Balilicious

For years it has been a regular joke within JAAM (my group of close high school friends for those of you who didn’t know me before I was 18) that we would go to Bali. When we were coming up with places to go for our graduation trip, Bali was obviously on the list, but we never actually expected we would get there (except maybe Snarky, who has a tendency to end up in Asian countries almost at the drop of a hat). So, a little more than a year later, it struck me as an odd (but not unfortunate!) twist of fate that I would actually end up in Bali. Bali is a place like Timbuktu, or the moon. Yeah, they exist, but who actually gets to go there? It’s the opposite side of the planet!

Well, I can cheerfully report back that Bali is, like totally, rad. It’s got your perfect beaches, your tropical cabanas, palm trees, surf shops, dive shops, exotic fruit smoothies, more restaurant than you could shake a stick at, awesome Hindu temples, and an ungodly number of souvenir stalls. If you like bargaining, this is a place to go. The shopkeepers will lure you into their shops using any method they can (this includes grabbing you by the arm and dragging you in) and then will assault you with every piece of merchandise they possess. As soon as you pay attention to a particular item, they will pounce on you and at that point, only the bravest and penniless will be able to escape without purchasing anything. Be strong! Ignore their pleas for their children, their luck, and try not to buy anything unless you actually want it, or the price is too good to pass up.

Bali was very different from the rest of Indonesia. On the other islands we visited, the locals were unused to tourists, and our passing always created a stir. Children would run excitedly up to us yelling “Hello Mister!” (regardless of our gender) while the more sedate adults would simply smile, wave and say hello. We learned the different phrases for good morning (selamat pagi), good midday (selamat siang), good afternoon (selamat saray), and good night (selamat malam); whenever we used these, we’d get much bigger smiles and the same greeting. Men on motorbikes constantly asked “Where are you going?” regardless of whether or not they planned on offering us a ride. We wore conservative clothing, evaded stray dogs, roosters and trash in the streets, and mingled with the locals.

As we sailed up to Bali, it was immediately apparent that this island was not like the others. Oversized speedboats strewn with bikini-clad tourists zoomed by us and huge tour boats with bars on every floor blasted Lady Gaga and Black Eyed Peas (club music, for my less nightclub oriented readers). I hadn’t shown my shoulders or knees on land since Australia, and alcohol was banned on half the islands we’d visited. Yet here was an island, in the midst of conservative, mostly Muslim Indonesia, where young westerners strolled the streets in bathing suits and tanks tops with beer logos, and every other doorway housed a five dollar massage parlor. This was not at all the Indonesia I’d come to know. This was a place that intentionally mixed western luxury with exoticism to create its own little universe. It was a true tropical getaway.

I put in my fair share of time in the clubs, particularly the five story extravaganza with fire dancers and fashion shows, and I put in more than my fair share of time in the shops (poor bank account) but for me, the truly memorable parts of Bali were part of its unique culture. The beautiful temples, the daily offerings in every doorway, the strange cremation ceremony we stumbled upon and the mysticism of the locals were the true treasures of Bali.

So if you ever get a hankering to go to a tropical paradise on the other side of the world and need a travel buddy, give me a holler. I’d love to go back.