What a Difference 24 Hours Can Make, Part 1

(this entry is taking so long to write that I’m going to publish it in parts)

In the last 24 hours, I’ve gone from sleepolis to metropolis, with a short interlude of something else in between, and it’s a striking contrast. Yesterday at 5PM, I was sitting on the ferry from Oecussi to Dili, and, with the exception of all the smokers polluting the wonderful sea air and my bony butt not giving me much cushion, it was a super relaxing time. Today at 5PM, I found myself in Ubud, the “cultural capital of Bali”, less relaxing and far more garish than I could have ever expected. I actually chose Ubud because it was supposed to be far more mellow than some of the other hotspots near the airport. Ubud was described in the guidebook as a contrast to the “Sodom and Gomorrah-like Kuta”, so I can only imagine what the latter is like after seeing Ubud. But before I lay into Ubud good and proper, let me back up so that I don’t leave out some of the things that happened along the way.

I was awoken this morning by one of the crew members who needed me to move my makeshift nesting spot because the ferry was nearing the shore. At 6AM, I was off the ship and walking around Dili, the capital of East Timor. I headed to a hotel that someone had told me about, not to stay but to use their internet and to book a flight to Bali at their travel agency. By 9AM, when all of that was done, I decided to take a walk around town for a few hours before heading to the airport. It was ferociously hot. The city, from what I could gather, had little to no character, just a lot of NGO types racing around in their air-conditioned SUV’s while the other Dilians eked out a life through petty commerce and service sector work (much of it supporting the NGO types, to be sure). I was hot, sweaty, uninspired, and could not get out of that town fast enough. I’m just so glad that Dili was not my first stop in East Timor, as I imagine I would have hated the experience and not stayed in the country for more than 24 hours. I only stayed in Dili for 6 hours, and certainly hope that that steamy cauldron of nothingness does not shape my memory of East Timor, which otherwise, though I saw so little, was pretty wonderful.

From Dili I flew to Bali as it’s the only Indonesian air destination from East Timor. I never expected to come to Bali—it had never appealed to me—but flight connections conspired against me. The idea was to just use this as an overnight landing spot between East Timor, and my next stop, Yogyakarta, but as Bali neared and I read more, I was open to extending my stay here, thinking that I might really miss out on one of Indonesia’s crown jewels if I only gave it a matter of hours.

The touts came touting shortly after I arrived at the airport. Each had his hotel, his taxi, his tour service, and I was quite grateful that I had my Lonely Planet guidebook to keep me on the straight and narrow. Tired after a long day of travel and wanting to make the most of my short time on the island, I opted for a taxi (I’ve been riding lots of taxis here as the most expensive ride I’ve taken—well over an hour and perhaps 40-50 kilometers—ran me only $12). What was striking about the 70 minute ride was that the roadside was filled with commerce perhaps 75% of the way. First up were furniture vendors, miles and miles of them, rattan, beds, stunning doors. Then came the stone cutters—giant pieces, many with a Hindu theme, and weighing in some cases a thousand pounds—and again, store after store for miles on end. Then an interlude of open-air restaurants sunk into rice fields and a series of opulent hotels and resorts, each one with its own unique design look, all several stars but absolutely boutiquey. More driving took us through a gauntlet of oil painters, metal workers, and 12 foot tall playful wax sculptures. And then we were in Ubud.

If the thousands of wholesale vendors along the way were not sufficient indication of what this place was about, Ubud put the cherry on top, though packaging it a bit differently, all in nice gift shops nestled between restaurants and guesthouses of all makes and models. I had chosen a guesthouse that was set well back from the street yet was centrally located enough to explore everything on foot. When the taxi rolled to a stop—having gone as far as it could go but still a football field away from Loka—I grabbed my stuff and started walking down the path. But before I had gone five feet, a young man said “Are you going to Loka? They’re full”, which I knew was a distinct possibility since they had only three guest rooms. Disappointed, I asked if there were other places he’d recommend nearby, and he said that there were a few in a similar price range just down the way. Now I had a decision to make. Do I trust this guy who seems nice enough but who I’ve never met before, or do I play the role of arrogant asshole foreigner, and say “I think I’ll check for myself”. I choose asshole, and I’m even more of a dick when he offers to help me carry my bag down the bumpy path, and I say “sure”. Right before we get to Loka, my luggage is again able to roll on its own, the guy gestures to a kiosk and says “I’m going to light my cigarette, and wait here for you to come out.” God, I’m a dick! But sure enough, Loka does have at least one room, my assholism is sadly rewarded, and I remark that this is the first time in nearly a month of travel that I had to deal with a real Southeast Asian sheister. I guess it was a sign of what Bali can do to some people.