t be a sissy and hurry up”, I was told.

The non-treated parts will be covered. Oh my! In other words: the parts that will be treated will be there, completely exposed, for the world to admire! Nice. Fortunately, my non-treated red face will be under a towel when they come to return the laundry or do the turn down service.

“Come on now, on the table”, Saar insisted, with a slight irritation in her voice.

My morning enthusiasm had evaporated like the water in the gigantic ‘dandang’ (Indonesian for ‘steamer’). I hoisted myself on the table and lay flat on my back. A sheep on the slaughter-bench.

“Not on your back, on your belly first”, said my wife, dressed in a sarong for the occasion. “On my belly!” I thought, “but how will she do?”

I meekly turned over. Towels were draped over me.

“Are you ready for it?” she asked. I just mumbled something because my face was buried in the cushion. “A lucky coincidence” I thought. “This will allow me to scream as loud as I want when she starts applying those hot herbs.”

The towel was pulled back and I braced myself for the inevitable.

A warm pressure. As if a big, round, soft stamp was pressed on my back. Quite pleasant. The stamp explored the whole of my back, my legs, arms, neck and, let us call it ‘my lower back”; then I had to turn over.

The stamp proved to be a piece of cloth in which the herbs had been packed like a piece of candy in its wrapper. That parcel was then placed in the steamer to warm up and be used for the relaxing massage.

“Didn’t I make nice ‘Herbal Balls’?”, my loving wife asked.

“Yes”, I answered, “very nice!”, and shut my eyes, fully enjoying part two of the ‘Warm Herbal Ball Massage’.

dirk weemaes

Honeymoon Package

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Thu, 01 Jan 2009 14:01:00 +0000

The ‘Special Honeymoon Package’ in Aston Legend Villas was promising and proved surprising. It included a complimentary ‘Lomé Lomé’ (Hawaiian) massage for two. I have not been massaged by anyone but Carlos, my physiotherapist and Saar, my wife. So I admit I was a little excited when we entered the spa pavilion. A rather chubby Balinese beauty welcomed us. During the intake chat we savored a refreshing ginger drink.

I told her about my back problems and she strongly advised against the ‘Lomé Lomé’ massage. “… because we use this one!”, she said, pointing at her impressive elbow. It didn’t take more than that to convince me to change to another type of massage. Saar also seemed to have understood her body language loud and clear and we both switched to the ‘Balinese Warm Aromatherapy Massage’ with ginger oil.

Our hostess instructed a young, shyly smiling assistant to warm the oil.

We were left alone in the treatment room. A sarong and ‘one-size-fits-all’ throw away knickers for both of us. After changing and a knock on the door the two women, who would be spoiling us for the next hour, came in. We had to sit on a wooden bench and got a warm foot bath and heavenly foot massage. Why didn’t it surprise me that our hostess directed me to her treatment table and not to that of her young assistant? The sarong covered us and was delicately removed from the spot that was treated. The massage was intensely relaxing until a few firm jolts transformed my knickers into a tight thong and my masseuse started to work my buttocks and inner thighs. Because I was laying with my head down and my nose in a hole in the table, I couldn’t see whether or not Saar was giving the same treatment. I had a flashback of the ‘Friends’ episode where Ross visited Joey’s tailor who had a rather original method to measure the length of one’s trousers. I kept repeating the same mantra, in my head, over and over again: “This is what masseuses do!, this is what masseuses do!, …” and stayed put bravely, yet slightly cramped. Saar didn’t utter a sound so, after I while, I assumed everything was done the way it should be.

For some strange reason I was nonetheless happy that I hadn’t switched to the ‘Warm Herbal Ball Massage’.

Back in the villa the ‘Complimentary Fruit Platter’ awaited us. It consisted of two small red apples and an orange. I my imagination it had been an enormous bowl with at least a ripe pineapple, some mangoes and a watermelon of a respectable size. The honeymoon cake also wasn’t what I had expected it to be. It was a tiny bright pink, heart shaped piece pastry, on top of which the baker had written an appropriate text, in chocolate letters. It was a little difficult to decipher but, no doubt, penned with the best intentions.

