The Bali Paradox

Denpasar Airport is not for the faint-hearted; everyone there has a hand out with the hope of parting me from my money. The "shakedown" starts on touchdown. $50 cash for a visa; porters try showing me the way to my bag. Then I hear, "Taxi...you want Taxi sir"? There are Vendors offering shit jewellery, young girls shaking big signs urging you to buy their SIM cards, it's a gauntlet of "no thank you". 

A gallery of men stand beyond a rail - fighting for the right to drive me to my chosen destination. It's overwhelming! I want to hang a sign from my neck that reads "FUCK OFF!". But that wouldn't be polite. So I endure feeling indignant from the assumption that I'm just a walking money tree while simultaneously feeling guilty for my constant rejection of their offerings.

"To the United Colours of Bali, my good man...and don't spare the horses!"...."Horses, sir?" was my driver's confused reply.

As the engine on the "been around the block a few too many times White Toyota Camry came to life, so too did the music from its speakers; mellifluous sounds of The Kinks rang my ears, "Come Dancing". (The Kinks were around long before I was; although I had heard them, I'd never really listened to them. One evening at a girlfriend's house, she played me "Lola," and a part of me became forever sad for the preceeding years—now known as "The Kinkless Years.") An omen, maybe? The swell would be pleasing; good waves would be had.

United Colours Of Bali

"The United Colours of Benetton" was a glib marketing campaign that brought together people of different colours, creeds and cultures. To make us all believe that a fashion brand cared about diversity, racial equality and humankind when all it wanted was to sell us garish clothing.

"The United Colours of Bali" is a resort in Caangu where I'm residing for the duration. I considered if, like the ad campaign, its Moniker had a deeper meaning, or if it was just a catchy title dreamed up by whoever owned the place. I then wondered why I cared?" and decided not to.

Stepping through the front door, I expected to be in a foyer but instead found myself  still outside in the open air, the misleading doorway acting as nothing more than a divider between the grounds of the resort and the world beyond it. In this circumstance, I feel a gate would be more apt. When a person passes through a doorway, there is an expectancy to be going into or out of a place. Gates do not come with such a burden. 

I stood beneath an awning and in front of an oversized, ornate table that was the reception desk. Behind which sat a dwarf, beside him was a large ginger cat. My first thought was, "Are the desk and cat normal size but appear bigger due to the small stature of the man behind it?" My second thought was to wonder if this was an homage to the popular 80s TV series "Fantasy Island"? I offered the dwarf my name, but all I got back was a look of contempt and a feeling that I'd ruined his day by wanting to check-in. He scooted to the edge of his chair, dropped the eight inches to the floor then walked through an open door  at the back of the reception area. (He walked with the confidence of a man much taller) A slender woman in her mid-twenties appeared, took the dwarf's place behind the big desk, and began taking my details. She was French and attractive. This all felt very staged, as if this was their "point of difference". All resorts have nice villas, pretty grounds and a pool, but how many have their own version of "Tattoo" that sits alongside a ginger cat waiting for guests to arrive? 

The Beach

Open storm drains run alongside Caangus roads, carrying rainwater straight to the beach. This wouldn't be a bad thing if not for the fact that engineers failed to install any  mesh or traps for catching discarded rubbish washed into said drains. So along with stormwater that flows into the sea, so too the plastic water bottles, milk cartons and food wrappers.

Sun Bathers lay on sunbeds atop black dirty looking sand, a high tide line marked by yesterdays waste.. There are surfers out, but for what? I do not know, as a lumpy litter-filled swell is offering nothing but "close-outs" and typhoid.

Sunshine and sand! The perfect complement, yet it feels like some kind of surfing dystopia. It seems that "The Kinks" cannot be relied upon as a predictor of any potential swell. 

The Pimp

I heard a voice  behind me: "Hey man!" I turned to face a Balinese Guy in maybe his early thirties, taking a drag on his cigarette. Instead of blowing the smoke from his lungs, he let it rise slowly from his slightly open mouth. It passed over his top lip, then around both sides of his nose. I watched it climb his face, captivated for the five or so seconds that this "pregnant pause" took to play out. He kept eye contact for the whole time before finally letting me know why he had stopped me in the first place. 

Balinese men smoke as if it's something that they should be doing. It never looks unhealthy when they do it. They make smoking look cool like the Cowboys made it look cool when there was a "Marlboro Man". They're contrary to Westerners who smoke in a reserved space outside office blocks and venues in the wind and rain, far from the civilised healthy people. They are akin to modern-day lepers, coughing and wheezing amidst a fog of their own making. 

"You want lady?" he said while casting a hand toward the two women sitting on a wall behind him. He used the cigarette as an extra finger in a balled fist to point at them. "Your selling sex twenty meters from my 'digs'? A total outrage!" was my first thought..."How much for her?" I asked.

One of the women played the part, pulling up her short skirt while flashing her boobs at me. It was reminiscent of the hooker scene from Kubric's "Full Metal Jacket" minus Nancy Sinatra's song about the boots.

Number two Prostitute looked like she would rather be anywhere else. She had the saddest eyes , full red lips and a face framed by shiny black, shoulder-length hair.

