Transportation
We flew into Denpasar Airport and took a taxi from there to Ubud. There is an 'official' taxi hire immediately upon leaving the airport. We took an unofficial taxi and paid slightly less than the 'going rate' of the official company. There are a few common modes of transport throughout Bali and Lombok. First is a Bemo, which is a schedule-less public minibus. They are very cheap, but we needed locals to point them out to us and hold them for us. Really, it was no problem. Second, is private taxi ('taksi'). Every time we used a taxi (which wasn't often) we were able to barter the price down to at least 50% of the original price given us by the driver. Third, is
a tourist shuttle. The most well-known company is Perama. There are many other tourist shuttle companies that are slightly cheaper than Perama. We used several and all were reliable. Fourth, you can rent a motorbike (manual transmission) or a scooter (automatic transmission). We rented a scooter and had no issues. Be careful, though: the Balinese and Lombok roads are cluttered with daring motorbikers. We met more than a few travellers who sported a "Balinese tattoo", which is an ugly flesh wound resulting from an unwelcome incident on a motorbike (usually caused from extremely congested driving conditions).
Fuel
Gas/petrol cost about 5,000rp per liter. As a nice, rounded number that equals approximately $0.50/L. Outside of large towns, fuel is sold in reused water/vodka bottles at stands on the side of the road.
Driving Conditions
As mentioned above, the roads can be uncomfortably full, especially around the larger cities. That being said, we still rented bicycles and without any effort at all escaped nearly all traffic with one or two turns. We found the bicycle to be an excellent way to explore. There is no need to carry a map: get yourself as lost in the adventure as you can and then just ask locals for directions back to whatever village you came from. It is so simple!
Technically, you also need an International Driver's License to drive in
Indonesia. If you decide to rent a motorbike or scooter, you are also officially supposed to have a license rating for that, too. The only people who seem to care about this is the police who use it as a way of 'ticketing' foreigners. We talked to person after person after person who were pulled over by the police and given the opportunity to give money so that the officer can "take care of the infraction" (read: bribe). When we rented a scooter, however, never were we stopped by the police.
We were laughed at when we asked about a helmets when we rented bicycles. You might (but not necessarily) be able to get a helmet if you rent a motorbike or scooter.
Driving distances on Bali and Lombok are not far. Still, driving times can be shockingly longer than expected.
Accommodation
Guest houses and hotels are easy to find. During our time there (December 2010) we never had to pay more than 100,000rp per night per room. This price would include a fan (not air-con), a cold shower (which was perfectly fine in the hot climate), breakfast and sometimes that even included a very nice swimming pool. Once, that price didn't include toilet paper. Rooms can be bartered for.
Food
We really enjoy South East Asian food. For our taste buds it rates second only to Indian food. We found traditional Indonesian fare to be quite simple. Compared to other South East Asian cuisine, it lacked the flavour sensation that we were hoping for. Nonetheless, the food can easily be inexpensive and filling. When we told the wait-staff that 'we liked it spicy' the food would almost always taste better than our meals when we didn't state that. A simple and full meal need not cost more than 15,000rp.
Internet
Internet cafes are plentiful in many towns. Cafes in the larger cities offer free wifi for customers (is it really free, then?)
Currency
As a nice, rounded number, we were using an exchange of 10,000rp to $1cdn.
A Few of Our Favourite Things...
Sejuk Cottages on Gili Air
Kecak Cafe in Ubud
Our guided trek in Munduk, Bali
Renting bicycles
The friendliness of the locals
We flew into Denpasar Airport and took a taxi from there to Ubud. There is an 'official' taxi hire immediately upon leaving the airport. We took an unofficial taxi and paid slightly less than the 'going rate' of the official company. There are a few common modes of transport throughout Bali and Lombok. First is a Bemo, which is a schedule-less public minibus. They are very cheap, but we needed locals to point them out to us and hold them for us. Really, it was no problem. Second, is private taxi ('taksi'). Every time we used a taxi (which wasn't often) we were able to barter the price down to at least 50% of the original price given us by the driver. Third, is
a tourist shuttle. The most well-known company is Perama. There are many other tourist shuttle companies that are slightly cheaper than Perama. We used several and all were reliable. Fourth, you can rent a motorbike (manual transmission) or a scooter (automatic transmission). We rented a scooter and had no issues. Be careful, though: the Balinese and Lombok roads are cluttered with daring motorbikers. We met more than a few travellers who sported a "Balinese tattoo", which is an ugly flesh wound resulting from an unwelcome incident on a motorbike (usually caused from extremely congested driving conditions).
