December 1998, Bali, Indonesia

What’s That Smell?

Stepping from the contrast of the stale air-conditioned plane air that had dried my face, as though I was wearing a peel-off facemask I had forgotten to pull off – to BANG, air that slapped me in the face like a wet hot towel, that had been pulled from the sewerage...you could cut this air with a knife...but wait, the smell...Oh, My God!...What the hell is that smell?...

Walking across the tarmac to a bus, diesel fumes added to the smell and colour of my skin; well, I did want a tan – to hanging on to a stranger as the bus swerved around the runway heading for the gate.  Haven’t they heard of bloody aerobridges?

I was not expecting the Military presence at the airport, their green and brown camouflage fatigues against the potted palms did not camouflage their large rifles, they did however camouflage the toilet entrance...I think I will wait till we get to the hotel…... Welcome to Bali.

I had come to Bali with a boyfriend. After three years together we had called it quits a few months prior both knowing it would never be forever. We were evolving into one of those ‘off-again, on-again’ relationships. The Boyfriend had already spent a few weeks in Bali before Christmas, during our ‘off-again.’  During our ‘on-again’, he wanted to return to Bali, to buy all the things he had not purchased on his previous trip. Since we were ‘on-again’, he suggested I join him.  He was extremely driven, always pushing me past my boundaries.  Or to near death. I was slightly hesitant to visit a foreign country with him - unless it has an Australian Embassy and a good hospital. 

We had just gone rock climbing the day before he proposed the Bali trip. There I was hanging on to the side of a cliff after free climbing for 1.5 hours, my legs and arms so weak they were shaking uncontrollably. He had made it to the top. I still had just over one metre to go, and I looked up at him standing above me on that cliff edge and asked for a helping hand. His helping hand came in the form of, “Use the pain, feel the pain, use the fear!”  

Use the fucking pain for what? Just help me before I plummet to my death!  He was the same way with every activity.  If I was not nearly vomiting after a run, then I had not worked hard enough. If my lips were not blue from hypothermia, then I did not dive in the effing freezing water for long enough. He was the same in all aspects of life. We were always at house auctions snapping up that perfect renovator’s delight. He was on a mission to build an empire, and after a few years with him, I had the mortgages and the arrogance to match his. 

He was a Real Estate Agent, and his sales pitch for Bali was that ‘you can wear what you want and do what you want’. He informed me that he was only going to take one outfit of shorts and a long-sleeved shirt, which he would wear on the plane and take an empty suitcase to fill with his shopping while he was there. I was not sold on that idea and would be taking clothes. He stated, “No one cares what you wear. You can drink in the street; you can ride a motorbike, you can shop cheap, eat cheap, drink cheap. It’s Asia, but it’s just like Australia, a bit like Noosa, Queensland, but everything’s cheaper.”

Okay, not one mention of any exercise, he can’t buy property there, and I’ve been to Noosa many times. Sold.

I did not do any further research into Bali. He had been there previously, so I just followed his lead. I had been working for three years for a law firm in Melbourne, where 90% of my clients were from Indonesia, Malaysia, or Singapore. I adored them, I adored their culture and had studied Asian Business Culture for work. I was really looking forward to finally going to South East Asia. I love their bluntness, the way they make you part of their family and their very generous expensive gifts. I had booked two weeks in Bali; he was staying only eight days. I was not aware of this until sitting on the plane when he informed me that he wanted to get back to compete in a Triathlon. It’s okay, once I get my bearings with him, I will be fine on my own. Besides, the receptionist from my office is also going over with her friend, so I can always hang out with them, and it may be nice to do what I want for a change.  I let him book the hotel. I let him do all the planning.  I was used to him doing that back home for every weekend away; he would never allow me to choose or plan anything.

The hotel was located opposite Kuta beach. It was a pleasant four-star, two-storey hotel with very polite and smiley staff. Our room was enormous; the bed was huge. There was a lot of concrete, a lot of tiles, and a lot of wood, every piece of furniture in our room and the lobby was made from wood, and they had used the same tan wood stain everywhere. This furniture reminds me of something out of the 17tth century and looks extremely uncomfortable.  I wasn’t picturing this at all. I thought there would be Papasan chairs and cane or rattan, at least a palm tree or two. There was a sizeable swimming pool with a swim-up pool bar, surrounded by the concrete jungle of rooms and not much garden to speak of. A gift store and massage salon on-site, the perfect resort hotel. For families; I think I should have chosen the hotel. I was extremely disappointed to find the beach was closed due to the raining season. That has not happened while in Noosa.

We had arrived early afternoon; The Real Estate Agent wanted to get started with his shopping as soon as we had checked in, so we headed out for my first day in the Bali streets. He wore a pair of running shorts, reef sandals, a cap, and a small bag with his money belt across his bare chest. I guess he needs to buy a t-shirt first. I chose to remain fully clothed for my first outing in a new foreign country and chose a loose flowing sundress.  

We had decided to walk so that I could take some photos. At the entrance to our driveway was a security guard who smiled while he lifted the boom gate across the driveway entrance. The security guard asked us where we were going. Not any of his business. Just outside the hotel on the footpath was a little tiled roof, open hut-type thing. Local men were convening in the hut just picking their teeth and other various body parts. As soon as we walked out of the hotel, the guys in the hut began yelling: “Transport Boss, transport Boss!” The fact that the road is one-way, and we are going the opposite direction has not computed to these guys? They continued to chant: “Transport boss!” until we were out of hearing range.

