Bali - Leaving Ubud for Padangbai

We left Ubud early (for us). Around 7am.
We changed our routine. We learnt from Bali - better to cycle early in the day, arrive at our destination by lunch, or early afternoon and then ‘defunk’ and rest up.
This avoided the main mid day blistering heat, although by 9:00am, the temperature was already in the mid twenties and humidity quite oppressive.
We turned off the busy main coastal route, with its larger trucks heading to and from the ports on the south east of Bali, and along what was becoming our favoured routes - the backroads. Riding pleasure derived from the quieter arteries allowed us to relax, let the mind wander and take in rural life, happening around us.
Passing through smaller habitations on what we would deem a lane, the road dissolved into the landscape, becoming ever tinier until it was but a track between fields, linking small villages. Bits of rainforest existed with exotic crops such as banana and mango tucked in beside fields of rice.
People to’d and fro’d. Mopeds laden with large bunches of green stuff. Feed for animals? Some form of crop? Who knows but it was on the move. The deft riding of the pilot was impressive. They negotiated the narrow track, his or her large bunch of green stuff stuck out behind the moped like a peacock’s fan. We pulled to the side to let them past and received smiles of thanks. The puzzled looks of villagers, mostly the elderly, contrasted with the enthusiastic “halo, halo” from children, accompanied by a big smile. This was wonderful and though these greetings and goodbyes combined were fleeting, such joyous encounters carried us forward.
The people are workers. They toil, for sure and it made me feel humble, very lucky and a softy at times.
Women and men seem to work in equal measure from what I could see. Whether it was the harvesting crops in the fields, or moving soil or rocks in some type of building work, or cleaning (they are very fastidious - always sweeping!). Balinese of all ages were actively doing something, despite the heat.

We made a little detour to see a temple.
Amanda paid the entrance fee (this is common in many temples) and wearing a sarong, she went with a guide to walk through the fields to the temple to see some stone carvings.
I was suffering in the heat somewhat. I decided to give it a miss and remained with the bikes and tried to hide in the thin shadow of a fat truck to stop me melting in what was now the burning heat of late morning.

Onward and back onto the main road.
It was the usual constant traffic and requirement for cycling vigilance. The numerous trucks, travelling slowly were constantly overtaken by cars. Cars overtaking trucks, scooters overtaking cars…and then add in the same coming towards us on the opposite side of the road. A tad intense.

A quick stop at the ‘Bat Cave’ temple. We planned to come back here at dusk to see the bats who live in a cave at the back of the temple grounds (note: we ended up not doing this as we met Nick).
As we stopped I was pounced upon by several small ladies who wanted to sell me things. As we raced through the usual introductions and general questions as they ascertained what I needed, wanted etc. and so approach with the correct sales strategy and selling patter. The first lady was nice and staked her claim upon me (Amanda had gone over the road to see the bat statue) and she beckoned me to come to her stall. I was thirsty and agreed to buy a soda and said I would come when my wife returned. Then another popped up and butted in. The same questions as her eyes darted around me, our bikes and I felt possibly sizing me up? Another one then approached and they had me in a pincer movement. I wasn’t thirsty enough to buy drinks from all so I had to say that I had agreed to buy from Lady No.1. as she had approached me first. This seemed to raise a slight smile in Lady No. 1 as she returned to her stall, enthusiastically directing me as to its location. The others retreated, figuring that I wasn’t worth a battle and possible combination of bicycles, not going into the temple and not being a high roller meant sales angles for them were slim to nothing.
After a refreshing drink we headed off the short distance to our digs. Set in the middle of nowhere, Bhalance Retreat sounded like it could be a new age facility for former cult members. The picture looked nice with
a common layout of small lodges, set in a garden around a pool.

We arrived after a ten minute cycle along a path set in the forest to a walled entrance.
Parking the bikes we stepped over the threshold into a green oasis. The grass led grounds faced onto a lake, covered in water lillies and some other floating plants and flowers. Swifts skimmed the calm water, grabbing flies on the wing, sending ripples to break the reflection of the clouds in the sky. Hills rose about a mile distant and the scene reminded me of the type of scene depicted in a film. The place was quiet. A couple of guests lounged around the pool and staff pottered around, sweeping, and it seemed very relaxed. We were checked in by the friendy receptionist and were given a welcome drink whilst our room was readied. It sounds like luxury doesn’t it?
It was to us! A nice room, beautiful location and its own small restaurant made it ideal.
All for the price of around £25 per night. This would be several hundred if it were elsewhere in the world I’m sure.

A shower and the now regular process of ‘defunking’ of our riding clothes by the method of hand wash. This is usually done in a basin or by taking clothes into the shower, then manual wringing and then hanging out on a makeshift washing line (done with sympathy as much as possible so as not to lower the tone of the place).
We went to the bar area to do some planning. Several staff busied themselves behind the bar and staff to guest ratio seemed high. We have noticed that many places in Indonesia have several workers in some roles that would seem like almost too many for the task at hand and customer requirement. I wonder if this is because the population is so high and cost of labour very low and incentive also to keep people in employment?
A bar tender mixed cocktails at the bar. A special event or possible influx of people for an evenings soirée perhaps? It turned out not to be the case, as the bar tender preceded to drink some of the cocktails, as did some of the staff, who watched on, intently!
We ordered a drink at the bar and I ordered a Coca Cola. The bar keep quipped “would you like some whisky in it?” I said no as I was from Scotland and only drink whisky neat!
This seemed to pique his interest and he also told us later he had seen us looking at maps earlier, as we sat in the bar area doing our planning on the laptop. He was curious and this was an ‘in’ for what turned out to be an evening that we weren’t expecting at all.