Fuel
Gas/petrol cost about 5,000rp per liter. As a nice, rounded number that equals approximately $0.50/L. Outside of large towns, fuel is sold in reused water/vodka bottles at stands on the side of the road.
Driving Conditions
As mentioned above, the roads can be uncomfortably full, especially around the larger cities. That being said, we still rented bicycles and without any effort at all escaped nearly all traffic with one or two turns. We found the bicycle to be an excellent way to explore. There is no need to carry a map: get yourself as lost in the adventure as you can and then just ask locals for directions back to whatever village you came from. It is so simple!
Technically, you also need an International Driver's License to drive in
Indonesia. If you decide to rent a motorbike or scooter, you are also officially supposed to have a license rating for that, too. The only people who seem to care about this is the police who use it as a way of 'ticketing' foreigners. We talked to person after person after person who were pulled over by the police and given the opportunity to give money so that the officer can "take care of the infraction" (read: bribe). When we rented a scooter, however, never were we stopped by the police.
We were laughed at when we asked about a helmets when we rented bicycles. You might (but not necessarily) be able to get a helmet if you rent a motorbike or scooter.
Driving distances on Bali and Lombok are not far. Still, driving times can be shockingly longer than expected.
Accommodation
Guest houses and hotels are easy to find. During our time there (December 2010) we never had to pay more than 100,000rp per night per room. This price would include a fan (not air-con), a cold shower (which was perfectly fine in the hot climate), breakfast and sometimes that even included a very nice swimming pool. Once, that price didn't include toilet paper. Rooms can be bartered for.
Food
We really enjoy South East Asian food. For our taste buds it rates second only to Indian food. We found traditional Indonesian fare to be quite simple. Compared to other South East Asian cuisine, it lacked the flavour sensation that we were hoping for. Nonetheless, the food can easily be inexpensive and filling. When we told the wait-staff that 'we liked it spicy' the food would almost always taste better than our meals when we didn't state that. A simple and full meal need not cost more than 15,000rp.
Internet
Internet cafes are plentiful in many towns. Cafes in the larger cities offer free wifi for customers (is it really free, then?)
Currency
As a nice, rounded number, we were using an exchange of 10,000rp to $1cdn.
A Few of Our Favourite Things...
Sejuk Cottages on Gili Air
Kecak Cafe in Ubud
Our guided trek in Munduk, Bali
Renting bicycles
The friendliness of the locals
and the pool at our hotel, convenient for relaxing. Plus, we had found a great travel companion in Sandra, and a lively market filled with exotic fruit to sample.
We lurked at the entrance surreptitiously, peering around the stone at the scene. The music was indeed coming from a huge Balinese orchestra. At least 20 xylophone-type instruments were set up, along with large bongos and chimes. Behind each instrument was a man, all of different ages, in a bright red outfit and coordinated headdress. They were very talented and it sounded wonderfully festive. Women mingled about in gorgeous, detailed dress shirts and silky sarongs and beautiful children ran a muck. The teenagers fiddled with their cell phones, the only indication that we were experiencing a traditional ceremony in a painfully modern world. In the back of the compound we could see a family 
temple filled with so much fancy food for offerings the lot of them could have eaten for a month. Bright yellow umbrellas were set up to shade various seats and statues. Yellow was the liturgical colour of the festival. The Hindu priest was in the temple chanting over the loud speaker and swaying incense over the offerings in a complicated, time consuming ritual. The smell of incense filled our nostrils. And then, the most amazing thing happened. They smiled and waved us into their home! They invited us creepy lurkers into their family festival! We bowed our heads and snuck past the band to chairs the men who weren't occupied by instruments set up for us. Almost immediately an absolutely stunning young woman approached and asked if we wanted tea, coffee or water. Not wanting to be more intrusive than we already were, we declined. 
