Every travel has its moments. You know, the places you see, people you meet and things you do, some of them simply linger on long after you’ve settled your credit cards. They turn a plain passage into a thriller trip. I can still feel the joy of getting back Aida’s stroller left at Waitomo glow-worm cave in New Zealand, and I’m now rallying behind Barack Obama because I love his spirited speech at Abang’s convocation at Northwestern in 2006. Who can forget the companionship of some real backpackers and fruit pickers in Brisbane? Chihuahuas at Sydney airport, kids? Pak Cu talks fondly of Frank, the witty car rental operator in Auckland. And Pak Lang wants to see Mt. Tambourine again. There’s always something to take away from your travels: new experience, new perspectives, new t-shirts. Our five-day Bali outing certainly has its defining moments:


1. Pregnant? Who’s pregnant? (18 October 2007)

Sorry, we’re not yet in Bali on this date. We’re actually at the immigration office at the old Subang airport. All sixteen of us, young, old and very old, had to line up at this not-so-exotic place one fine Thursday morning to apply for a group passport for the twelve of us who’re without valid passports to travel to Indonesia (Bali is part of Indonesia, in case you’re confused. Ottawa is in Canada). We gladly appointed Mak Cu as the leader for the group passport, not only because she’s an Umno member but also because she works in Subang.


The queue was long, and the crowd swelled in no time. As the air got thinner and the stench developing nicely, the kids became restive, with the younger ones beginning to question the wisdom of waiting at this rundown office and not at Subang Parade. The situation was getting so helpless that Pak Lang had to swing into action with his bag of tricks. He went straight to the counter and insisted that we deserved priority treatment because Mak Long was many months pregnant. It worked. The officer apologized profusely and attended to all sixteen of us immediately. Pak Cu had to identify all his five children. No easy task considering that most of the time he’s away either at his surau or in Tawau. We’re out of the building after two hours instead of two pm! To set the record straight, Mak Long was not pregnant (She’s fabulous 48 and Pak Long was retiring). Neither was Mak Lang. Mak Cu? We’re not sure. We’ve to ask Pak Cu.

2. Wayan, Made, Nyoman, Ketut and Mariezka (11 November 2007)

Anticipating a long check-in process, we arrived at KLIA quite early that Sunday morning for the 10 am flight to Bali. The check-in lady redirected us to a group check-in counter, just ahead of a group of randy pensioners on a Bangkok tour. We had a group passport, a group check-in, and what’s next? Group air pockets? It took the kind lady about half and hour to clear all 16 pax and 10 bags. We could see her struggling to tally and match the long names in the tickets against the passports and her computer. Quite a feat since she had to do all this in a tight fitting dress. We’re all set, in descending order: Pak Long, Mak Long, Pak Cu, Pak Lang, Mak Lang, Mak Cu, Azra, Faliq, Aida, Afzal, Nisa, Sarah, Zarif, Irina, Aizat, and Aqila, with 50 good years separating Pak Long and Aqila. The children had been waiting for this for the last two months and they just couldn’t wait any longer. The Airbus took off as scheduled (which means 20 minutes late). Due to some booking problems, we’re not seated together, although the children somehow managed to sit next to each other. Pak Lang and Mak Lang also managed to sit together, away from us. Wow. Just like what they always say in Hollywood, if you’re hot, you’re hot!


We touched down at Denpasar Ngurah Rai Airport with the usual dose of rattles and shakes. This wasn’t totally unexpected given that the whole world now is facing an acute shortage of trained pilots. Immigration clearance was surprisingly smooth. No question, no extortion. After retrieving our bags, we walked out to look for transport to our hotel. Pak Long saw the familiar Bluebird car rental office and went in to enquire, and settled for the biggest mpv in Bali to take all of us to the hotel for 150,000 Rupiah. Sounds an exorbitant lot of money, but it’s actually less than RM60. Like most Indonesians, the driver was friendly and engaging. He spoke in typical Indonesian language, just like the way bibik Sirami and Ponayah speak. You can’t help but admire the Indonesians for their language skills. They could articulate and spin something ordinary and unimportant into an eighth wonder of the world. Of course most of us Malaysians could never get down to marvelling at the way our maids talk; we’re far too busy managing their passports. Even after more than three years in and out of Jakarta, I’ve yet to fully master the shades and subtleties of the language. Every time I break into Indonesian language, people would ask me which part of Kelantan I'm from. Anyway, back to the driver. His name was Made. Actually Made is one of the four standard first names in Balinese naming system. Technically they’re not names like Amran or Mawi in Malaysia but rather titles or forms of address signifying the sequence of birth (like Along, Alang etc). The eldest son or daughter is named Wayan. The second is Made, the third Nyoman or Komang, and the fourth Ketut. The fifth will take the name Wayan again and the cycle repeats. With a population of three million, there’ve to be at least 500,000 Wayans running around in Bali today. Mak Long would be a Wayan, Pak Long a Ketut.


