I believe I'm still on a Balinese high. People get Bali Belly. I think mine's Bali Fever. It's a quiet, hazy, contentment; the type that flutters across your lips and lingers. Like Bintang.
I can't pinpoint exactly what made me fall in love. It's a sweet, warm feeling in the stomach, like caramel swirls. Maybe it was just all that Bintangs / Bali Coolers / Bali Hais churning. Or the people, urban decay, the way of life.
Maybe what put that smile across my lips were the Balinese men. 'Chantek', they'd call me. Or, 'Hello, you jipoun?' [Hello, are you Japanese]. They're extremely vocal and amiable, very different from Singaporean males. Yet this is what makes them scary at times.
Bagus is a 25 year old painter at a gallery I visited. Fluid in his movements, long fluttery lashes, well-travelled, genteel manners and appearance. He seemed genuinely nice, until he started intruding - 'You like Bali? You want to stay here forever? Marry me, I can teach you to paint.' You know how murderers have fancy prose. This one had that evil glint and fancy painting abilities.
Agus is the 23 year old hairdresser cum foot reflexologist at Andrean. He's boyish with red hair and spent an entire hour looking at me while massaging my mum's feet, attempting to make small talk whenever I awoke from my supposed slumber. 'You got boyfriend? I be your boyfriend, massage you everyday, cut your hair.. Your ah pa can also get massage everyday.' Horrors.
It's worse at the beach. The local males engulf the Asian females like Black Plague. Or the equivalent to the curling waves at Kuta. I buy my 90-cent Bintang and scurry back to the safety of the hotel.
Speaking of which, alcohol is so unbelievably cheap in Bali. And no one's kidding when they say an icy Bintang's relief from the biting sun. There's a beer belly immerging. And Arak is pure poison. It's so harsh you can feel it ravaging down your throat; poison of choice to bring about self-inflicting pain for the undecided suicide-ridden sadist.
And then there's A&W. Curly fries and rootbeer floats. And Krispy Kreme. I scarf down 4 donuts at each visit. Fat's wrapping around my heart.
Clothing and food isn't as cheap as expected. Prices at roadside stalls are sky-high, and you're an idiot if you don't manage to close the deal at a quarter of the initial price. Bargaining is such a chore, and they're so persistent that I actually feel rotten if I don't make a purchase. There's also 21% tax imposed at retail outlets - do I hear you say daylight robbery?
Heck that. When it comes to urban decay and photography, Bali takes the cake. Yomal, our driver, drove us to Kintamani, a dormant volcano. I can't even describe the view. Imagine a volcano with cloud tendrils. Or rather, think photostudio in the 1960s, where customers stood against a faded backdrop of a landscape. That is Kintamani. I have to climb that one day. And don't even get me started on the villages. Stone structures and carvings, volcanic stone and limestone, moss and sun-kissed children. Balinese women decked in their prettiest, swaying elegantly as they head to the temple, whilst balancing huge baskets of offerings on their head. We are invisible to the villagers, a passing wind, the whisper that skirts round corners; almost voyeuristic. Life is happy there.
Everyone's eyes crinkle at the ends, everyone's lips stretch upwards at the corners. It's not just the locals, glad for tourism, celebrating tourist spending and commercialisation. It's everybody. You wave to the German, compare beers with an Australian, talk photography with the Japanese. Everyone is a stranger, yet a friend. Or should I say every stranger becomes a friend. It's quaint, it's beautiful, this unguarded consciousness.
When they say 'celebration of life', I think it's got to be Bali.
12:27:00 am
