Mr Holy Religious
I awake to pitch darkness and complete silence. Drawing back the heavy wooden sliding shutters is painful on the eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced such a complete blackness in my life. Morning in the jungle is magic. It’s recently stopped raining and everything has that dripping, lushness. The light is hitting the vegetation on the other side of the valley, while we are still in shade. Black birds swoop from the sky and the cicada’s are already purring away out there in the undergrowth.
I spend two hours tapping away on the the computer before check out at 10am. We bid goodbye to the reception staff. As luck would have it, just as I go to hand over my 30 USD tip, Liv emerges from her office and spots my act of benevolence. Having skimped and saved at every opportunity, it finally feels good to be given credit for not being a total tight arse. I have to admit that I am a bit paranoid that accusations of this nature could easily be leveled at me. But, hell, I ask you – 45,000 Rupiah (5 USD) for a 275ml bottle of coke. Can anyone blame us for taking what was free, and leaving the rest?
We are chauffered out east to Aman’s third resort on Bali. The road passes bits of the Bali that remains invisible to most tourists. I, for one, would never have guessed that there could still be such desperately poor looking shanty towns, built out into a swamp that was once, perhaps a river – here in Bali, a Bali that is so overloaded with uber-luxe tourist resorts.
We head first to a village called Tanganan which David Nakano back at Amanusa had recommended. First impressions aren’t that great. Ling and I use the public loos only to be emerge to find a bloke demanding money. He says we owe him 4,000 Rupiah. We say, why the hell wasn’t there any signs testifying to the fact there is a charge for the loo? He points at a cardboard box which has been recently placed at the entrance (almost certainly while we were in the loo). The charge written thereon is 1,000 Rupiah per person. He points as if to say, ‘See 2,000 Rupiah,’ as if that was the amount he had asked for all along. We are not impressed. Less so when we go to enter the village only to find a signing-in gate where guests are encouraged/forced to leave a ‘donation’ just to get in and see some shops.
Inside and the village is essentially one long main street where homes have been converted into showrooms for various masks, scrolls or woven items – the local speciality. There’s nobody else here today. It’s dead. Consequently, whenever we even threaten to look at something, somebody dashes out to greet us. I spot one thing which I do, genuinely, like. It’s an image of the traditional Balinese dragon (the Barong?) which has been crated through cross-hatching, not with pen, but by making marks onto the bamboo which are then washed with ink. It may be handsome but when the guy asks for 100 USD, I decide it’s not that handsome. Apparently it belonged to his recently departed father. He rather ruins this pretense by telling us that another tourist recently bought the same scroll for USD 100. We eventually leave without buying a thing.
And so back to Amankilla proper. Even the view from the access road is spectacular, rising from the main road to give a panoramic view back over the green paddies behind, and the blue ocean and frothing coastline in front. We are welcomed not by the General Manager but by the Rooms Manager, Putu. This instantly makes me paranoid that I’ve been assessed by the other two managers not to have met a sufficiently high VIP quotient for another top dog to be wheeled out. This is probably fair enough, mainly ‘cos I’m not. Putu is a real character. He immediately wants to know about China, and to tell us how he has read the Tao Te Ching and I Ching and loves their ideas on truth and wisdom. He also quotes the Gita and the Koran during our brief stay. He’s a pretty clued up, spiritual kind of chap.
We are treated to lunch by the stunning three-tiered pool which faces square onto the ocean. We are, however, left to our own devices, and so I am terrified that I will be asked to foot the bill myself. Ling and I order the cheapest meals we can find and one mixed fruit smoothie to share. We dine with just the sound of the ocean and a splash or two from the pool where a young, beautiful French couple are frolicking. They are, at least, taking photos of one another enjoying the luxurious surrounds. This reassures me that they, too, are not perhaps completely au fait with this whole lark either. This is the kind of place that everyone should experience once in a lifetime. But perhaps no more than once.
After lunch, Putu takes us down to the beach in a funky little beach buggy that fairly races up and down the steep windy lanes. The beach is pepper-coloured, but the texture is fine and comfy and the sea wonderfully blue. Just behind the seafront is a long emerald green pool flanked by sunbeds and high, high palm trees (pictured below). A busty Japanese girl gives me the eye as I go to get a picture, waddling into the pool with a provocative gait. You get the impression this lifestyle goes hand-in-hand with this kind of temptation.