We reached our hotel, Harris Resort, after a short ride. With kids and bags on top of each other, it’s hardly a joyride. There’s simply no space for the children to breathe and misbehave. The hotel was located around Kuta beach, one of the tourist hotspots in Bali. There're more than sixty hotels of various sizes, shapes and stars in Kuta alone. Harris Resort was strongly recommended to me by a close Indonesian friend and former co-worker by the name of Mariezka. Extraordinary name for an everyday girl. Sounds like Sanskrit, but it’s actually meaningless in any language, living or dead. She’s not a Balinese, she’s from Bangka, which makes her a Bangkese. She cautioned me against taking the children to the beach, which was notorious for sumur (Indonesian acronym for susu jemur. Sorry) We took three rooms, and what a pleasant surprise. The rooms were clean and tasteful, big enough to accommodate all Pak Cu’s Wayan, Made, Komang, Ketut and Wayan again. The toilet was spacious, without complimentary cockroaches. Mariezka had described this hotel as minimalist. I couldn’t agree more. You notice the language? She didn't say cheap, three-star, basic or other put-downs. We decided not to venture out today, but just to hang around and let the kids enjoy the swimming pool.


3. Ubud (12 November 2007)

We did some homework before coming to Bali: surfing Bali websites, consulting Mak Cu’s boss who’d visited Bali three times a year, and talking to Kak Maria (a family friend and an illegal travel agent). Not much really, but enough for us to conclude that there were plenty of reasons why Australians keep flocking to Bali: Beaches, nightlife, culture, nightlife, temples, nightlife and probably rural sceneries, you know, mundane things like hills, hill slopes, rice fields on hill slopes, trees and monkeys on trees, which you could easily find in Sri Menanti on the way to Kuala Pilah. Since we’re not from Canberra (capital of Australia, see you’re confused again) and we had 10 children with short attention span, we decided that we’d skip the beaches, nightlife and temples, and go for some culture, rural life, and maybe a bit of shopping and nasi padang in between. For culture, crafts and country side, look no further than Ubud. With a wealth of local and foreign painters, carvers and dancers, it’s the last word in Balinese artistry. I also read somewhere that a wayward Dutch artist and a German musician, nothing less, had fallen so deeply in love with Ubud that they made their home there. We thought if Ubud was good enough for the Dutch and the Germans, it should also be good for those from Kg Pandan. So we started with Ubud.


We rented a 14-seater Isuzu Elf for our Ubud excursion. Without the bags, the space was more generous and the children were livelier than yesterday. The driver was Pak Agung (Nyoman Agung, I think) who doubled as our guide. Like all friendly Indonesians, he talked non-stop and found his match in Pak Cu who fired questions non-stop. We reached Ubud after about two hours of pleasant ride, passing through Denpasar, Batubulan, Celuk and Mas. Ubud lived up to our expectation, and certainly deserved all the rage and reputation. It’s all arts and crafts. Shops and galleries selling paintings, carvings and other forms of Balinese art lined up the main road. We couldn’t resist the temptation and stopped for a look at the paintings. Man, they’re so lovely, all done by local artists, you know, people like you and me, except that they’re more talented and creative. I know Mak Lang has an artistic bent, but I don’t think she’d have any space and energy left to draw or paint after those long hours managing her manic minister. What a pity. Most of the works here were of the modern variety and highly abstract. Not even one out of the sixteen of us knew the slightest meaning of any of them. Certainly not Aqila. I doubt whether the painters themselves knew what they’re up to. But who cares. Come on, we’re talking art here. People get away with art, remember. We hopped from one roadside ‘gallery’ to another, looking for something we might like. Seeing all the options, Pak Long and Mak Long went crazy as they’re totally spoilt for choice. They’re beautiful and incredibly cheap (the paintings, not Pak Long and Mak Long). Cheap in price but definitely not cheap in quality. I’d seen inferior quality ones priced much, much higher at Pasar Seni Ancol in Jakarta. All of us finally ended up with a few pieces each. Even Afzal and Faliq bought one each for their bedrooms. Pak Cu bought a dozen, all for his surau friends.


