Follow Me Through a Day in Ubud

I am awoken by the call of a rooster. I glance over at the mosquito coil to see if there is still a glow, but it has been reduced to ash. Daybreak must be near. The whir of the ceiling fan is not enough to ward off the clammy feeling which envelopes my body. As I try to postpone awaking, all the cocks in Peliatan are sounding their call of selamat pagi (good morning in Balinese). They are ensuring that my fleeting sleep will be restless.

Finally I give in to the relentless crowing and head for the shower, the floor of which is still wet from the morning before. With the humidity near 90% in Bali, Indonesia, everything is perpetually damp here. I crank up the hot water in the hope that it will work, but as it was the morning before, I am forced to enjoy a quick cold douse. There is no shower stall here so the entire bathroom is once again drenched.

After drying off and dressing, I open the front door and am greeted by the house keeper. With a pleasant smile she says, "breakfast?" "Sure," I say. "No tea this morning." It's way to sweet. Janet spilled a drop on the ceramic tile on the porch yesterday and within minutes we were attacked by ants.

Breakfast here is simple, generally consisting of a banana jaffle, fruit and that awful sweet tea. This morning's breakfast is a pleasant surprise, an omelette on white bread. It's not enough though and I supplement it with some cereal and cookies I've bought at the grocery store.

It's been two days since we've done laundry. That's the maximum for someone who's only packed two shirts. I ask for a bucket and pull up my sleeves. Hopefully it will all drip-dry before evening, but again with this humidity it's hard to tell. Ah, we have a breeze today, that's a good sign.

With the laundry hanging and my hands sore from over-wringing, I set out for Ubud. I fill my day pack with the valuables I'd rather not leave in the room and then strap my money belt around my waist and tuck it into my shorts. I feel a bit bulkier this way, but safe is better than sorry if a stealthy hand tries to reach into one of my pockets.

The morning sun is already intense under a clear blue sky and it's only 10 am. My bottled water is my salvation as I walk the two hot kilometers into town. Every few hundred meters I take a swig. As I pass the basket shop where the road swings to the right, the weaver, Wayan runs up to me in the same half buttoned shirt he wore two days before. He motions me to come see his latest creation. Earlier I had bought an urn from him for 38,000 Rupiah. The tight knit weave, incredible strength, and unique patterns on his basket tell me they were made by a true craftsmen.

Wayan picks up the new basket and, in broken English, tells me that he had brought it to Nyoman Astana's Bungalows yesterday. I was out on a tour of the north central Bali's mountains and had missed him. "I sell same basket yesterday to American for 65,000 Rupiah. For you, only 45,000 Rupiah. Best price," he says. I like the basket but he's being so aggressive today that I wonder if I may have overpaid for the first one. I decline for the time being. As I leave the shop he makes one last appeal. "Best price. For you 40,000. Good for you, good for me."

As I walk closer to the center of Ubud, I am taken by the fact that everyone is working. There are people working the rice paddies, people constructing buildings, people doing roadwork, people attending shops and people serving food in the restaurants. What is so surprising is that this is Sunday, the holy day. There doesn't appear to be a day off for anyone here.

The workers that intrigue me the most are the mason workers. They are significantly further along on their intricate carving than they were yesterday. With meticulous care each of them, there are four, is working one corner of the high stone monument. On the other side of the house entrance there is another waiting to be carved.

Across the street from these workers are those in the rice paddy. A woman is hunched over planting seedlings. Coming toward me, another woman carries a basket of green leaves on her head. The weight that woman place upon their heads amazes me.

Around the next corner I see another basket shop. I make a quick stop to compare the ones out front to those made by Wayan. The workmanship on these is not nearly as good and prices are higher. I decide that I may just go back and get Wayan's new basket after all.

The noon-time clouds are beginning to appear in the sky and my stomach is calling for food. I find a pleasant little restaurant tucked in behind a music shop. There are four tables, each under its own open straw hut.

The menu I am handed has the word "English" taped across the cloth cover. Inside, misspellings are numerous. C's are replaced everywhere by K's'; Chiken, kurry. For the third day in a row I order gado-gado, boiled vegetables and krupuk, fried rice crackers covered by a spicy peanut sauce. Janet orders paki, boiled greens. This time I also order nasi putih, white rice.