She sat down to talk to us, the nosy tourists. Not that she said that. She, and the rest of her family, particularly her father seemed to be pretty excited about our arrival. Her name is Yani. Yani spoke perfect English. She had returned less than a month ago from Club Med in the Maldives where she worked in the spa. She was gracious and generous. She explained that we had stepped into her family's celebration of one of the most important Festivals in Bali. Like Christmas or Thanksgiving, the whole extended family, along with neighbours, and family friends gather for this day-long celebration that includes music, offerings, a procession to the beach, dancing and, the crowd favourite, eating. Her aunts had been preparing food for days, Yani explained. Sound familiar? There 
was even a professional looking poster on the wall outlining the day's schedule!
And this is how we found ourselves smack dab in the middle of one of the most amazing travel experiences we have ever had. Everyone wanted to talk to us. Regardless of how little English they spoke and how non-existent our Indonesian was. They smiled graciously as we photographed them exiting the temple with exquisitely arranged fruit towers on their heads, baskets overflowing with offerings and piles of neon coloured temple cakes. Its hard to say but I can't imagine too many Canadian families welcoming a Nikon touting Japanese family in for Christmas dinner. 'Ya, sure come on in! Hey, here's an idea! Why don't you snap some photos of me stuffing my face with mashed potatoes! I'll be sure to dribble
some gravy down my chin to make your photo a little more interesting to your friends back home in Tokyo! The kids lurked shyly around our cameras, not quite understanding how the magic worked. I would ask them if I could take their photo and they would nod and then smile apprehensively as I brought the camera to my face. Then, I would show them the photo on the LCD and they would giggle, point and talk excitedly in Indonesian to one another. The atmosphere was magical. The music chimed away, the incense burned sweet and the priest chanted. I look around absolutely flabbergasted.' THIS is what it is all about, was all I can think. This, right here, is WHY we travel. To experience other people, learn about other cultures, and like in this instance, when we are lucky enough to be invited in. When the musicians took a break to eat, the 
young boys took to the instruments. They smiled like kids on Christmas morning as they hammered away on the keys and banged furiously at the drums. 'This is how they learn,' explains Yani's dad, 'Now, come eat!' At first, we declined the offer, but Yani comes around and is persistent. 'We make all this food for everyone. Please.' Yani is someone who, I can imagine, could sell ice to Eskimos, or some other equivalent saying. Honestly, she is too beautiful to deny. Once we realized that saying 'no, thanks, really, we just ate' isn't an option anymore, we followed Yani into a courtyard where a huge buffet table had been setup, and is overflowing with food. Unfortunately for us, the theme of the meal was pork. Since everyone had pretty much already eaten, the vegetables left were sparse. We almost wish we ate
pork, because they had so generously offered it to us. Plus, everything smelled divine. I scooped some rice onto my plate and spooned the only green thing on the table on top of the rice. Yani's eyes widened as piled on the second heaping tablespoon of the veggies. 'Ohhhhh those are pure chillis!! She said! They are very hot! You only need one!' I looked down at my practically equal portions of white and green. 'Oh,' I said as my face turned red and everyone around laughed good naturedly at me. You just can't take me anywhere. Afterward everyone was very concerned that I make sure I wash well after eating all those chillis with my hands. I had scooped most of them off, but my mouth was still on fire. Anyone who has touched chilis and then touched their eyes or nose knows that this is a painful idea. Sandra said that the pork dishes were fantastically delicious, for all you pork fanatics out there.
Balinese food, which Indonesian words we could speak, why I wasn't pregnant (since we were married and all) and if we, along with our yet-to-be conceived 'son' would be coming back to Bali next year.