Mr Pimp was understated, 160cm tall, thick-set like he went to the gym often, a beige linen shirt, black three-quarter length skinny jeans and barefoot, the antipathy of a 70s archetype that looms large in my head when I think of what a pimp should look like. 

I took "sad eyes" for the whole night, and we walked back to my villa, offering her a shower and a shirt to wear when she emerged from the bathroom, She dropped the wet towel, put it on and buttoned it up, leaving about four buttons open at the top, exposing just enough boob to keep me interested... "We fuck now ?" she asked, sounding a little resigned. "no 'fuck' tonight. You have night off". She looked at me for about three whole seconds, somewhat perplexed, then shrugged her shoulders with a "whatever" kind of attitude. I gave her the option to leave, but she chose to stay.

My Cubans sat in a cigar case on the coffee table. She slid one out, snipped the sealed end like a "pro", then brought it to life with a match. As the end glowed, cigar smoke filled the room. After several pulls on it she offered it to me, and I assumed we were sharing it. She then slid out another and repeated the process.

I couldn't take my eyes off her as she walked around my villa wearing my shirt and smoking my cigar. It was both sexy and surreal. Thirty minutes ago, I was looking to get an early night for an early start to go surf. Instead, I was now hosting a Balinese Hooker whose name I didn't know.

What was left of the evening was spent drinking whiskey and dancing to Al Green Records, then we slept where we fell and woke to a rising sun brimming the rooftops. A morning glow kissed her face, making her look almost angelic...ironic, given her line of work. 

I watched her sleeping, a little smitten. She was curled up on a small sofa, and I was sitting in the armchair where I had slept. Her eyes flickered briefly, then opened, and her face flashed that brief confusion that we get when we wake up somewhere different until our brains make a quick assessment and we realise where we are. 

She looked at me with a confirming smile, then said, "I must go." She jumped up from the couch and dropped my shirt on the floor. She left the bathroom door open, and I watched her shower. I considered joining her but then demurred. She put toothpaste on her finger as a makeshift toothbrush and pushed it around the inside of her mouth then got dressed in her work clothes. Walked up to me, cupped my face in her hands and gave me a long kiss. Then, she strutted off across the quadrant and out the resort's front gate; as she disappeared from sight, I realised that she'd been all I'd seen for the past fifteen minutes.

Nusa Dua

Nusa Dua is an hour by scooter from Caangu. lots of scooters, lots of traffic lights and a few near misses.

At the end of a lane sits a man in a tiny hut just big enough for him and a stool. He controls the rope that is cast across the driveway of the entrance to the car park. Beyond the rope are several scooters belonging to people, I assume, already arrived and are down at the beach or somewhere. The Rope attendant is maybe 5'5" , extremely thin, and wears a face that speaks of a hard life. I'd put him somewhere between ages 40 and 60; it's hard to pinpoint a specific decade. "Is ok" I pointed to the area where the other scooters stood and pointed to mine, by way of saying "Can I put this over there". He looked me up and down then said "Mike Tyson". I was confused as to why he would randomly say such a thing. "Mike Tyson?" I replied, and he repeated it ."Mike Tyson. I'd just spent an hour travelling across town. Risking life and limb to hopefully, finally, grab a wave or two. Only to be confronted by what might well be the oldest-looking forty-something man I've ever seen, who. for no reason in particular is offering me the name of arguably one the greatest boxers of the modern era. What could he possibly mean? Was it a password to gain entry beyond the rope or an attempt at banter? Maybe some Bali joke that no one else understands. Only he will ever know. I just shrugged my shoulders with no clue as to what to say in response and nothing to offer but a blank expression. "Five thousand", he said- somewhat resigned. I pulled a 5000 rupia note from my pocket and gave it to him. He dropped the rope and pointed to where to park. I parked my scooter still somewhat bewildered by the exchange. Surely, he was not comparing me to Mike Tyson. We have a similar build and haircut. But I'm white; a blind man in the dark couldn't mistake me for him. 

A small swell turned into small waves that broke onto a small reef out front of the "Hilton Bali". I sat and watched them from the beach for 30 minutes or so and wondered as to the point of my death-defying ride across town if this would be its reward. But I paddled out anyway and joined the 20-odd already there.

Female surfers with perfect derrieres show them off to the extreme in bikini bottoms made of string. There were surf guides giving lessons that looked old beyond their years like the man in the booth. Maybe too much sun and a lack of dental hygiene, judging by the toothless grins and sunken cheeks. But the sea was free of refuse, and the couple hours spent catching ripples were better than nothing.

In Conclusion

I've fallen in love with Bali while simultaneously strongly disliking it. A lack of sidewalks, Too many people, Zombie Dogs and dirty beaches, juxtaposed by a freedom from everyday rules. There's an energy derived from its chaos that I missed the instant that I stopped to take a breath.

There's an absence of signs pertaining to speed limits in Bali. On the drive back to the airport, I asked my driver about the maximum speed. His response:"It's whatever you want it to be." A statement that sums up this place perfectly.