I feel in the mood for some cold ginger tea so I point to the menu and ask the waitress, "Does this come in a bottle?" She nods her head. "Ya," she assure me. But in a few minutes the ginger tea arrives in a pot, hot. I have once again fallen into the yes/no question trap. "Ya" does not always mean yes, it's just a polite way of telling you someone is listening but doesn't necessarily understand. Nevertheless, the hot ginger tea tastes wonderful.

Our dishes arrive and we enjoy them in the pleasant setting. The owner comes by when we are finished and asks us to come back. "I have cheap prices," he says. The bill comes to only 5300 Rupiah (US$2.25). "Terima Kasih. It was delicious, thank-you," I say. "We will be back."

From there it is still a one kilometer walk into the center of Ubud. Whether or not we will get there in the near future is questionable. Craft shops line the street between here and there, and based on past experience, we will stop in almost every one.

Bargaining is the order of the day and I entertain myself trying to barter down the price of a pair of long batik pants. The pair Janet bought yesterday were 9000 Rupiah. Maybe I can do better. But I don't get very far down the price scale before the sky opens up and I decide to abandoned my bargaining in loo of seeking shelter. Bali rain storms, as I've already learned, are quick but hard and intense.

I dash under the roof of a small warung (restaurant). I step over the offerings placed on the sidewalk which are quickly washing into the street. In front of me is a display of fresh baked cakes. They look too good to resist and I order a slice of apple cake and ginger tea (this time I expect it to be hot). I sit cross-legged on the floor cushions and wait out the downpour to end.

The rain finally stops and I make my way down one street and over to the Tropicana Boutique. I need to pick up the custom-made batik sleep-sheet that Janet and I have ordered. When I walk in the shop, Rai, the seamstress, greets me in perfect English. She hands me the sheet tied up inside a stuff sack she has made of scrap material. I open it. It's perfect. The price, 50,000 Rupiah, is perfect too.

In every Balinese town is a bala banjar (local meeting place). There seems to be a lot of commotion coming from the one I pass and I step through the intricately carved threshold to see what's happening. A crowd has gathered. It's a cock fight. I've never seen one before. It seems a bit too barbaric for my taste, watching two men taunt their roosters into killing the other. In a matter of minutes the fight is over and one rooster lies bleeding on the ground. The winner grabs the dying cock and the bets are collected. One fight is enough for me. I leave.

It's already six o'clock. I'm not used to the sun setting so soon. I can't believe that a whole day has already gone. As I walk back toward the town market, Indonesian men are pushing sheets of yellow paper at me. They want me to buy tickets to the Legong Dance happening at the temple this evening. Actually, it's a good idea, but the thought of buying my ticket from one of them instead of at the temple door disturbs me.

The dance begins at seven. The seats are full to the middle rows by 6:30. I chose a middle seat and take in the elegant stage and decorative woven palm leaves hanging from the ceiling.

The show begins right on time and starts with an instrumental played on drums and the Indonesian gamalan. The welcome dance, which comes next, is exquisite. Young girls dressed in traditional costumes dance in perfect unison. Even their eyes move together, first to the left, then to the right. At the end of their dance, they throw flowers to the audience as a welcome and blessing.

The Warrior dance and Karton dances that come next are equally as impressive, but it is the Bumblebee dance performed by one boy and one girl that makes me appreciate the skill of these dancers. The show ends with a Mask dance and another instrumental.The show leaves me feeling like I have really experienced the artistic expression of Bali.

As I turn the corner to hail a bemo back to Peliatan, I run into Nyoman Astana. It feels as if he was waiting for us. He is glad to give us a ride back to the bungalows and we accept.

Back at the bungalow, I find that someone has pulled my drying clothes onto the porch before they've had a chance to be attacked by the rain storm. They are actually dry.

Nyoman brings a candle to the bungalow when another rain storm douses the electricity. By the glow of that candle and the mosquito coil in the corner, I go to sleep.