It looked like this: Happ

y birth

day

Tags van Technorati: massage,bali,hotel

dirk weemaes

About koki, supir and tukang kebun

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 12:45:00 +0000

At first sight the title above seems to be written in Gibberish. That is, for people living outside of Indonesia and Malaysia. The only thing I did was use some words in ‘Bahasa Indonesia’, the standard language of Indonesia.

Because of the Dutch colonization, many Dutch words were readily taken into the Indonesian language.

The title has two of them: ‘koki’ is derived from the Dutch word ‘kok’ which means ‘cook’ and a ‘supir’ is a chauffeur.

In Indonesia it is not exceptional to employ house staff. It is not at all a privilege of the elite. Nevertheless it takes some time to get used to the idea. When you are confronted with this aspect of life for the first time, you have of a guilty feeling. Anyway, I had. I constantly said to myself : “ This is the 21st century man, not the time of colonization! You are not one of those stately gentlemen in white linen suits and tropical helmets having a gin and tonic on the porch with servants, subserviently looking from a distance”.

Although our guesthouse will be small, we will be expected to hire staff. Well educated collaborators but also people from the village for jobs as gardener or security guard. A rule of thumb to determine the number of people you need is 1.6 employees per room. In our case that will be 6 to 7 people.

By hiring people you create a little purchasing power and get involved in the local community of which you became a part. Of course you have to make choices. We heard the story of someone that wanted to have a swimming pool in his garden. To dig the pool he had two choices. He either could hire a bobcat that would do the trick in a day or two, or het could hire 15 unqualified workers that would need 14 days to finish the job. In the former case you chose fastness of execution, in the latter case you provide an income to 15 families, however low it may seem according to Western standards. A modest contribution maybe but nonetheless worth considering.

Another thing you are expected to do is deposit a small amount of money in the local bank of the Banjar where you live. This bank gives small loans to members of the Banjar. When you move and leave the Banjar, you get your money back. It is a kind of microcredit that seems to have a long history in Bali. You also have to pay an annual contribution to the Banjar. It is a way of expressing that you want to be part of it. In exchange, the Banjar will regulate traffic and provide security when you have a party for example. The local, historical government structures have a lot of power and the central government has to take this into account. Nothing will be done without consulting the traditional power structures.

Bali is, in many ways, an outsider in Indonesia. Not only because of the special style of government and execution of power, but also, for example, because 93% of the population is Hindu in the country with the largest Muslim population in the world. You also have a cast system which is respected until today. Every house has its house temple and wherever you go, you will see small, braided baskets with offerings of rice, fruit, incense sticks, flowers etc. You have to take into account that your collaborators will be frequently absent to attend religious ceremonies. The cremation of two members of the royal family in July 2008 f.e. grinded the public life in Ubud to a halt and got worldwide attention.

Tags van Technorati: colonization,banjar,microcredit,bali,cast system,ubud,guesthouse

dirk weemaes

The child has a name!

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Tue, 30 Dec 2008 17:39:00 +0000

So we would start a small guesthouse. Then the child needed to have a name. A lot of the small hotels or guesthouses in Bali are called “ Villa So-and-So” where “So-and-So” has to be replaced by some exotic name. “Villa Hibiscus”, “Villa Cempaka”, “Villa Mahayani”, … So we could hardly call our little paradise “Misty Cliffs” or “Summer Willows”. We needed something oriental and a tad mysterious.

We have two, one hundred and fifty years old, frangipani trees in the garden. We therefore initially were considering “Villa Frangipani”. My wife liked that name. The name reminded me strongly of the frangipane cake of my youth. So no, not “Villa Frangipani.

