For many Aussies, Kuta, Bali, is a default holiday location. It's cheap, it's close, and they come here over and over again, delighted with the hubbub, camaraderie, and time off to do little but sit around in open-air pubs with no air conditioning. Sometimes they even choose to move here for good, to do so all year round.
We've met plenty of these blokes at the establishments where everyone in our Kuta neighborhood now knows our names. Every big city becomes a small town once you've been there long enough.
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| Paul Werner and partner Daniel Truslove, Aussie co-owners of The Pad Bar & Grill in Kuta. More about this place in a later post. |
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One sees many Aussies partaking of the three-foot-tall hookahs that are available for about $5 in many bars. It's clear that these devices can be burning nothing stronger than a form of tobacco, given Indonesia's Draconian drug enforcement laws. After all, a British granny is on death row in Bali for the offense of drug trafficking. She isn't exactly your own dear old granny, and the drug was cocaine ... but still.
The substance in the hookahs is shisha, a bowlful of flavored, molasses-based tobacco that is said to be as potent as ten packs of smokes. Although one oughtn't to try smoking a whole one by oneself, some seem determined to try.
This crew of friendly Aussies gathered round a hookah insisted that I have a go of it.
"But I don't smoke," I protested.
"It won't hurt you! Come on then!" insisted the wheezing gent on the left, both of whose eyes were so thoroughly bloodshot that he looked like an ebola patient. In my opinion, he was smoking far more than his share, wreathing his head in vast clouds of it. When I took a timid pufflet and looked up for approval, he said, "No, no! You've got to really suck it in!"--obviously what he'd been doing all day. I inhaled more boldly.
Jesus, it was the most revolting grape-flavored stuff I'd ever tasted, like cloying kids' medicine whose flavor is only worsened when disguised as fruit.
I've already mentioned the two U.S. IT professionals, above right, one of whom took to shisha to such an extent that he might have smoked an entire bowl himself. He was probably giddy with the idea of smoking a hookah in a public place, and quite buzzed by the time we met him. His theory: the ghastly grape flavor is improved by adding mint.
I didn't test his theory.
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One night we were lucky enough to meet two sweet blokes named Tom and Mel. Tom, a little guy in a porkpie hat, with scarcely any meat on his bones, was perfectly suited for life as a jockey. Just retired, he'd had the misfortune to have lost his mother and then his sister, without warning, in the space of weeks. Yet here he was, chatting with strangers from America and comparing notes about Joe Bravo and John Velasquez, top jockeys in the States. He was thrilled that we knew and appreciated something of jockeys, and very pleased to be alive.
Mel, an open-faced, dear man sporting a cast on one foot, shoes horses for a living, thus holding the centuries-old vocation of farrier. Just days before his holiday, a client of his delivered the kick that injured his foot. I don't personally understand horses and am intimidated by their size and intelligence. They're also skittish and, I suspect, might bite me at the slightest provocation, rather like parrots or camels. Mel is a case in point, though he loves the beasts and is sure the horse didn't mean to harm him.
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| Look at what this horse is doing, for example. In fact, it was nearly toothless and simply asking for attention. |
"No, no," swore the kindly Tom and Mel, who have gotten into training. "Horses have their own personalities, just like dogs and people. Ya just have to get to know 'em."
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A cricket match between Australia and India was afoot when we arrived in Kuta. A week later, due to the byzantine intricacies of the sport, it was still afoot, because these contests drag on for five days. Michael, an owlish little Aussie who owns a villa here and spends the better part of the year in Bali, filled us in on as much of it as we could absorb. It looks deceptively like baseball but is even slower paced, if that's possible. So, seven days after we'd first met Michael hanging out at a local pub to watch the match, the five-day game was somehow still continuing, unresolved.
"Is this really the same match? Who's winning?" we asked.
He shrugged and made a mezza-mezza gesture. "It could still go either way," he explained, but didn't seem to care particularly about the outcome. It must be a more laid-back spectator sport than American baseball, what with each game's lasting as long as a whole playoff round.
Michael proved to be a font of useful information for Bali newbies like us.
"You want to use Blue Bird taxis. They're always honest, charge you only what's on the meter, and won't drive you in circles. Of course all of the taxis in Bali are blue, with birds on, which can make things a bit confusing. They all started imitating Blue Bird, y'see."
The trick is to look for a particular baby-blue or dark shade, with "Blue Bird Group" on the side and in white lettering across the windshield; drivers in crisp blue shirts; ID numbers that begin with letters like VV; "Bali Taxi" on the front door; and bluebirds in rounded diamonds. You'll see knowledgeable tourists turning aside until they see a bona fide Blue Bird coming, then going into a taxi frenzy.
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Also bewitched by the never-ending cricket match was Jules, a dour-seeming Aussie who brightened considerably when we told him where we were from. He had spent so much time in the States, traveling for work, that he could tell the tale of having been arrested for doing 90 in a 55-mph zone in upstate New York. The arresting officer who clapped him in a cell was quite stern, he said, but the sergeant in charge was delighted to learn that he had an Aussie in his jailhouse. He told Jules, "I knew Aussies in Vietnam, and they were the best fighters of all. No worries, brother. I'll even represent you in court."
