Oily Flesh
Our organized morning activity, a ‘trek’ into the Ayung River valley, begins at eight. The guide leads us down on a wonderfully picturesque public footpath. Last time I was in Ubud I was left with the impression that the area was quite flat. Today we are passing amphitheatres of rice paddies, way down below us, drenched in dappled morning sunlight. It’s spectacular. We cross the Ayung (Bali’s longest waterway) on a rickety bamboo bridge and head up some steep steps to the lunch spot for the white water rafters who come this way. We pass a local primary school where the kids rush out and scramble to get their beaming faces into the viewfinder of my camera. We head across a golden paddy field of ‘Filipino’ rice (one of two varieties grown in Bali) and past a battalion of ladies who are noisily chatting over a rice breakfast. Next we pass a village with its scores of stunning temples, each with a signature thatched ejuk roof, before heading away into the forest paved country lanes.
The guide and I talk about corruption, Indonesia’s ever-changing education system, the price of motorbikes, government-run birth-control policies (Indonesia has a two-child system) and the tragedy of slave wages in a capitalist economy. We conclude that China and Indonesia have a lot in common. It’s funny, the subtext to our discussion seems to be him trying to let me know how poor he and his family are (he has three sisters who couldn’t afford to go to school) and me subtly trying to remind him that I live in a country much like his, and thus shouldn’t be considered in the same bracket as most of Amandari’s guests.
Eventually we reach our breakfast spot, a little verandah on the opposite side of the valley to the hotel proper. A driver has joined us and helps our guide lay out our things. We eat croissants stuffed with avocado, salmon and cream cheese, beautifully crispy muesli, and fresh fruit, while supping on locally grown coffee and juice, freshly squeezed this morning and somehow kept ice-cold for us to enjoy in the great outdoors. It’s a marvel.
Our guide and driver wait patiently for us at the top of the stairs. When we are ready, we drive back to the hotel. I’ve panicked about the need, or otherwise, to tip but I decide that I can’t simply do nothing so I slip the chap a couple of dollars, along with a business card – just so he knows I’m here ‘working’. Some work.
This afternoon we wandered around Ubud centre. After the exclusivity of the hotel, it almost comes as a shock to see some many foreigners around. Especially those carrying backpacks. Ugh. Actually most of the tourists are Asian, the majority Japanese but some from Taiwan too. We actually get the opportunity to speak a little Mandarin as we help young travelers take pictures of each other in front of the main palace in Ubud’s busy centre.
The shopping element of our expedition comes to nought. We drive too harder bargain it seems. Basically, we look at stuff, work out what it would cost in China, and offer that price. It makes most shopkeepers scoff. Saying that, they look at us as white American, and yellow Japanese, whereas we should both be considered to be in the same category of ‘improverished Chinese’. Nevertheless, our prices are clearly unpalatable as we are allow to walk away without or offers being met. You live and learn.
Back at the hotel and it’s another dose of swimming in the infinity pool at sunset, before retiring to our outdoor bathtub, and gazing up at the silhouetted palm trees as the sky slowly turns dark. The pyschadelic sounds of the gamelan continue to play from invisible speakers. At times like this it’s tempting to crack open to bottle of Hennessey and really enjoy myself. However, it’s not difficult to resist temptation when the bottle costs what I would expect to earn in a month or more in China. Prices are, unsurprisingly, steep here and little freebies are not part of what Aman does. There’s free cake in the afternoon, free fruit daily, and free internet, but aside from that, you are paying your own way (even considering you’ve already spent 700 USD on the room).
We dine on scraps – Chinese mooncake saved from the plane, bananas from the fruit bowl and the two slivers of cake saved from the afternoon. We are saving ourselves for two reasons – one we saw the price of a meal in the restaurant last night, and two we have a spa coming up. The full moon is rising behind the palm trees as we stroll through the hotel ‘village’. Despite the mood of complete privacy and utter exclusivity, the villa entrances are collected around one another, and have ever-open doors, giving gusets the impression there is something communal going on here.
The massage is wonderful. We are given our ‘treatments’ in an outdoor room, with a pool of lilies and reeds off to the left, sprinkling by water that is constantly poured from the edge of the thatched roof. The sound of cascading water is complemented by the sight of the cascading bamboo poles that hold up the roof. As you open you eyes, the sounds and the sights seem to merge.
The massage is based around rhythmic, persistent hands rushing over oily flesh. The path of the hands follows obvious contours and passages between bone and muscle. In China, I sometimes sense there is a masterplan to why they do things a certain way, but it’s based around Chinese ideas about the body. This massage, I can follow far more easily. The masseuse’s fingertips send a pulse of pleasure surging up through the body, conveyed through every organ. In the fingertips wake, there’s a resonating, tingling pin pricks of pleasure. Silken hands rush over thighs, down ribs and – perhaps most enjoyably – over buttocks. Unlike China, there’s no slapping, or harshness – and definitely no happy endings. It’s all about comfort.
After the massage we wander around the deserted hotel and take night shots with the tripod. Feeling peckish, we veer away from the lovely outdoor restaurant (which has one of the most well-buffed black wood floors I’ve ever seen) and head out onto the street in search of cheap eats. It looks grim. The temples are dark and doors are shut. Only a few groups of youngsters hand about on their bikes (and say hello as we pass). Miraculously, just we are about to turn back, we pass a little late night shack for locals. Nobody speak English. We point at a few of the scraps that are on stacked plates in the window and take our chances. It’s delicious. I love moments like this. After all the comforts of the hotel, I derive almost as much pleasure from getting the sense that I am doing something genuinely Balinese. This is a spot for locals to eat cheaply. There are no frills. It’s very real. And very, very nice.
