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
'Adam Lombok.' The village formerly known as 'Kuta Lombok' is on the south coast of Lombok, and therefore was previously aptly named.. that is until the appearance of THE 'Adam.' Adam, luckily for me (since I'm assuming having an Indonesian village named after you has some perks) is my cousin. He travelled around Indonesia for several weeks in the Spring of 2010, and this is how, many months later, we found ourselves on a bumpy minivan ride from the very northern tip of Lombok, straight across to the absolute south of the island.
any rooms left?' We asked the tiny young mother on the steps of the dining room. 'For how many nights?' She asked. 'Three?' I asked. She shook her head. 'No. We have one room left and it is only available for 2 nights.' 'Ok,' we agreed. 'Sounds good.' We dropped our bags onto the bed, happy to be rid of their weight... again. The young woman and her mother were playing with the child in the courtyard when we came back out. 'My cousin Adam stayed here back in June,' I said. 'He was here with a couple other guys. From Canada? He really liked it here and recommended we stay as well.' I smiled trying to convince them that I was, indeed, paying a compliment. It took a moment for the words to translate in the young woman's head from her second (or likely third) language. I could almost see the wheels turning. Her blank stare turned into an (almost) sly grin. She said something to her mother in Sasak and they both turned to Jonathan and I with huge smiles like I had just confided a personal message from the Queen. 'I remember!' she exclaimed. 'Three boys! Motorbikes! They stayed in that room!' She told us proudly, pointing to the room next to ours as it had been previously occupied by Elvis Presley. She turned to her mother again and they both shook their heads and laughed. From that moment on, we were honoured guests. 'So, you want to stay three nights? It's 
ok! You stay!' she announced to us almost immediately after our 'true identities' (aka: of close relation to Adam) had been revealed. Regardless of reservations, it turned out, that we, relatives of Adam, would be given priority. Of all the people who passed through this inn, they remembered Adam and his friends.... what exactly had they done to be so memorable? I began to wonder.
into our food and droning 'you wanna bracelet, buy a bracelet, good price, cheap for you, special lunchtime price...' in one long continuous sentence. Over and over again. More children lurked around the entrance of the open air restaurant, just in case we bought up all the bracelets these three were touting and were on the lookout for more. Who knows, maybe we have a whole bunch of friends at home that would just love if we bought them a wonderfully local Lombok souvenir. Nothing says 'I was thinking about you while on vacation' like a cheap tacky hemp and shell bracelet. Maybe you will ALL be getting a bracelet next Christmas. Don't get your hopes up. This was the first time we had seen children selling things, and it was at first, shocking, and then just really sad. Each kid had a piece of cardboard that folded into three. Slits were cut at the top and bottom of the board so that the bracelets could be stretched from end to end, displaying their quality. 'Did you make the bracelets?' we asked. 'No,' the kid would reply, '20,000Rp.' 'Where did you get them?' we asked. 'Ok, for you, 15,000Rp,' would be the response. Boy they learn how to charm early here.
'Just ask for Ani who has a stall on the beach selling sarongs and Lombok blankets.' Sounded like a breeze. 'She will be the only one not harassing you from the entrance of their shop.' Well that should be easy, considering we had only just begun to stroll past the shops and had already been instructed about ten times to 'Look lady!' at every single stall selling the exact same imported-from-China sarongs and sundresses. We started asking all the nice sarong shop owners where Ani's shop was. This was not well received. It would go something like this:
tell. 'No, what does Ani look like?' she asked. Seeing as I had never met Ani, and at this point, wasn't even entirely sure she existed, I found this question a tad challenging. 'Is she really skinny?' The lady asked. I sucked in my breath and tried in vain to remember the one picture I had ever, in my life, seen of Ani. It was about 3 months ago and Adam had shown us the photo on the screen of his cell phone. Was she skinny? There hadn't been many Indonesians who weren't skinny, so it would be a good guess.. I strained my memory. She had been sitting in the photo...a girl.. with black hair and chocolate-y skin... that sure narrowed it down. 'Umm, well she has a sarong shop and a little boy, I think.' This was exasperating. First no one knows who she is and now this lady wants to play twenty questions with me. 'No.' The sarong seller determined. 'The only Ani I know has a daughter, not a son, and she works in the cafe next door.' I was determined to at least meet someone (anyone) named Ani at this point, so I followed close behind apparently the only other person in Kuta (besides Adam) who had ever met anyone in Kuta named Ani. The lady yelled into the cafe and a truly tiny girl came to the short bamboo fence that bordered the cafe patio. She smiled, friendly but confused. Well, I certainly hadn't thought this out. We had been all over town trying to find Ani and I had never thought about what to actually say to her until she stood, looking quizzically at Jonathan and myself. 'Soo.. umm you don't know me..' (Obviously). No, that sounded dumb. 'I was sent here by this guy...' Sigh. Creepy. 'So, are you THE Ani?'