So Jules was able to continue his travels, the sergeant stood up for him in court weeks later when Jules was in San Francisco, and he got off with a $45 fine that could easily have been $500.
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As you will have noticed, there are probably more Aussies here than there are Balinese. They are all big talkers and big drinkers. I had imbibed so much one night that I failed to notice that these two gentlemen, a father and son from north of Perth, were rather inebriated themselves. It took Paul, the bar proprietor's, saying, the next day, "Those two were quite drunk, eh?" for me to see the light. He kindly added that we didn't seem at all tipsy at the time. On the other hand, we are too old to seem drunk, as well as very loyal customers.
In one of those muzzy, lovable interactions that take place in bars, the two of them swung their seats around from the sidewalk rail and scootched right up to our table--so that none of us would have to strain to hear, I imagine. How charming that a father and son should travel and get smashed together, I thought.
The son, an impish fellow who seemed only about thirty, was, as I recall, quite smart about minuscule details. He had apparently read widely and was possessed, I'm sure, of an outrageous IQ. Then, out of the blue, he volunteered the rather private information, "Dad's a doomsday prepper. Have you seen that show?" He then rolled his eyes as only a son can do. He continued to roll his eyes dramatically, as his da took the ball and ran with it.
"The thing is," Dave proclaimed, "If you have a shelter, you got to keep it a secret from the neighbors.They'll be wanting to take it over otherwise, when the bad times come."
We told him about a friend who holds a similar belief and had in fact suggested, when we lived in the wilds of New Hampshire, that our two households band together against the low-life marauders from across the railroad tracks who would surely overwhelm us if we stood alone and had no guns. This friend, we went on, also believed so thoroughly in the silver standard that he purchased a great deal of it as an investment for the end days when the entire economy would collapse, as he has been predicting it will for longer than we've known him. He then found a safe place in the woods to bury it, and promptly forgot where it was.
"Well, that was stupid, wannit?" chortled the old man.
"No, da, you'd never do such a thing, would ye?" quipped the son, rolling his eyes.
We eventually hugged sloppily all around before turning in for the night. The son, who had looked no bigger than his da while sitting around with us, must have been 7 feet tall.
Or maybe I had shrunk under the influence of alcohol.
"Is this really the same match? Who's winning?" we asked.
He shrugged and made a mezza-mezza gesture. "It could still go either way," he explained, but didn't seem to care particularly about the outcome. It must be a more laid-back spectator sport than American baseball, what with each game's lasting as long as a whole playoff round.
Michael proved to be a font of useful information for Bali newbies like us.
"You want to use Blue Bird taxis. They're always honest, charge you only what's on the meter, and won't drive you in circles. Of course all of the taxis in Bali are blue, with birds on, which can make things a bit confusing. They all started imitating Blue Bird, y'see."
The trick is to look for a particular baby-blue or dark shade, with "Blue Bird Group" on the side and in white lettering across the windshield; drivers in crisp blue shirts; ID numbers that begin with letters like VV; "Bali Taxi" on the front door; and bluebirds in rounded diamonds. You'll see knowledgeable tourists turning aside until they see a bona fide Blue Bird coming, then going into a taxi frenzy.
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| This is a Blue Bird. |
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| Not a Blue Bird |
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Also bewitched by the never-ending cricket match was Jules, a dour-seeming Aussie who brightened considerably when we told him where we were from. He had spent so much time in the States, traveling for work, that he could tell the tale of having been arrested for doing 90 in a 55-mph zone in upstate New York. The arresting officer who clapped him in a cell was quite stern, he said, but the sergeant in charge was delighted to learn that he had an Aussie in his jailhouse. He told Jules, "I knew Aussies in Vietnam, and they were the best fighters of all. No worries, brother. I'll even represent you in court."
So Jules was able to continue his travels, the sergeant stood up for him in court weeks later when Jules was in San Francisco, and he got off with a $45 fine that could easily have been $500.
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| Dave and Daniel. I suppose they do look a wee bit sloshed. |
The son, an impish fellow who seemed only about thirty, was, as I recall, quite smart about minuscule details. He had apparently read widely and was possessed, I'm sure, of an outrageous IQ. Then, out of the blue, he volunteered the rather private information, "Dad's a doomsday prepper. Have you seen that show?" He then rolled his eyes as only a son can do. He continued to roll his eyes dramatically, as his da took the ball and ran with it.
"The thing is," Dave proclaimed, "If you have a shelter, you got to keep it a secret from the neighbors.They'll be wanting to take it over otherwise, when the bad times come."
We told him about a friend who holds a similar belief and had in fact suggested, when we lived in the wilds of New Hampshire, that our two households band together against the low-life marauders from across the railroad tracks who would surely overwhelm us if we stood alone and had no guns. This friend, we went on, also believed so thoroughly in the silver standard that he purchased a great deal of it as an investment for the end days when the entire economy would collapse, as he has been predicting it will for longer than we've known him. He then found a safe place in the woods to bury it, and promptly forgot where it was.
"Well, that was stupid, wannit?" chortled the old man.
"No, da, you'd never do such a thing, would ye?" quipped the son, rolling his eyes.
We eventually hugged sloppily all around before turning in for the night. The son, who had looked no bigger than his da while sitting around with us, must have been 7 feet tall.
Or maybe I had shrunk under the influence of alcohol.
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