(to the left a picture of a frangipani flower)

At the left side, after entering the gate we have a cloves tree. Cloves in Bahasa Indonesia is "Cengkeh" and it is one of the typical Moluccan spices. How about "Villa Cengkeh"? We imagined how this name would ne massacred by the different language groups and left this idea for what it was.

It should not only be a name with a high Multatuli content, but also one that everybody would pronounce more or less in the same way.

Back to the drawing board.

“Our house” in the dialect of Allang is “Luma Ité”. “Villa Luma Ité”? We thought it would be a nice idea to have a link to the Moluccan roots of my wife. I was not convinced and continued surfing to look for the ultimate name.

One of the most well known and most exclusive places in Bali is the "Amandari Hotel". It is where Rod Stewart married for the Xth time and Trina, one of the masseuses has pampered the Beckhams, Demi Moore, David Copperfield and Jimmy Carter. The step from Amandari to Sabandari was small and obvious. My wife’s family name is Sabandar. I immediately liked it and learned to always respect inspirations with a gut feeling.

It had an oriental ring to it, was easy to pronounce and had a link with the Moluccan islands. The sound affinity with he Amandari was a lucky coincidence.

At the beginning, Saar found it a little odd but she soon changed her mind. The Sabandars are notorious for their vanity but in a pleasant way.

The “Sabandar” name is very old and means something like “harbor master”; you recognize “Shah”, meaning king or master and “Bandar” which signifies harbor in Bahasa Indonesia, Malay and Persian.

The child had a name.

"... In this disposition of mind towards us, they had come to a determination to seize our house, and to send all our people prisoners to the top of a high rock, the consent only of the sabandar being a-wanting for taking possession of our goods, though some even began to take our goods forcibly. On the arrival of the sabandar, Mr. Spalding waited upon him, and remonstrated upon the unjust conduct of the islanders in taking away our goods, craving his protection. The sabandar then said, that the islanders were resolved we should not do as the Hollanders had done, and were therefore resolved to make all the English prisoners; for the ship was gone, and our intentions seemed bad towards them."

From "Fourth Voyage of the English East India Company, in 1608, by Captain Alexander Sharpey

Tags van Technorati: frangipani,Moluccas,Multatuli,Sabandar,Sabandari,Bali,Ubud,guesthouse,hotel

dirk weemaes

Between Ubud and Peliatan

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Sun, 21 Dec 2008 15:51:00 +0000

We visited our friends in Sanur. They left Belgium two years ago, a decision they did not regret at all. They were the ‘mystery guests” that made an evaluation of ‘Mandala Desa’ for us.

We reported about the failure of our project.

They suggested we should talk to a Belgian man who had been living in Bali for a long time, knew the island well and definitely would give us advice. His house, close to Ubud, was said to be for sale.

We made an appointment and had a nice conversation with an extravert and open person, who told us one anecdote after the other about his life in Bali. It was correct that he considered to sell his house and we agreed to have a look at the property the next day.

After lunch he brought us to his house in Peliatan, a few minutes from the centre of Ubud. At the end of the main road you turn three quarters of the roundabout and take a narrow road that brings you to a temple (picture). Then a steep path further up the hill. Our new friend parked his 4x4 in front of a gate in Balinese style.

The property was surrounded by walls at three sides. A traditional Balinese compound would be completely walled to keep evil spirits out. We entered the gate and I heard from my wife’s reaction that the search was over. She didn’t even try to hide her enthusiasm.

The sawah (= rice field) view was fantastic, the buildings were new and a tasteful mix of modern and Balinese elements. The garden was young but promising.

The infinity pool seemed to end in the rice paddies.

The owner also had long term leases for the neighboring plots of land to the left and right of the house. In my imagination I already pictured a private house on one of the plots. After a short guided tour and a cold beer we had a deal. We also bought one of the neighboring plots. The owner would build a new house for himself on the other parcel of land. We would have a Belgian neighbor at one side and a Balinese temple at the other side.