After we’re done with Ubud, we headed for Kintamani, an hour’s easy drive uphill, passing quaint villages, temples, kebun jeruk, dogs and a police road block. Apparently the police here were artists and sculptors in their small way, I mean the way they made the driver 30,000 Rupiah poorer without upsetting him one bit. We reached a small hilltop resort with a couple of restaurants with an outstanding view but outrageous food. We’re right at the rim of a deep valley, facing the majestic Gunung Batur, an active volcano. We stopped just long enough to snap some pictures. We boarded our bus and began our journey back to Kuta. We stopped at Ubud again for another round of crafts, this time wooden posters for the kitchen: Paris Café, Espresso, Today’s Menu and other fancy gastronomic battle cries, which reminded us that it’s way past lunch time, so we’d to hurry back. Everybody agreed on nasi padang for lunch. It’s almost three, anybody would agree to anything for lunch. We stopped at Natrabu, a nasi padang restaurant in Sanur, not far from Kuta. The food was simply out of this world. The waiter had to work overtime to bring us plates after plates of nasi tambah. All the children agreed to rate Natrabu ten out of ten. Better than Paris Café. Mak Cu said she’d not seen Zarif eating until today. Mak Lang had seen Pak Lang eating many times before, but never this much.


4. The Nightlife (13 November 2007)

Travel experts and freaks all agreed that, for a true Bali experience, you’ve to see its nightlife. We thought it’s fair to check this out, after paying good money for this trip. So we ventured out this evening, taking the narrow back lane to Jalan Legian, the most happening and pulsating part of Bali. True enough, what greeted us was a complete contrast to the tranquility and easy pace of Ubud or Taman Nirwana in Ampang. The street had been turned into a full-blown tourist strip, with bright lights, restaurants, massage, lounges, discos and shops selling just about anything needed by tourists (except turbines). The one-way traffic was heavy, and the music, blaring out at full speed from all corners, was maddening. And it’s not yet peak season. Now we knew why the Australians ignored all terror threats and travel advisories to be here. It’s life in the fast lane. Nothing could slow them down, not even the sombre memorial to the 2002 bombing victims. For us, there’s nothing much on offer here. So we just picked one corner and watched the proceedings. Some loud and rowdy tourists were having the time of their lives, drinking and shouting and swearing at the locals. Finally we decided that we’d seen all, and strolled towards Kuta town centre. The children, bored and clueless, stopped at 7-Eleven four times. From Kuta town, we took Jalan Pantai Kuta and we’re back at Harris Resort. We’d got our money’s worth.

5. Whitewater rafting (14 November 2007)

It’s time for some real action, and it’s whitewater rafting. Until now I’m not sure why it’s called whitewater. Why not river rafting or just water rafting if you really need to differentiate it from rafting on land? Bad joke. Actually rafting was Pak Lang’s idea. On the way back to our hotel last night, Pak Lang stopped at a travel agency to enquire about rafting. I never knew that Pak Lang was so outdoorsy. I’d gladly accept it if he decided to take up painting or ballroom dancing or even wushu, for a change, but rafting? Was this an attempt to make up for last night’s nightlife? Or the simple need to whip up the adrenaline and mojo? Who knew. With Pak Lang leading the negotiation, we managed to get a competitive package for eleven of us, with transport and lunch thrown in. In the morning the number increased to thirteen, with Mak Cu (surprise, surprise) and Mak Long (reluctantly as usual) also joining the trip. Pak Cu opted to stay back with Ijat and Aqila.