We are finally given a chauffered ride back to Ubud. Ubud Hanging Gardens, our next hotel destination, is located about 25-30 minutes outside Ubud itself. It’s a real bitch to get to, and, indeed, staff soon talk about taxi drivers frequently have to call to ask where they are going. Apparently, it’s the only resort on the far side of the Ayung River valley. Most are on the side of most of Bali’s urban spots. This one faces the other way.
The heavens open as we arrive. Ayu, the PR Director, gives me a quick guided tour but I am eager to get away so I can take a dip in our private pool villa. It’s built to the same height as the living room floor and wraps around the room in a L-shape. It’s now hammering down and I down straight into the cold water. I stand arms splayed, face up to the heavens, Shawshank Redemption-style. This is what it’s all about. The view across the misty valley from the pool is spectacular. Not for the first time this trip, I feel as if I have died and gone to heaven.
Coming out of the pool I dive straight into the outdoor bathtub where water flows off a flat stone conduit. The water is steaming hot. Outside it is still pouring. The bathtubs are something of a triumph at the Hanging Gardens, two mirrored tubs separated only by a glass screen – one inside one outside. Being able to run between the steaming hot shower and the cold pool where raindrops are thumping down is a lovely, lovely feeling.
Back inside and I have trouble controlling my increasingly spoilt mind. I start to compare things to Amandari, which is dangerous, to say the least. From the word go, it’s obvious the Hanging Gardens is a beautiful resort and wins hands down on Aman in terms of value (220 USD vs 675 USD). However, Aman’s villas are much, much larger. Moreover, the service, and quality of the buildings are lacking something that Aman had. Everything here feels like it’s been built from slightly less stoic materials. The handle of the outdoor bath falls off in my hand, for example. The air conditioner has a remote control on it, which – far from being convenient – somehow seems lacking in class after the automatic centrally controlled systems of Aman. The chain on the bath plug is slightly too long and the bamboo blinds have a little mould on the insides – very small things but oversights which you would never see Aman making. Lastly, the turn-down guys knock on our door at 10.30pm to ask if we want our room spruced up. Nice notion, but what about spoiling our privacy at such a ‘romantic’ time of the evening? Amateurs.
The evening is spent outside the resort. By the time the restaurant opens at 7pm, we have worked out that we cannot afford to eat there, so we grab one of the free umbrellas provided next to each front door (nice touch) and wander out into the adjacent village. The world is misty and mysterious, lit by orange street lamps. We pass a temple where a wacky religious guy invites us in, only to realize that I am not properly attired in a sarong. His name is Monku Siram, and his English is rudimentary. He has this wonderful habit of desperately trying to communicate his role at the temple by pointing to himself and saying, ‘I, holy religious, prom dis temple. I holy religious’. Holy Religious. Great line.
We walk in search of food and cheap beer, passing one stall where they insist a small beer costs 10,000 Rupiah, which is more than it cost in a bar in Kuta. We move on. Just as we give up, we pass a little place just outside a temple, where a ceremony is in full swing. Several blokes are out front chatting and smoking. Nobody speaks English, aside from one guy who introduces himself as Andy. He has one eye missing. He bargains a price for us which seems fair. Ling begins to take an interest in what they are making and before you know it, we have been invited into the back of this little restaurant and have two plates of local beansprouts, ground peanuts and rice patties. It’s delicious. I’ve never had a better meal for such a cheap price – all this just a few feet from one of Bali’s most upmarket hotels. Here, a huge meal for two cost us 2,000 Rupiah. The cheapest starter back at the hotel restaurant was 100,000. Go figure that one.
As we eat, the temple music strikes up from across the street. Young kids drift in while on a break to munch on what we’re having. I feel very, very lucky to be here with Ling, witnessing all this. Ling offers to loan me the sarong which she has presciently bought out with her. The lady of the house sees me struggling to do it up and comes over and takes charge, sending me packing towards the temple with a handsome looking dress to show for her efforts. I mingle for a while with the cymbal guys who are smashing the hell out of their instruments in this almost-constant hubbub. Back at the restaurant, I sit down and drink beer, offering it to the guys out front. We share a drink and suddenly I feel very, very humbled. One of the lift operators from the hotel, a chap named Datuk, comes in with his daughter and we chat. He says that we have now seen the real Balinese culture, and I think he just might be right.