Komang delivered our hand-picked sarongs to our rooms a few hours later along with a pile of her own dress shirts and scarves to choose from. I felt like Cinderella and my fairy godmother Komang had come to the rescue and made sure we were properly gussied up for the ball. When Sandra and I finally had our dress shirts done up, and arranged around our sarongs, Komang helped tie the sashes around our waists in the just the right place with just the right knot. Komang fussed around us like a mother whose daughters were going to prom. 'There! Now you look like Balinese women! she finally exclaimed proudly when every detail had been tended to. 'Come! Come!' Komang hurried us out the back door of the hotel and along the beach, over a bridge and past a deserted, overgrown lot to a massive rusted iron gate that led back on the main road. We couldn't use the front door for some reason. I guess maybe the hotel owner doesn't want staff whisking the guests away...kinda like this? It turned out that Komang's husband, Ketut, was the gardener at the hotel. Ketut 
wasn't a man of many words, unlike his wife, but he had a great smile and made an effort to be very friendly despite his lack of English vocabulary. 'Mitta Jonaton! You're number one'! Komang commanded. 'You go now, one by one.' So, my husband, Mitta Jonaton, hopped on the back of the motorbike with Ketut, without a helmet, and with a worried grimace from Jonathan they drove off down the road. A fleeting moment of terror seized me, as it usually does when we are doing something so far out of our comfort zone. Are we crazy to just trust this lady and man, whom we've known for about 12 hours and 23 seconds, respectively? What if we are those dumb people in those horror movies who are just about to open that door into the dark room, where you know a killer is awaiting them, and you are thinking: 'You are SO dumb! Obviously you are going to die! It is SO clear!! Dumb! Go Back!' But they stupidly go in anyways... I panic (on the inside) for a second or two. Where is my husband really going? Will he be ok? Why are we hiding just off the main road, behind a gate, just out of view of everyone on the main street? Worst case scenarios flash through my head. Then I get a grip. Good thing too, because Ketut is now back for me, designated 'number two' by 
Komang.
soon, Sandra was dropped off at the step of the temple with us. We wandered onto the grounds of the temple and were greeted warmly by the community. They loved that we were dressed traditionally. We stood outside the short stone wall and watched from a distance. Directly in front of us was the band, even larger than the band at Yani's family temple. The men were playing when we arrived, but the children and then women would all take turns providing the music. The grounds of the open air temple were full of people. It was a sea of white, with a splash of bright colours. The colour of the festival was yellow, and that was prominent. The entire event was outdoors. It looked as though people entered the actual service through a side room. When the space surrounding the actual temple was full, the priest would start chanting and the people would follow along making their offerings at appropriate intervals, bowing their heads when called and then finally being sprinkled with water and having their foreheads marked with rice. When that particular service was complete the people would file out to the open grounds where there was a carnival-feel gathering (minus the rides, of course) and more people would file in the side entrance for the service to repeat again. The temple itself was absolutely piled with 
offerings. Layer after layer of palm bowls overflowing with rice, cakes, cookies and flowers. Once we got the hang of the order we allowed ourselves to be led to the side entrance of the temple. I was a little nervous. Was it actually ok to just walk in there? Would people think we were being rude or offensive? We walked up the steps and through the narrow stone passage into the side room. There was a group of men standing there. They happily shouted greetings and welcomed us into the temple by splashing water on our heads with a palm leaf. 'Go in! Go in!' They said. So we did. The grass surrounding the temple was pretty much full when we arrived. Everyone was sitting on the ground chatting away
English on us. 'Hello! How are you? What is your name? Where are you going? Do you need a taxi? Cheap price.' haha ok, not the taxi part. I looked around. No one else had sandals on! Where did they put them? Did we miss the sandal drop off at the gate. Great, we had only been in the temple 30 seconds and we already screwed up! A family came in and sat beside us. I watched as they removed their sandals and sat on top of them. Genius! Saves the damp butt! We quickly followed suit. The priest signalled the start of the ceremony with chanting and we looked around, feeling pretty helpless. A beautiful young girl who sat beside me took pity. 'I'm Mega,' she said, moving her palm bowl in between us, 'We can
brought my thumbs to my forehead, mirroring Mega'a actions. We followed the same routine with the different petals. In between the moments of silence Mega attempted to teach me some Indonesian phrases. Little did she know she would have had better luck with a deaf donkey. Everything she said, I repeated, and then the words slipped out of my head and were lost forever. She certainly did try her hardest though, poor thing. The priest came by with the holy water. I watched as he poured the water into Mega's awaiting hands, which she immediately brought to her head and smoothed it onto her hair, one, two, three, four times. The final time the priest put water into her hands she brought the water to her mouth instead. Then the priest's assistant took sticky rice from a bowl and used his thumb to press the rice into Mega's bare forehead. He turned to me, grinning from ear to ear and chuckled, 'Ok!' he said, confirming that he would allow me to be 
entertainment for the surrounding locals as I fumbled through the ritual I had just witnesses Mega conduct with such grace. I held out my hands and he poured water into them, one, two three, four times. I sipped the last of the water from my hands and smiled gaily as my forehead was adorned with the rice. Mega nodded in approval. 'I'm sorry I don't speak more English' Mega said to me, like she had let me down by not brushing up on her skills for our meeting. I laughed. Such an Bali thing to do. To apologize for not speaking your language when you are the one who has come to their country only able to say 'Hello' and 'Thank You.' 'I'm sorry I don't speak more Indonesian,' I replied. 'It's ok,' she said, 'Next time.' That's the other thing about the Balinese. They always want to know when you will be back, because they know you will be.