Actually none of us had ever tried rafting before, and we had only a vague idea of what it’s all about. What we knew for sure was that rafting involved water. Is it dangerous? Is it deep? No time for second thoughts as two vans arrived to haul us to a place called Kareng Asem. (We forgot to ask whether Kareng Asem was Balinese for Kurang Asam). From Kuta, it’s about two hours of glorious countryside with narrow and steep road, rice fields, Balinese gardens (gardens!), temples and all. Pak Lang was speechless throughout. We reached the starting point on the bank of a river called Telaga Waja. I could almost hear Mak Long’s huge sigh of relief. The river was actually narrow and not too deep, but it flowed very fast. It’s so clear that you could see the pebbles and sand below. All the way the river would run over rocks of all shapes and sizes, breaking into a series of rapids. So for the first time we’d be rafting and shooting the rapids. We’d to wait for our turn since there’re already two noisy groups ahead of us. From the way they looked and talked, we could tell that they’re Koreans and Caucasians, not Kelantanese. Thirteen of us were split into three groups, each in one inflatable raft led by a local guide. Everyone was given a paddle, more for show and style since none of us actually knew how to row. We just couldn’t wait.

It’s two hours of non-stop turning and twisting and tumbling down the fast river. Like Proud Mary, we're rollin’, rollin’, rollin’on the river! It’s fast and furious from start to finish. After half an hour, all of us were drenched to the skin. How we wished Pak Cu, Shakhir, Ida, Pak Di, Mak Di, Mak Ngah, Udin, Acik, Mak Cik, Adik, Abang, Abang Jilan were here. We screamed and laughed, passing and shoving and splashing and taunting each other all the way. It’s certainly faster and more exciting than painting. I couldn’t help but notice Mak Cu playfully screaming and splashing her way with abandon, and why not? After all Pak Cu was also having fun with Ijat and Aqila at the hotel (Ha ha ha. Lepas ni boleh la pi surau). The climax was when we’d to negotiate a five-meter waterfall and nobody drowned. I must thank Pak Lang for this little escapade, because my two girls, Aida and Sarah, seemed to enjoy it. Many times better than maths tuition, they told me. It’s also heartening to see the younger ones like Nisa, Irina and Zarif coming through and raring for more. The children certainly deserved a round of applause and nasi padang.

6. Jainori and Jimbaran (14 November 2007)

Seafood at Jimbaran was my idea, but Jainori was Pak Cu’s idea. We’d befriended one taxi driver by the name of Jainori who took us to the Discovery mall the night before. We had a soft spot for him because he’s a Muslim, which was a rarity in Bali. His Latin complexion and sharp dress reminded us of our Pak Uteh. He went off after dropping us at the mall. But when we flagged a taxi on our way back an hour later, it’s him again! There’re literally thousands of taxis in Bali, and the odds on hitting him twice were statistically impossible. Pak Cu and Jainori quietly exchanged mobile numbers. You’ll never know, one day this lucky guy might need turbines, Pak Cu thought. Fair enough.

Seafood at Jimbaran is highly recommended by any smart travel guide and travel agent, legal or illegal. Jimbaran is a beach less than10 km away from Kuta. Alfresco seafood dinner on Jimbaran beach, especially during sunset, is a highlight in any Bali travel itinerary. Since we had ten children with ten different ideas, we took longer time to get dressed, and missed the sunset. But that wasn’t a problem. The problem was transport. There’re plenty of transport options around but we hadn’t made any arrangement. Luckily Pak Cu, a multinational businessman, had the presence of mind to strike a deal with his new-found friend, Jainori. At only 100,000 rupiah for Jainori and his big van to take us all to Jimbaran and return, it’s a steal. We thanked Pak Cu for his strategic thinking. We waited and waited and finally Jainori showed up with his van, or something that looked like a van. My pulse raced and my cholesterol rose. What we saw was a wreck. It’s nothing more than a beat-up, rickety contraption with four tyres, torn seats, pungent smell, without aircon, enough maybe for eight small persons. It’s too late to change plans, so we squeezed in, and immediately I could hear choking sounds like somebody was grasping for air. Pak Long and Pak Cu were up in arms, griping and growling all the way, dressing down Jainori for not honouring his promise of a big, proper van with enough air for us to breath. We reached Jimbaran safely, and saw a long row of seafood restaurants right on the beach, with tables all the way down to the water. We chose one restaurant, took a long table, and quickly made our order. The food was good but not spectacular, just the normal seafood fare you’d easily find around Pernu in Melaka. But the ambience was certainly different, and romantic enough for mid-life couples like Pak Long and Mak Long. The crowd, mostly tourists, were surprisingly well behaved.

