In the past few days, I feel like I have done a whole lot of
nothing. In contrast, I feel that I have experienced so many crazy things, my
brain hurts. To summarize: my computer crashed, leaving the hard drive “toast,”
according to Paul; I broke a toe, bruised my shin and wound up with a flu-like
bug; I received amazing V.I.P. treatment one day and unbelievable curb-drop
service from the same company a few days later; Paul and I sat through the
craziest date night dinner and I witnessed mind-blowing security features that
made me get out my camera. Did I mention that all of this happened in Bali ?
When Paul invited me to accompany him for a work-related
long weekend in Bali , I never once considered
refusing the offer. I first visited Bali last
October when I finally experienced the true meaning of the word “paradise.”
Two girlfriends and I stayed on the island’s west coast in a
town called Canggu (pronounced Chan-goo). We stayed in a villa where staff
prepared meals, cleaned the entire villa grounds and chauffeured us around the
island, showing us all of the great western tourist spots. We enjoyed massages,
a yoga retreat and a couple local tours. It was a fab trip.
This time, Paul and I decided to simply relax. It was one of
those vacations when we had no intention of ever leaving hotel grounds. We
stayed on the southern peninsula in Nusa Dua along the east coast, just minutes
from the point where an ocean greeted us on three sides.
We did not partake in tours; we did not sign up for any
special classes (though I did make two attempts at cooking classes). We did,
however, enjoy a lot of quality time by the pool, by the beach and in bed. Yes,
that’s right, we napped. Naptime is sacred, even in Bali .
Paul left Thursday and, on Friday, flew the aircraft from Malaysia to Indonesia . I met him for dinner
Friday. When I landed in Bali , I received the
following text from Paul:
“A young Indonesian man named XXXX will meet you as you get
off the airplane. He is our handler here and will escort you through
immigration and bring you to me.”
I laughed out loud. I just kept thinking it read something
like, “I am so important that I sent a local man out to fetch me a wife. He
will bring you to me.”
Sure enough, when I got to a common area, a man was holding
a sign with my name. I raised my arm and made eye contact. He smiled, nodded
and then gave me the V.I.P. treatment. I followed him passed the long
“Foreigner” lines and headed straight to baggage claim while someone else took
care of my passport stamp and entrance fees. I felt so important and
celebrity-like.
The man helped me with my bags and, just as Paul had stated,
took me to where Paul was waiting in a café alongside the terminal. When I left
Bali , I did not receive the same treatment as
I was promised. Instead, a man dropped me off at the curb and then asked me for
money to pay the ticket he obtained when arriving at the airport. Not cool.
When the handler and I were close to where Paul was waiting,
an older local man came up to me, wide-eyed and smiling, and said, “I am Dude,”
pronounced Doo-day. I extended my hand to shake his, looked confused and kept
walking. When he followed and then came alongside me, again stating his name, I
clutched my bag closer under my arm so there was less of a gap exposing my
valuables.
Once I was inside the café and the man was introducing
himself to Paul, I started to understand that this man owned the company that
assisted Paul with all of his flight needs. Now it makes sense. The man was
great – he even invited us to join him and his wife for dinner at a beachside
seafood restaurant the following evening.
When Paul and I arrived at the hotel, we took a moment to
stand on the balcony. For the first time in a long time, I looked out and saw
stars. The next two days were pretty similar – we had a lazy morning, ate a
breakfast consisting of eggs and breads, read poolside and explored the local
beach clubs and shopping center.
I guided us to a beach that Paul initially thought was
private, nervous that we would not be allowed to enter. We quickly surmised
that this, instead, must be the local beach. I was surprised at how many people
were in the water fully clothed. As I was focusing my attention on these
people, I was quickly stunned as a boy within feet from my face bent straight
over and pulled off his pants, exposing his underwear in my direct sight line.
We took a few great photos (not of the boy with his pants
down):
To the right, we noticed an area where water was crashing up
against the rocks, sometimes shooting well above the tree lines. “Thunder
Hole!” I shouted and pointed, remembering our days in Bar
Harbor , Maine ’s Acadia National Park .
We decided to get a closer look and came across “Water Blow,” a place that
apparently discouraged visitors, though no one seemed phased by the attempt to
block the entrance.