Walking, probably not the best idea we had. I already had challenges staying vertical on footpaths in Australia. The footpath was in much need of repair, or it was not complete; broken grate drains with metal protruding out every two metres as though a truck had tried to drive on the footpath and failed. Good thing I’ve had my tetanus shots.  Hot air escaping from the sewerage running below the drains added to the intense wet season mugginess. Ahh, now I understand where that smell comes from. Why would they leave all these drains open like this? This is bloody dangerous. The hot hair bursts lifted the skirt of my dress as we passed each drain. It feels like Hell is trying to get under my dress! Marilyn Monroe made this look sexy.

At one stage, we were forced to choose between a pile of black sand, the road, or a broken drain grill. If we chose the road, we would need to avoid the beeping motorbikes. What the hell is with all this tooting? I followed the Real Estate Agent over Choice Number Three, the drain. As I carefully stepped over the grill, trying to avoid being stabbed by rusty metal, a burst of hot air escaped from the rushing sewerage below. My dress blew up above my head, exposing my knickers! Oh, I wish I had not worn this, how embarrassing…While ensuring my dress was back where it belonged, I spotted a guy making a beeline straight for us. Geez, I hope my wardrobe malfunction has not offended him. He crossed the street from the beach, zoning in on us, waving at us, signalling us to let him catch up, a look on his face that he had just recognised a long-lost friend. Maybe the Real Estate Agent met him last time? As he approached, I could see he was wearing watches up both arms, from wrist to elbow. Obviously, a job for a skinny person. “Wanna buy a watch, Boss?”

I’d rather a pair of pants right now.  The Real Estate Agent stopped to have a look at the man's mobile watch store. He was selling genuine Rolexes and G-Shocks. We know they are not authentic, but they are pretty good fakes. The Real Estate Agent bought two watches.

Once the watch transaction was made, it was like bees to a honeypot, and out of nowhere, two other guys appeared. A sale did not deter the watch guy from continuing alongside us in pursuit of another transaction. NO, we do not want anymore! “Wanna buy a hat Boss?” 

Yeah, it is original, one hundred caps reaching to the sky, but I don’t wear baseball caps, so, no thanks.  

“Wanna buy perfume, Boss?” 

He is carrying those designer perfumes around in the blaring sun, no thanks. I tried explaining to the Cap Guy I did not wear baseball caps. I tried explaining to the Perfume Guy that you cannot have the perfume in the sun all day, it will spoil, but neither wanted to listen. I tried to explain why I would not be purchasing rancid perfume. Still, Perfume Guy continued his pursuit, continually putting a different brand in front of my face. I nearly tripped into a drain as he blocked my view with his Chanel No.5. What ridiculous marketing techniques, kill your customer? Or he might be related to The Real Estate Agent. They did not want to listen to any of my advice on the subject of marketing. No amount of No had these guys back down, following us chanting their sales war cry: “Wanna Buy a Hat Boss?”

“Wanna Buy Perfume, Boss?” 

“Wanna another watch, Boss?” 

We have already said, No, thank you. Stop following us! 

Our three travelling salespeople pursuing had no concept of photography; every time I held up the camera, they stepped in front of my shot. I may punch one of you soon or throw your cap you keep shoving in my face down that drain. I managed one photo of a McDonald's restaurant with a grass roof without them in the picture.  They can't spell Dessert; they’ve spelt it Desert bar. Everything is misspelt here; they need some help.

I gave up on my photography efforts after a few near misses with drains, where I nearly disappeared into the abyss. I was still not used to the smell permeating from below…it just lingered in your nose—a bit like these Vendors.

The Real Estate Agent knew where he wanted to shop, and he was on a mission; I was just there for moral support and happy to be inside, free of vendors. We were in the Matahari Department Store, and he was looking at a pack of men’s underwear, a box of four. He was holding the package of underwear, when a girl that I presumed worked there approached him, and said, “No fit.”  

Well, I hope she works here. I assume she means he can’t try on the underwear. Then she said: “You want for penis big size?” 

Did he meet her two-weeks prior on his last trip and she knows first-hand he needs a bigger size?  I was not sure whether to be embarrassed or angry.

Shopping done. Minus ‘penis big size’. Apparently, they don’t have that size in Bali. The Real Estate Agent said we had to get going before the rains started.

My first experience with monsoonal Bali rain was upon exiting the department store when we discovered a raging filthy river had replaced the road. The Real Estate Agent was very much into adrenaline sports; I was not eager to redo the obstacle course back to the hotel. I was most relieved when he said we would wait for a cab. Tourists and locals alike waited for the water to subside.  We all stood crammed in that tiled store entrance, waiting for a break in the rain.  Obviously, the locals got restless, as when the break finally came, they started descending the steps into the deep dirty water.  They were happy to wade waist-deep through that disgusting water back to wherever they were going.  We made the decision we would wait till the water went somewhere, after watching what looked like a banana paddle pop float past - which I have actually been craving all day - promptly followed by a sizeable human turd - which has put me off banana paddle pops.

As soon as the water subsided, we had a multitude of taxis to choose from; it was overwhelming. Where the hell had they all been hiding? I was literally grabbed on the arm by a taxi driver to get in his taxi. Umm, excuse me? The problem being The Real Estate Agent was already getting in another taxi. It got a bit heated between taxi drivers. Let go, please!  Eventually, one taxi driver seemed to have won the battle. I didn’t. We headed back to the hotel at lightning speed. Maybe he was being chased by the other driver? I was happy when Real Estate Agent said he would hire a motorbike later that day.