Jainori took us back to Kuta. He happily accepted 100,000 rupiah and quickly drove off. Pak Cu and Pak Long took one last look at the van, shook their heads and just laughed. Travel is lot of fun.


7. Maya Karin (14 - 15 November 2007)

There’s just one more thing left. Spa. Yes, Spa. There’re Balinese spas at Ikano Power Centre and Great Eastern Mall, of course, but why settle for Balinese spas in KL while you can get the real thing in Bali? What’s more rewarding after a terror ride than a round of uplifting massage and herbal bath? And wasn’t it about time for the three mums to clean up and rid themselves of the ravages left by years of raising children and husbands? Pak Long, Pak Lang and Pak Cu agreed that Mak Long, Mak Lang and Mak Cu deserved a break, at long last. Pak Long had negotiated a rock-bottom rate with Giri Loka spa at the hotel. It’s going to be a long and comprehensive session (10 children, remember?) over two days, starting 10.30 pm on 14 November until 1 am on 15 November (two and half hours actually). So the three mums sneaked into Giri Loka, leaving the dads to tend to the multi-talented children.


Aida and Sarah were sleeping like a log and I was still packing for tomorrow’s flight to KL when somebody knocked on the door. It’s already past 1 am. At small hours like this, men of my age are bound to see ghosts. I opened the door and came face to face with Maya Karin. No, it’s Mak Long after a Balinese spa. I thanked god she didn’t smell like Maya Karin. Now you know why some men pay for their wives’ expensive spa trips. At breakfast the next morning, I saw the other two Maya Karins, sitting next to Pak Lang and Pak Cu. Balinese spas are truly effective. It’s close to one million rupiah for the spa. A tidy sum, but it’s money well spent. Pak Lang and Pak Cu were eating very slowly, deep in thought, reflecting and probably reconsidering their plans. Pak Long? Well, it’s too late now.

8. Milestone (15 November 2007)

It’s a milestone for Aida and Faliq. Their UPSR results were out this morning. Bali would forever be close to their heart. After all, how often do you get to know your exam results in an exotic setting like Bali? The results, well, no reason to complain. Were they happy? You just couldn’t tell. Children, you’ll never know them enough. They’re an enigmatic lot. One day they’re up, the next day they’re way down. Today she wants to be a lawyer, tomorrow a princess. A princess? You’ll never know what plays in their mind.

9. Too soon, Too soon (15 November 2007)


We checked out at about 11, plenty of time to catch our 3 pm flight back to KL. Much wiser now, we got hold of two hotel vans to ferry us to the airport. The check-in was painstakingly slow, but we’re just in time for boarding.

I always leave a place I like with a tinge of sadness. Well, not really sadness, but a sense of loss or, perhaps, feeling of guilt for leaving too soon, and, of course, the prospect of never seeing it again. You’d feel like staying a day longer. Or is it just the stark reality gripping you, reminding you that the carefree days are over and now is the time to pamper the bosses again? Bali has been one of our best holidays. It’s certainly value for money, or bang for the buck, said the bloody Americans. The moments will linger on for a long while. I was half way on board the MH flight to KL when something hit me. It’s the smooth, soulful opening lines of an obscure love song I’d heard the first time on Columbo, a hit 70’s TV series. It’s a Frank Sinatra cover of a Billie Holiday original. The title is Speak Low, and I thought I must share with you (but you must listen to Ol’ Blue Eyes to savour the atmosphere):

Speak low when you speak, love
Our summer day withers away too soon, too soon
Speak low when you speak, love
Our moment is swift, like ships adrift, we’re swept apart, too soon.

© 2006 Kg. Pandan Backpackers | Blogger Templates by GeckoandFly | Design by Andreas Viklund
No part of the content or the blog may be reproduced without prior written permission.
Learn how to Make Money Online at GeckoandFly | First Aid and Health Information at Medical Health