Nicholas (Nick) was Javanese. He was a roving bar keep. A sort of alcoholic troubadour, his job was to move amongst his bosses properties (the place we were staying at being one), teach staff the bar trade, and create a signature cocktail menu to reflect each place.
He made one for us to try, at no cost, and wanted honest feedback on how we found it. A cocktail called a Negroni with his own twist was made and we tried it watched on by Nick and the other staff. This led to a prolonged discussion on drinks, including whisky . He talked about his ingredients and why the flavours are paired. He sounded passionate and knowledgeable and admitted he was somewhat of an alcohol nerd. He read up on the history of cocktail names, when they were first created or introduced and knew so much about the whisky process and facts on other spirits and liqueurs that we were in awe of his information recall.
As we progressed onto test cocktail No. 2 he digressed and we offered our honest feelings on his concoction and remained his only customers. I think we had connected with Nick and although he was technically working, he seemed extremely laid back, as did the other staff.
Post dinner we chatted again when he came over to check on us and as we were about to head off to bed, he asked to join him for a wee dram of Black Label as a nightcap, so the staff could close up for the night.
Nick had an interesting life. His father was in the military and known person in Java. He and his brother were beaten by his father with a rubber hose “to toughen them up”. In a bid to escape the influence of his father, and military school, he and his brother ran away and lived independently in the middle of nowwhere.
He worked as a bar tender in Jakarta and at one of the cities’ craziest nightclubs, served his apprenticeship and learnt his trade and knowledge. He hated the term ‘mixologist’ and explained that he’d participated in competitions to face off against other ‘mixologists’ from other countries and how he was treated by those he competed against. He gave an honest account of addiction to opioids and other drugs and about having an epiphany to straighten up, in part for his relationship with his wife and for the love of his daughter. He found that the travelling part of his role is hard, as it takes him away from home for weeks at a time. We could tell that he cared about his daughter and together with his profession, which he extolled as being about the customer and not the drink and how important meeting people is and of the exchanges that follow. That’s what seemed to drive him and it is this addiction that replaced the chemical ones he used to rely upon. As he threw back several whiskies (we declined as we had already had several cocktails) it was now late and we reluctantly retreated to bed. We said that we would take him to our local pub for a whisky, should he make it to Edinburgh.
Another encounter created in the random way of things that our trip throws up from time to time - unexpected , memorable and at the generosity of strangers.

Waking early the next day and hangover free we hit the road to the port of Padangbai, to catch the ferry to the small island of Nusa Penida.
About six miles to the port we arrived in time to allow us to buy tickets and find out where the ferry departed. Looking puzzled and unsure, we asked where we could buy tickets and immediately a local on a scooter bade us follow him. He took us right up to the front of the queue. No ticket booth? He offered to get our tickets, but the price was higher than we’d read it should be. We declined and he motored off. Amanda volunteered to go and find where tickets could be bought.
It materialised that official tickets were hard to come by. Tickets were sold by all and sundry - small booths by the port and men on scooters with leather bum bags who sort of acted as ticket agents or brokers. It meant a ticket would cost you a varied amount depending on the agent, his commission and how he was feeling. After buying a ticket, Amanda then had to get a boarding pass, which involved going somewhere else. Convoluted and seemingly inefficient to us, this is probably totally logical to Indonesians (and a way for another group of people to make a living). The result was that the prices we researched were not the case in reality.
With small bits of paper in hand to get on the ferry, we waited in line as mopeds and motorcycles arrived to swell our numbers.
Mostly Indonesians, there were a couple of other westerners amongst us. We got chatting to a nice American called Chris. He was living and working in Bali and was a passionate snorkeller. He was on an overnight trip with his guide Eddie to do some snorkelling on the island. He riffed at length on Indonesia, snorkelling, politics and geopolitics and was no lover of the current US administration. In part, maybe why he was on the other side of the world.
It was welcome again to have a conversation with another in a common language. It is so easy and not exhausting. It just flows and is something we have missed, although our lack of language has been put to shame many times by the proficient conversational English spoken by some of the people we have met.

The ferry approached and docked. It looked a bit top heavy but relatively sea worthy. It was also painted a jaunty yellow colour so that gave me some comfort.
As the arriving vehicle and passengers disembarked, our motorcade lined up, like the starting grid of a moto Grand Prix. We hung back as we figured there must be some order to the loading. As the cars, trucks a vans rolled on, we were invited and walked our bikes into the belly of the beast and tucked Thom and Pete at the bottom of the stairway leading up to the upper decks.
We climbed the stairs to the small seating area, with rows of chairs facing forward, covered above but open to port and starboard, allowing a nice breeze through. Hawkers acted quickly to try and sell food, drink and others items to passengers before they had to get off. To the smell of diesel fumes we settled ourselves into a seat for the crossing and hoped it wouldn’t be too choppy.Læs mere