'We share.' End of discussion.
ceremonies make you hungry. Komang and Ketut were so so generous, especially considering how little they had. Komang and Ketut are around 40 years old (between both of them we were given a total of four different ages that they thought they were). They have four children; three boys and a girl. The two oldest boys live in Denpasar with her sister-in-law. Ketut's sister was unable to have children, so Komang gave her and her husband two of their boys. A young boy, about 4 and a teenage daughter still live at home. Komang makes about $60CDN a month (she is the highest paid waitress at the hotel) and Ketut makes about $40. They work between six and seven days a week. Komang is usually at the hotel at 7am. She goes home around noon and returns at 3pm staying until she is no longer needed, sometimes as late as 10 or 11pm. It costs about $10CDN a month for the kids to go to school. Life isn't super easy, as you can imagine, but they are happy. It started to rain as Komang insisted that she drive us 'one by one' back to the hotel on the scooter. It was only about 2km, but felt like longer
with the rain shooting like pins into my face as we sped down the street. It was about 10pm by the time we were all safe and sound back at the hotel. By the time we wandered to the restaurant the next morning around 8am, Komang was already there, ready, waiting and willing to serve us our breakfast with a smile. It was rather overwhelming. In a surreal way. A type of generosity which I had never really experienced before. Almost too much without wanting anything in return. It felt a little weird. We had already planned to give 
Komang some money for all she had done for us, in particular to cover the money she'd spent, but it still seemed as if
potential to create damaging long term effects and unnecessary troubles, social and otherwise, down the road. Of course, the very openendedness and even the vulnerability inherent to acts of kindness and generosity leave ample room for gross misinterpretation and manipulative response. That can't be avoided. But while you don't want to set or nurture an unhealthy and unhelpful precedent, you still trust and hope that the interest and kindness you exchange with one another flows out of a genuine and reciprocated desire to relate and not out of some masked expectation for anything other than friendship. It's hard. You may be reading this thinking how ridiculous it even was for us to have a second thought about donating such a minuscule amount to someone who could obviously use it. It's more complicated, though. The money she asked for, wasn't a small amount for her. Relatively, it wasn't even a small amount for us: it was more than the cost of two nights accommodation for us in Bali. It's not fair to Komang or future travellers to fuel the already rampant idea that foreigners are all rich and hand out money willingly, and for nothing. Also there is the idea that because foreign visitors have 'overflowing wallets' they therefore have a responsibility to give their money to the locals. Everyone can't be expected to give their money to every local, and every local can't rely on hand-outs because it would have a dreadfully negative effect on their society. Where is the line? Believe me, it's hard not to be the bleeding heart when you see people who look like they need so much, especially when really, you have so much you can give. Is money what they really need? Yes, no, maybe, money and....? In the end, after much discussion, right or wrong, we gave Komang less money than she had asked for, but a bit more than the sum we were originally thinking of giving in thanks. We wanted to make sure that we fully covered any money that Komang and Ketut had spent on us with the food and fuel. And we really did appreciate what they had done for us. But then, were we paying for their company? The whole situation still leaves an awkward taste in my mouth. I certainly don't want to leave the impression that Komang was only nice because she was motivated by money. I also don't want to leave the impression that we are cold to the needs of those less fortunate and so stingy that we don't see the benefit of giving money to people who have so little, when we have so much. Man, the world is complicated.