High-energy tourists walked out onto the long, windy decks
to stand in the kill zone. Some kids also gathered on the grass nearby in
another wave hot spot. When we attempted to get some action photos, even we
were surprised by the waves crashing in and spraying us all over. Needless to
say, we needed another shower before dinner.
We enjoyed the dinner with Dude and his wife, along with
another expat couple consisting of a pilot husband and dula wife living in Hong Kong . The atmosphere was pretty great – tables lined
the beach, allowing us to bury our feet in the sand all night long. The seafood
was grilled in a tiny building on the road that blew the smoke out onto the
beach. Imagine this one event times 50 restaurants lined from one end of the
shoreline to the other.
Since we could not obtain dinner reservations anywhere else
Sunday evening, Trip Advisor and the hotel staff suggested another beachside
restaurant called Menega located on the same strip as the evening before. Paul
and I arranged for a taxi and headed off for our 6 p.m. reservation. The taxi
driver, however, has other plans.
He literally drives into a restaurant and parks in an area I
would think is for pedestrians only. Two people greet us under a large,
colorful sign that reads, “Matahari.” Paul and I look at each other. I get out
and ask the man where Menega is. He looks confused and acts like he has never
heard of the place. “But we have a reservation at Menega,” I hear Paul say.
“This place has the same food,” the taxi driver replies.
“But we have a reservation at the other place.”
Paul and I consider getting another taxi when this guy
concedes and agrees to take us to the original location. We have to help him
get there.
When we arrive, no one asks our name, a man just tells us
that there are no tables available outside. The only place we can sit is inside
an open-air room filled with smoke from the barbeque area. Why these people
don’t grill outside instead of in an enclosed area where the smoke fills the
windows, I will never know.
After 10 minutes of being ignored, we are offered two seats
at a table for six where three other people are sitting. We are told we can
wait there until another table is available but someone took our order and
brought us our drinks.
About 40 minutes into the time, before any food has arrived,
we are offered the option to move. I probably rolled my eyes when the guy made
the offer but Paul wanted to get as far away from the smoke as possible so we
move further down the beach. We land at a small table on the edge of the beach
– front row seats lit only by candle light.
While we are waiting and waiting and
waiting for our food, we spot people carrying something that we first think is
an ice cream cone, then maybe something like a corn dog and finally believe to
be corn on the cob. When we move, we spot the vendor, grilling sweet and spicy
versions of cob corn over hot coals – right in front of the restaurants. Since
we were at the restaurant for about two hours, had to ask about our food twice
and beg for water on more than two occasions, we each purchased a cob and
credited the man’s genius.
More than 30 minutes after we
received our plates of nasi goreng sans sambal, Paul hunted down a member of
the wait staff to check on the status of our food. We were missing a calamari
appetizer, a jumbo prawn main and a grouper. We never got the grouper. We decided we would only come back for the
sweet corn.
One of the craziest things I observed
during our stay was the security at the hotel. Paul had told me that Marriotts
were targets for terrorists because of the number of western visitors; a
Marriott in Thailand
was bombed a few years ago. I just shrugged it off until we pulled into the
hotel grounds.
When any vehicle approaches the
entrance, one large gate is lifted and then closed behind the vehicle,
entrapping it between two gates. At least three security guards approach the
car, use mirrors to look under the car, open each and every door including the
trunk and inspect for anything shady. There is also a man with a special
sniffing dog that walks the perimeter.
This guy was too quick for my camera but he opened Paul's door and flashed a light to check for any bad stuff. |
Once the vehicle is cleared,
passengers may be driven up a hill to the hotel entrance, where more security
guards will greet you alongside a metal detector and an X-ray machine. If one
sets off the metal detector, there is a person with a wand to welcome you from
your head to your toes. I did not realize I had opted to stay with the TSA.
Every time Paul and I walked into the hotel, we had to place our belongings on
the conveyer belt and walk through the machine. Security in Asian airports
isn’t as tight as this hotel’s security. I suppose I should be happy about this
but, I have to be honest, over-security is a big reason I don’t like being in
the U.S.
As much as I was amazed by my
surroundings, I have to say, we were able to really relax. I intended to
complete a few book chapters over the weekend but, upon arrival, my hard drive
crashed so that didn’t happen. I did, however, get to spend a lot of quality
time with Paul and I did have an opportunity to read a book that has me
convinced that I should move to France .