Denpesar airport was cool and calm apart from the twinky, twinky music and the occasional dragon like statue. Then there was the visa on arrival thing, having planned ahead I had my 25$ (US) ready, however I had filled out my paperwork in purple gel pen but it was all I had to hand on the flight! Anyways, it was all good and I was allowed into the country.
Next I needed cash, I found a cashpoint and roughly estimated the amount of cash I would need for the next few days, 150€, here, I was a multimillionaire!
I followed the signs for the official taxi tank, gave the controller my address and paid the fare. A man magically appeared at my side and I, rather foolishly, assumed he was my driver, he took my bag and lead me out to the parked taxi. Inside was the driver who confirmed my destination whilst mystery man demanded payment for escorting me across the carpark. I'd been scammed, goddamnit, my bag has wheels, I can do it myself. Anyways, I begrudgingly gave him 20,000 rupiah (1.50€) I've since found out this is double to going rate for porter services!
Finally I was on my way to Kuta on the south coast. Living in Europe, I have often heard Bali described as Mallorca for Australians. Having lived in Mallorca, this didn't put me off, there's more to it than just Magalluf.
Was it the reverse culture shock of returning to the city or just pure snobbery but as my taxi crawled along Legian Street (traffic here is atrocious) my heart sank. Remember the chavfest of Phuket airport? This was it on a massive scale offering them every crap tshirt, hair braiding, happy hour service they could possibly need.
Now, anyone who knows me is well aware that clothes shopping is my main raison d'être, however, if that's what I wanted to do, I'd have gone to New York. There were shops, upon shops selling clothes of varying quality and dubious authenticity.
Then there were the billys, farangs, giris, whatever you want to call them, sporting their Bintang (local beer) branded shirts, shorts, bandanas, babies.
Thankfully, my accommodation, Tanaya Bed & Breakfast was an oasis of calm. I had purposely booked it as this was my first stop alone, I wanted something stylish and central that would appeal to people like, well, me!
My first night alone, I ventured out feeling brave and adventurous. I trawled through the surfer guys and gals in search of some local food. I dined in a low key place on Poppies Gang 2. Avacado salad followed by crispy noodles with shrimp and vegetables and a Bintang were served by the surly waitress.
After avoiding the stares of the "transport, transport!" guys, I continued down the road to the sea front. I saw the biggest, glitziest McDonalds I've ever seen and a mammoth Mini Market (like a 7-11).
I passed a string of fancy looking but overpriced bar/restaurants and decided to stop and treat myself to a cocktail. I don't remember the name of the place, it had a nice terrace and rattan chairs with big red cushions, lots of couples dined by candelight inside.
Seated outside, I perused the menu to find that my budget would stretch only to a cocktail of the non alcoholic variety, no matter, I am on my own and should probably keep my wits about me. It was a blue mango -mango, blueberries, guava and lime, very nice.
The next morning breakfast at the hotel was fruit, pastries, juice and coffee. After which I went exploring to find the Perama tour office to book my onward journey and to see the beach by day.
The beach, according to my guidebook, makes it all worthwhile. I'm afraid I beg to differ. Pale yellow sand stretches a far as the eye can see, trainee surfers bobbed about in the sea, peaceful, yes?No!!! Every step I took I was ambushed by offers of massage, manicure, transport, marijuana, sarong and all other kinds of shit I neither wanted nor needed.
Vexed, I headed back to my hotel, on the way I stopped at the Rainbow Cafe, according to my guidebook this was a good place to meet people. I drank my beer cringing at the loud mouthed Australian "A fucking cold beer, mate!" his submissive wife and overweight teenage daughter sat behind me. "That poor girl is sat there all alone, think she wants to join us?!" he yelled at his wife. I downed my Bintang and made a run for it.
By now I'd got to thinking about the original Bali plans, I wasn't supposed to be here, I was supposed to be in a villa with private pool outside of the resort. By the time I got back, my vexation was tangible.
I chilled out in my room, took a few deep breaths and set out again when the hunger pangs became unbearable. Earlier, I had spotted Crusoe's restaurant, reasonably priced, near to the hotel and with wifi.
When I got there, there was a group of PR girls who ushered me in. Inside were two guys and a couple at another table. Normal, right? Wrong. The couple left, leaving me to overhear the guys colourful conversation. I ordered a large beer and nasi goreng - fried rice with seafood, prawn crackers and a big fat fried egg on top. When my beer arrived it was wrapped in a cooler that bore the slogan, "Crusoe's bar, the coolest beers and the hottest girls!" Where the hell was I?!
The best course of action I thought was to chow down as fast as possible and get out, not difficult portion sizes here are on the small side. I flipped away my fried egg and dug in, as I did, from the corner of my eye I saw a heinous apparition coming towards me. He, drunk and swaying, salmon pink shirt open to reveal hair covered pot belly, sat down next to me leering and wheezing. Fortunately, as I had discovered earlier at the hotel when I accused my neighbour of using the wrong bathroom, my hearing is not always the best, thus I couldn't hear a word he was saying over the fan and music. Thankfully, one of the girls came over and moved him along.
I chewed, swallowed and gulped down my beer. No sooner had I put down my fork than my friend was back. "I'm from Belgium but I was born in Cameroon." he told me in broken English, "Where are you from?" "England" I replied in my best teacher voice. He repeated his sequence again, this time with arm actions. "I was born in England, I am from England." I replied. He started again looking somewhat exasperated, "Je suis anglais!" I said through gritted teeth. Staring at me like I was some sort of imbecile, he was about to start again when his mobile rang, he walked away to take the call and I took the opportunity to pay the bill and literally run out the door.
Throughout the trip thus far and living in a country that is not my own I have often been asked, "Where are you from?" "England" I reply and at my discretion, "My family are from Jamaica." I was born in England, I hold a British passport, when I go to Jamaica, I am not regarded as a Jamaican. Jamaica is a huge part of my life but it is not all of it.
The next day I wandered around aimlessly then stopped at the Apache Surfer Bar for lunch, it happened to be happy hour and after 2 beers and the Bob Marley soundtrack I began to feel a little better.
I'm not the only person who has felt aggreived by what goes on here, however I shall not resort to terrorist violence, I'll just leave you to it.
Kuta, you are what you are, for the thousands of visitors who come here each year a heavenly week of sun, sand and Bintang. They keep coming, you're doing something right, just not for me.
Next stop, Ubud - Bali.
- Posted from my iPhone
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