narrow and winding, so the shuttle bus would only take us so far, and we would have to find private transport from there. We were dropped unceremoniously in the centre of a large, colourful local market in a village marked by a massive painted statue of a cob of corn. I guess corn is their thing. We entertained ourselves for a short while bartering for fresh strawberries, peanuts and dried banana and treats equivalent to Indonesian potato chips, made without potatoes. When our backpacks got the best of us we started our mission for a taxi. Where were all our Ubud taxi touts when you need them? This is the only problem of going off the beaten track without your own motorbike, which we hadn't quite worked up the courage to do. We finally, after multiple exhausting
broken English 'conversations' with the same guy who kept driving along beside us and blocking our path with his shiny 'transport' as we walked away. We gave up and agreed to pay him the 100,000 Rp he wanted for the 40 min trip. (About $10Cdn). He promised us he was the perfect choice and showed off his guest book where other Westerners had written his praises. He stopped along the side of the 'road' at view points and broke off a piece of bark from a cinnamon tree for us to sniff. Of course his services also included a stop 
in at his friend's overpriced, inconveniently located hotel once we arrived in Munduk. When we declined this offer, as we told him we would, he came through and brought us to the perfect place, with reasonably priced rooms and open air patios complete with sweeping views of the mountains, valley and rice terraces.
collect us. It was refreshingly cool (er) in the mountains. Our guide pointed out various plants, insects (mostly terrifyingly massive spiders) and fruit and told us much about Balinese culture, tradition and his personal life. The region is known for it's coca beans, jack fruit, snake fruit (its skin looks like brown snake skin), banana and coconuts. After an hour or so of trekking through the lush jungle forest on a slippery, narrow path that would have been indecipherable to anyone other than a local, we arrived the supremely photogenic rice terraces. Locals were there, lounging in their tiny huts and working the muddy paddies the traditional way using a 
contraption pulled behind muscular cows, rode on by a skinny man, knee deep in swampy muck. How is rice so cheap when it looks like it is so much work? 'Do you want a coconut?' asked the guide, motioning to one of the many sky-high trees looming behind us. We nodded enthusiastically as he commissioned a local kid to scale the tree and collect a couple for us. He scampered up the thin, swaying trunk without tools, expertly, like he had been doing it since birth, which I suppose he perhaps had been. He returned with two of the most massive green coconuts I had ever seen. "Big ones, 
small ones, some as big as your head!" Jon sang. 'Bigger than your head!' I exclaimed. 'My dad would LOVE this,' said Jonathan. The kid used a hatchet to create a deep v-shaped opening into the centre of the nut allowing the clear milk to flow out of the spout he fashioned from the outer husk, and into our awaiting mouths. So much milk! So tasty! So heavy. We drank and drank, and spilled and slurped until we couldn't take in anymore liquid. Our guide then expertly cracked each coconut in half and showed us how to use sharp pieces of husk to dig out the fresh, white flesh. It was more jiggly in parts, like thick coconut jello, and other pieces were crunchier, the way you would expect. It was so
delicious and so filling. I felt super cool and Robinson Crusoe, eating a fresh coconut with my bare hands...even though I did absolutely nothing to obtain this treat, besides watching in awe. Like our guide could read my mind, he plucked a yellow cocoa bean from a tree and cracked it in half. Inside, the seeds were piled on top of each other perfectly in a circle crowding around the inner core. Each seed was coated in a white jelly like substance. 'Eat it,' our guide instructed. We popped a seed in our mouths and were delighted at the super sweet, natural candy like coating. We sucked all the sweetness off every
seed and spit out the bitter inside, which is actually the part that would be roasted to make chocolate. Crazy! It seemed so unfathomable to me, that nature could produce something so sweet, and that people somehow figured out that the bitter seed inside of the sweet would make something sweet as well! Wow. And, now I wonder what they do with all this sweet coating where they harvest cocoa beans on mass. And, more importantly, do they need an official taster? Sandra, Jonathan and I had such a good time together hiking, chatting and relaxing on our patio that we decide to venture onwards and upwards together, to North Bali.