Our last week in Bali would be challenging: find a reliable notary and a good architect.

Tags van Technorati: ubud,peliatan,hotel,guesthouse,rice paddies,bali

dirk weemaes

Back to where we started

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Sun, 14 Dec 2008 15:44:00 +0000

Even at the end of the rainy season, pouring tropical showers are no exception. We enjoyed a lot of them during our stay at 'Mandala Desa'. The rains came down violently. The deluge didn't last long however and the raindrops felt warm. After the rain it smelled pleasantly petrichor and it was much cooler.

We were assigned the villa at the end of the compound with a nice, rice paddy view. Sitting on our porch, we quietly observed the duckherd, watching his free-grazing flock feed in the uncultivated rice paddy. The herder guided his badelynge by signaling, using a long stick with flags at the top. During the showers he found shelter in a small bale in the middle of the fields. The ducks flapped, clattered and quacked and nervously ran from left to right. Most of them would end as 'bebek betutu' (roasted duck), a typical Balinese dish.

I ordered it twice at 'The Dragonfly', the restaurant of the owners of 'Mandala Desa' in Ubud. So it must have been good.

I thought 'Mandala Desa' was a fantastic little hotel. Halfway between the airport, Denpasar, Sanur and so on in the south, and Ubud in the centre of Bali. Half an hour's drive from what is, for us westerners, civilization.

You can see volcanoes in the distance when the weather is clear. All calm and quiet in 'splendid isolation'.

We brainstormed a lot about the next steps. The financial analysis was not very inspiring to say the least. We wouldn't get rich but that was not what we had expected either. It was our intention to live off what the exploitation would generate and earn a little extra to travel back to Belgium from time to time.

What we didn't like was the lack of privacy. There wasn't a secluded part of the garden that we could reserve for ourselves. We therefore had taken the decision to negotiate with the proprietor about the sale of the 2400 sqy of land behind the hotel on which our private home could be constructed. We would then kill two birds with one stone: more privacy and more rooms to rent out. I already had made a fair estimate of the worth of the plot of land and the real estate agent would come that afternoon to assist with the negotiations. I was ready for battle.

I looked outside and saw my wife sitting on the porch. She stared at something in the distance for minutes and didn't look well at all. I asked her what was wrong. If she felt ill. She didn't reply immediately. I insisted until she finally whispered: "I could not to be happy here. The silence is depressing and we are so far from the real world. When we won't have guests, we will be all alone..."

I never saw that one coming. It was a cold shower. The whole trip, all plans and ideas flushed away instantly. That's how it felt in the first instance anyway. I didn't take long to convince myself that this was the type of decision we had to take together in complete agreement; without a shadow of doubt. Otherwise the project would be a stillborn disaster. The plan was aborted and we were back to where we started.

Tags van Technorati: bali,ubud,hotel,travel

dirk weemaes

Let the dreaming begin!

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 10:01:00 +0000

'Mandala Desa', the small hotel that was for sale, was fully booked at the beginning of our trip. We therefore first stayed at 'Puri Kelapa' in Sanur, a resort that consists of houses in Balinese style, in a tropical garden with a nice, common swimming pool. We rented a small house with a bedroom, a bathroom and a terrace for $US30 per night; this price even included breakfast! Very basic and not really the cleanest place we had ever seen, but what could we expect for a price like that. No wonder we met people from Holland who had been spending a couple of months there for the past 15 years.

The real estate agent picked us up on the second day of our stay and brought us to 'Mandala Desa' in Batuan, a 30 minutes drive.

The owners turned out to be Americans and also had a restaurant in Ubud. We got a guided tour and at the end the statements of account that I had asked for.

The property had 2 two story houses and two villas. The owners lived on the 1st floor of one of the houses. The ground floor was taken by the kitchen, a reception area, a staff room and a small shop. The other house had a 'garden, suite' on the ground floor and a 'view suite', looking out over the rice paddies on the 1st floor.

