The wheels of the A320 touched the Bali tarmac during the 2nd half of the last hour of the 14th January 09 day. Bali time. Five hours late. I’d booked no accomodation and now had the masochistic pleasure of trying to find a room during the early hours of the morning when, in Southern Bali if one is not asleep, then one is probably drunk.
With an apparently undamaged backpack retrieved and a pleasurable absence of third world immigration officers who see their role only as an opportunity to poke back at members of the 1st world for simply existing, I headed for the exit of the arrival lounge.
Am I famous here? It felt like the obvious question with so many waving hands and voices greeting me as I came out onto the walkway beyond the arrival concourse. Within seconds fame and recognition had faded to irritation and annoyance along with the realisation that these fans were in fact desperate taxi drivers. If there is one thing that suggests to me these guys have cottoned on to a get rich quick scheme it is their sheer desperation to take your fare. The scene is reminiscent of the 1st day of the January sales at large department stores. I rebel. For one I don’t want to be one of the suckers that is duped by anothers get rich quick scheme and two I have never done the January sales and didn’t intend to start now.
During the ensuing ten minutes and a leisurely amble through the car park I barked at enough taxi drivers to earn me the td cross. Where are you going? was responded to honestly with my destination name, Seminyak. The price always volunteered was 70,000IR. My response everytime was 45,000. Their response was usually..walk then. I had moved through the throng and into quiet ground on the exit side of the car park and was just beginning to wonder if I had burnt my boat as it were and would end up walking more than I really wanted to when a voice in the darkness enquired….taxi…meter? Yes please, I said and within seconds the bag was in the boot and and I was chatting to a pleasant Balinese guy about weather and it’s effect on tourism in Bali.
At Neds Hideaway in Seminyak and 45,000 showing on the meter I was informed that all rooms were taken. No. 9 down the road was the response to my question about another nearby hotel. When I finally roused somebody at No. 9 the response was the same. Gang Bima was the road name. I am sure it translates to small gangway minimal gauge. The car would only just go round the corners. However my driver clearly didn’t own this car and any mark on mirror, hub cap, wing or door was obviously going to be charged heavily. At one sharp left turn I swear we reversed at least five times in order to get the same space between diagonally opposite ends of the car and their nearest wall before the car was allowed free passage through the complete corner. I couldn’t work out whether this guy was genuinely anxious, taking the piss or just resorting to preplanned subversion in order to hike the meter reading.
But I shouldn’t knock Maddi too hard. The intentions he displayed were, on the whole, honorable. After both Neds Hideaway and No.9 had both advised me that they were full Maddi took up the situation with an assertive air of authority. ‘Leave it to me!’ He announced. We trundled gently along another section of Gang Bima and arrived at some large iron gates that Maddi had given encouraging and satisfied ‘Here’ type of acclaim towards. I couldn’t see any guesthouse or accomodation signs but Maddi was already out of the car and at the gates with his hand through some kind of manipulation hole. The gates would swing inwards 6″ and back 6″ but, no matter how much he fiddled with things in the manipulation hole, the gates would go no further. I hopped out and had a fiddle also. Same result. This level of success after I’d ‘left it to Maddi’ was disappointing. But he was not deterred. I was signaled back into the car and we headed for the main road. I was still hoping my blind confidence in this man was not too misplaced and he would surprise me. As we moved toward the light of the main road it became apparent a car had parked half across the exit onto the main road. Maddi stopped the car and made noises of frustrated uncertainty. We were not really close enought to assess the extent of the blockage. GO (you idiot..thought but not said), I ordered him. As we got closer it was apparent that we could easily swerve right of the parked car and out into the bright lights of the main road. Maddi made relieved noises followed by ‘I know’ happy like sounds. I felt my confidence was ebbing away but I clung onto the edge of hope. Not more than 50 meters down the street he made noises of frustrated doom. ‘Gates closed’ was his announced observation as we veered past grounds with closed gates in front of them; but oddly, no evidence of guest house signs. I began to get the feeling that Maddi was creating a story to entertain his friends at the local temple the following morning. I saw an image of them falling onto their sides as they prayed, shedding tears of laughter and holding aching sides as Maddi was relaying the story and kept adding that line…’and he still believed me!’. I needed to abort this exercise and do something new and wonderful and hopeful when Maddi swung the car into a security monitored hotel car park. OK I, announced, I’ll take the bags and pay you. He seemed pleased with that and I could see him wondering why I didn’t just order him to a similar main road, brightly lit 4 star hotel in the first place. His bill was 56,000IR! I cant say I was enamored with his performance so he got 56,000IR. The 4 star hotel was beachfront, I realised as I walked into the lobby and witnessed the rolling waves and the silver greyness of the sand in the dark night beyond the far side of the lobby. It was light years beyond my budget at 65usd per night. I hung the backpacks about my shoulders and walked back the way Maddi had brought me. Farther up the same street I was jeered and cajouled by locals and tourists alike from their happy havens of streetside clubs and bars. I smiled and waved and marched by. Maddi’s departure had lit new energy and direction in me. I was in a mess but in control. Two enquiries en route along what I now know is called Jalan Abymanu at after 12.30am at night produced a ‘sorry, full’ at the Green Rooms and a 200,000IR per night room that I didn’t even want to look at at the Galaxy Hotel. For some reason the name Galaxy Hotel suggests scuffed, grubby, grey and bugs. I may be wrong I didn’t look at the room. At the top of the road I turned left along Jalan Seminyak. Within 50 paces a lone motorcylcist had acknowledged me as prey! He knew rooms for 100,000IR per night and it would cost me 20,000IR to get there on his bike as pillion. Thats two grown men, my 70 litre backpack and a full 15 litre backpack on a Honda 125 heading toward Kuta along Jalan Seminyak. 15 mins and two enquiries later I have a 70,000IR /night room secured, bags in the room, motorcyclist paid and a glass of Bintang in my hand at a bar across from the rooms. YES. YES YES YES!
Down The Road 