Its all about that rubber Bali time. Public transport here does not run on schedules, have fixed rates, or pre-arranged stops. If you are a local, you just know. This makes public transport an extremely painful experience, in general, for travellers. Mostly people will tell you to go outside in the early morning and just 'wait.' And that's as detailed as a schedule you'll get. Don't worry though, if you are thinking about traveling to Bali. There are super-convenient tourist shuttles that can also take you anywhere you want to go for a reasonable price. Only, you'll miss the experience of chickens crawling all over you and small children hiding behind their mothers when you smile at them.....
even though we had yet to dispose of our heavy bags, and it turns out we had been going the wrong way. Almost. There was just so much to look at. So much to take in. We eventually followed a nice man down an alley to another alley and another alley to a four bedroom house overlooking a small family temple and lush palms. We bartered down to less than half of what he had been asking and settled into our large room with private bath and fan. We then set off to wander aimlessly and attempt to wrap our heads around the hustle and bustle of a completely different caliber than what we had been immersed in the day before in Perth. 
slow here' she told us. 'They work long hours, but that doesn't mean they get a lot done.' This is not meant to be a negative observation, however. Its just how it is. Friends visit throughout the course of the day, people make time to make offerings, they take ample cigarette breaks. Work is just something that gets done while life is happening. Lena confided that in the beginning, there was a bit of a 'culture curve.' She would be at her apartment, and Blackie would call and say he would be over 'soon.' So, like a good western woman, she would wait. And wait... and wait. Seconds turned to minutes, and minutes to hours. Three long hours later, Blackie would traipse through the door, sporting a huge, Balinese smile. Lena, of course, would be fuming. 'You said you would be here SOON!' she would say. Blackie didn't understand. There is no 'soon' in the Balinese language. It really does not exist. His typical response would be 'I came though!' Probably very confused thinking, 'What does this woman want from me?! I said I would come, and now I am here!' He would be held up by any variety of things: friends stopping to chat, helping a neighbour, tying his shoes.... and this is life, in Bali time. Although, confusion is bound to happen when the Balienese follow a completely different calendar than in the west. A Balinese month, for example, has 35 days, and most Balinese themselves can't figure out what day it is. That's the priest's job. Time here moves so slow that before international time standards were adopted, the 
longest measure of time was a 'Barong's wink.' Since a Barong mask never winks, Bali is pretty much saying, 'Don't hold your breath.'
Little bowls made of palm and filled with rice, flower petals, candies and mini ritz crackers pile on top of each other in front of specific statues, or certain corners. Monkey Forest Rd, which we happened to be walking along, was mostly lined with men shining up their cars so they could later yell 'Taxi? Ya! Good price' at you, and point to their immaculate, buffed vehicle. It was like Trilllium Cres on Saturday morning with Dad and Jer out there waxing up their prized possessions. 'Transport? Ya!' was to become one of the many sounds of Bali. Just because you said 'No, Thank you' to a taxi driver does not mean that the taxi driver beside him will not assume that this means you do not want to take his taxi instead. In case you changed your mind in the last millisecond. At least there's selection...
Two children worked together to support a large dragon like costume, like the kind you would picture in Chinese parades, that danced wildly in tune with the melody. It was quite a sight. As it was meant to be. The troup leader out front carried a shoebox with 'Donation' scrawled across the front. He spotted me right off, in typical tourist form, camera posed, mouth in permanent smile. He followed his intuition and made a b-line to my wallet, looking up at me with his warm, soft, innocent eyes. Bugger. I pulled the only coin I had out of my change purse and plunked it in. It said 10 on it. He smiled genuinely, said 'Thank you', and bowed before scampering back off to join his friends. I smiled back, quite proud of myself for encouraging such a creative, local performance. 'You just gave him one one-hundredth of a penny' Jon told me. Oh.