The two villas were identical, each one completely surrounded by walls and with a bale in the garden. A bale is a kiosk-like pavilion where you can eat, read or relax, sheltered from sun or rain. The villas had a large terrace, a sitting/bedroom and a bathroom with an open-air shower. Nice rice paddy view and two volcanoes in the distance when the weather was clear.

In the hotel garden: a 16" x 32" pool and several bales for eating or relaxing. The owners showed us another piece of land (2400sqy), behind the hotel that was not included in the selling price. The hotel had trained employees: cook, gardener, cleaning staff, driver and security guards. It was a going concern waiting for us to take over. We were thrilled. A few days later we would be staying at 'Mandala Desa'.

The dreaming could begin!

Tags van Technorati: hotel,bali,batuan,ubud,bale

dirk weemaes

How it all started

noreply@blogger.com (dirk) — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 15:39:00 +0000

The past years have been tough. Health issues caused a severe mental blow. Personal problems with my business partner led to a stalemate that could have been fatal to the company that we had built in the previous 20 years. A Solomon’s judgment was needed to prevent the company from going bankrupt and approximately fifty employees from losing their jobs.

During the long Ascension weekend of 2007, I decided to sell my 50% share in the company. On July 7, 2007, I was unemployed for the first time in 30 years. So what!? I would take a Sabbatical. It’s trendy and it sounds good to say, in a casual way: “I am on a Sabbatical…”

Meditate, do some reading, some gardening, do long-postponed chores, a little cycling, great! Right? The first weeks: sure. A long holiday. Fantastic! But beware! No physical activity, or my back went out, the crutches had to come out of the cupboard the doses Perdolan, Diclofenac and Zantac needed to be increased. The Belgian weather was no advantage either. But who cared!? Meditate and read and meditate and … After 6 weeks you are as Zen as a Tibetan monk and you can’t come near a book without screaming.

I knew that I had to do something. But what? Study? Start a new venture? Look for a job?… It was quickly clear to me that I did not want to have anything to do with the business world anymore. I had seen what that could do to a person. At 53, after 20 years of having been my own boss, go work for someone else? Not such a good idea. Study? My short term memory has had better times; therefore I’d better let that cup pass from me.

My wife’s ancestors lived in a small village in Indonesia, on Ambon, one of the Moluccan islands. We had visited that village ten years before, with the children, and had seen in what circumstances the family lived. Why couldn’t I try to change that? Wouldn’t it be possible to use my import/export experience to raise their standard of living in one way or the other? The Moluccas have been known for centuries as 'The Spice Islands’. This is where, at the time of the V.O.C., the Dutch got their cloves and nutmeg from. Up to today these spices are the only source of cash income for the local population. And then I had it!

I could set up a Fair Trade initiative: buy the spices at an honest price and sell them directly abroad. No middlemen to pocket the margins and profits that could go to nobody but the growers. This meant I had to study after all because I did not know the first thing about spices. The world of Fair Trade was also new to me. But at least there was some light at the end of the tunnel.

Until one day (in her case `one night’) S. read something on the Internet.

"A small hotel for sale” in Bali, not far from Ubud. It looked great, the price seemed better than could be expected. S. could put her training (massage, manicure, pedicure, company management…) into practice, I could manage the business and work on my Fair Trade project. We could contribute to the well-being of the local population by creating jobs and giving training. The warm climate and daily swimming would be a blessing for my back. We could offer a holiday address to the family. Etc., etc. The arguments she fired at me nearly knocked me out.

We started our homework by asking a Belgian couple, that had been living in Bali for a while, to stay in the hotel as `mystery guests’ to get a first impression. It felt more Fawlty Towerish by the day. The verdict was positive. We took a buying option and bought two tickets to Denpasar.

Tags van Technorati: sabbatical,moluccas,spice islands,ambon,bali,fair trade,hotel

dirk weemaes