It's a great place to go: cheap, great food, particularly the seafood at Jimbaran Bay, the culture is abundant and the natural environment terrific, if not a little polluted.
The first time I went there was in the summer of 1992 with two friends – a couple – who insisted I learn how to haggle. At the time my friends were serious yuppies: school teachers on holiday. He’s not at all now (a yuppie or a teacher) in fact he’d have to be my one of my favourite human beings. But in those days they were both caught up in the power of wealth. “You have to bargain Don. It’s an important part of the culture. They won’t respect you unless you go in hard.”
Next day there we were at a wild and noisy market full of colourful things – clothes mainly. I looked at a T shirt I liked at one of the stalls, went up to the fellow selling it and asked him how much. He told me some figure – 3000 rupees. I did the obligatory show of disbelief, and yes I smiled as one is supposed to and I shook my head in mock disgust. He paused, waiting for some equally absurd counter offer – 1000 rupees say – and I then said, “How about 4000?”
For a moment there was a strange pause, like I was speaking a foreign language and had gone the wrong way accidentally, but no, we were speaking my language – English. He looked at me imploringly, waiting for me to correct my bid. And when I bid 5000 things got out of hand. My friends attempted to interrupt, but I pushed on with the reverse bidding until I got to a phenomenally high price: about fifteen Australian dollars, in fact the price I thought the object was worth. By this stage there was a crowd of his friends and relatives all laughing and gesticulating like I was some kind of shamanic idiot. I bought the T shirt, shook the guy’s hand, and went happily on my way knowing my friends wouldn’t attempt to involve me in “bargaining” ever again.
Some weeks later, after some great times travelling throughout Bali, Lombok and Java, I caught up with my sisters and their husbands and children for Christmas in Bali. They’d all been staying at one of the many medium priced family houses by the beach in a spot called Legian – a famous spot for strees-free vacations.
They arranged to have Christmas dinner at a restaurant called the Swastika. I couldn’t help joking about this, saying, “So, we’re going to the Swastika to have Nazi Goring eh?” The Swastika was originally an ancient oriental symbol for good luck. Amongst his other sins Hitler was a cultural plagiarist too.
So we rolled up at the Swastika for Christmas lunch. My brother in law had gone down there the previous day to organise roast pork. It was a typically sumptuous Balinese restaurant with large arches and ceiling fans. Apart from us the place was empty. After we sat down my sister realised that she’d left the Christmas crackers at the hotel, and no one really wanted to travel the distance back to get them, so we sat around feeling despondent at the idea of not having silly hats and corny jokes – possibly the best part of Christmas lunch.
Then one of us – heaven knows who – noticed that all the light shades in the restaurant were the right size for a human head. They were made of palm leaves in a conical shape. We asked the managers if we could wear them and they were happy to oblige. Only in Bali! They even had smaller ones for the kids.
Then, when we’d finished our entrees of delicious Balinese food, my brother in law asked if they could serve the pork. And out it came – in the form of a small pig! Beautifully barbecued and baked whole pig. Instead of an apple in its mouth they’d placed a banana. And when the Swastika manager walked up to my brother in law with a carving knife, expecting him to do the honours, something had to be fixed, and quickly. The children were clearly upset, so my sister took the manager aside and politely asked him if the pig could be removed and returned as a plate of carved pork. Us westerners don’t like to see the corporeal shape of our protein.
The Balinese manager did as we asked, the pork, which was perfectly cooked, was eaten by all, and no one was badly affected by the incident (although I have to note that years later my brother in law and one of my nieces ended up vegetarians).
And more importantly the Balinese took it all in their stride. It’s they way the are; they simply let things happen, even when angry English and European tourists yell and thump tables, they just smile and let it slide.
And when I find myself waiting for a friend at the airport, and bunches of Australians come through the gates from Bali looking sanguine and relaxed, I can’t help feeling that …well yeah… maybe it’s starting to rub off.
No comments:
Post a Comment