that traumatizing actually, after the initial shock of having been used as a stepping stone. It didn't hurt, he didn't scratch me, he jumped off immediately. It could have been relatively uneventful, as far as mokeys jumping on unexpecting humans go. Except his feet were super grungy. Now, if it had been anyone else, the 'grunge' would have been mud caked all over his feet, or grass, or rice lying about from Balinese offerings or chocolate sauce. But, no. We are all aware what it is that monkey's particularly like to throw. And, might you know, monkey's don't wash up and sanitize after such shenanigans. This particular monkey, the only monkey in the whole forest who decided it would jump on someone? His 
feet were slathered with poo. Monkey poo. There was monkey poo all over my back. I know this because my darling husband pointed it out with glee, grabbing the camera from my hands to document this most precious of kodak moments. I also knew because it, and now, I, smelt like poo. My back, my dress, my bag, and over the course of my stomp home, my hands. There is monkey poo on my hands. 'Taxi!? Yeah?' greeted the taxi hawkers approximately every 20 seconds as I was rushing towards our room, in particular the cold shower in our room. I glared. 'You want me and my poo back in your freshly cleaned taxi!?' I wanted to yell at them. AHHHH!! 'This is crap!' I exclaimed. 'Literally' replied the peanut gallery.
to be the first to get in line for immigration. We hadn't arranged our visas in advance, which was fine other, than the potential hours we would spend waiting to be processed in the Bali airport. We paid $25 USD each (in actual US cash, which I think is a bit weird) to a lady in a booth and then were the first eager beavers, smiling hopelessly at the visa officer. He smiled back, took our paperwork and without more than a glance, we were done! We handed our customs declaration card to the officer who was standing behind a podium not even trying to conceal the fact that he was flipping through a magazine. He barely tore his eyes from the Brangelina spread as he waved us past. Did we miss something? Hope not. We took 1.5 million rupees (about $150) out of the ATM and breezed
past all those poor folk starring blankly at the empty baggage carousel. Our plane landed at 245pm and by 3pm we were out in front of the airport bartering for a taxi to Ubud. After succumbing to a price (about $18 for the 1 1/4hr ride into Ubud) we were led to a nondescript, but shiny car whose door panels and visors were still covered in plastic. And so the adventure begins. My insides were humming with excitement but my teeth were gritted anxiously.
of everyday life in Bali. As we merged onto the road, aka cutoff 10 motorbikes and began to swerve in and out of traffic, I took out my notebook and began to jot down notes of the surreal scene unfolding before us. Jonathan, in the front seat turned around with wide eyes as we dodged motorbikes, oncoming traffic, pedestrians and stray dogs. I was so mezmorized that it didn't feel real. Was I really seeing all this? Is that guy really sitting on a bicycle, holding it straight with one hand and using the other to hang on to a speeding motorbike who is pulling him along the crowded street? Do people really live in those shacks? Or carve those immaculaely ornate temples and Hindu statues? Are those watermelon at
those stalls on the side of the road? Are there really 4 people on that motorbike, and if what I am seeing really is real, is that a 2 year-old propped up in the front sans-helmet?! How are all these stray dogs managing to avoid becoming roadkill? What do they do with the goldfish in little plastic baggies strung up from that rope? Why have they dyed baby chickens neon colours? Are we now actually driving down the middle lane of the highway passing vehicles with less than inches to spare? As I said, it was completely surreal. It was more like being in a video game than a real life taxi. You got points if you stayed on the road,
but it was a difficult task. Maybe you got points for behind-the-wheel-creativity? You most certainly earned more lives by honking. Honk, honk, HONK! Although it must be said that honking serves a completely different function than at home. Honks aren't angry. They are more an informative tool. 'Hey fellow driver, maybe you can't see me, I'm here, inches from your side mirror. Just wanted you to know.' or 'Hello oncoming traffic! Yes, it is true, I am in your lane, headed straight for you without any sign of returning to my designated lane. Just shove over a bit, ok? There's room over there on the shoulder. Let's share the road, friend!' The motorbikes roared by in hoards. They weaved through, around, in between and seemingly over top of the cars. 'Does anyone on a motorbike ever get hit?' asked Jonathan as one drove practically horizontal on the side of the taxi.
Our driver laughed. 'No, no' he said. Hummmm