still had the shop, only two doors down, but it is mostly run by her mother. Her mother only speaks Sasak, the traditional language of Lombok, and therefore is not one of the pushy stall owning sarong sellers. Whenever a tourist wants to buy something, Indir, Ani's mom sends someone over to the cafe to fetch Ani who runs back to the shop to help out. Well, at least it all makes sense now! Indir got wind of the presence of 'friends-of-Adam' and rushed over to the bamboo fence to wave and smile a wide, toothless smile at us. 'She wants you to come over for coffee...if you have time,' Ani translated. Aww! She's so cute! Ani chatted with us in between taking orders and delivering the food. The cafe, whose name translates to 'Cheap, Cheap Food' (haha) has a beautiful 'panorama' (as Ani calls it) view over the beach and distant picture-esque cliffs along with good, cheap food. A combination of these factors means that the little open-air cafe is constantly packed. Indir peeked around the corner every few minutes to make sure we didn't forget about her coffee invite and give us another one of her adorable toothless smiles. Indir is toothless, we learned, because she chews betlenut. 
in between her running about at the whim of the constant flow of diners. There was one particular young girl, maybe ten years old, whose elbow marks were practically worn into the chest-level bamboo fence directly in front of our favourite table. It was, perhaps the saddest thing I have ever seen. She stood there, hanging onto the fence, trying to catch a tourist's eye. I told her a million times, politely, that I didn't want one of her bracelets. This was the biggest waste of my breath. Once she thought she had your attention, she would drone, in the most ridiculous of monotones...Miss, Miss, Lady... buy a bracelet... come on...20,000...(no response from me) ok, 15,000 (still no response) ok 10,000 (not even a glance) ok, 5,000. She had successfully bar
took a large woven mat from the back and spread it out on the floor, motioning for us to sit down while she made the coffee. It was like we were old friends that had stopped by for a visit.
The shop itself is tiny. All the shops that line the (practically) dirt main road are the exact same. They have three shabby walls and a slanted roof, all constructed from bamboo. The front of the shop is open to the street. All three of the walls are lined with sarongs and blankets, all perfectly folded, and draped over bamboo poles creating a wallpaper effect. The shop is probably about 2.5 meters by 3.5 meters (8'x12', for those who have held out on adopting the metric system). In the back corner is a door short enough that I had to duck to pass through, that leads to the living quarters. The space is just wide enough to have bamboo stalks stretched across the length a half meter off the floor, forming the bed. Under the bed is storage of pretty much everything Ani owns. From lying in the bed, you could reach out into the 'kitchen' which is really just a collection of pots and pans piled onto the floor and a spot to set fire to some kindling for cooking. At night, Ani just pulls a board across the front of the shop. 'Then we're closed,' she explained, showing us how the 'door' worked. Ani and Rini live in the hut and most nights Indir stays with them, as opposed to taking the bumpy bus ride back to her place in the village. What amazes me about Ani the most is how absolutely, unfailingly, happy she is. She smiles constantly. Even the patrons in the restaurant comment on Ani's beautiful, consistent smile. Ani knows she will probably never leave Lombok. She works every day at the cafe, from the moment it opens until every tourist is plump full without a single day off and helps run the sarong shop at the same time. She is open and 
honest about her life, experiences, culture and happiness. Ani is just happy to 'be' all the time. Her happiness is contagious. I guess I find her so inspirational because I am not-so-happy all the time, but have all the same reasons to be happy that Ani has. I get annoyed when I get too hot, when the bus is late, when mosquitos bite my ankles, when my toast isn't hot... you get the idea. Ani is happy because she is healthy and alive. We could probably all use a little dose of Ani.
them. The girls looked exactly like many women in the West wish they looked. Tiny feminine figures, flawless tanned skin and long shiny hair. 'But we all want to be fat and white!' Ani told us. Umm what? I offered Ani fifteen or so of my pounds, completely free of charge. Ani told us that many of her friends buy special skin whitener and bleach their faces to be lighter. 'They all have lines right here,' she said, drawing a line along her chin. Their face is lighter than their neck. Ani herself loves swimming (and lucky her, lives about two steps from a breathtaking beach) but hardly ever goes down to the water because she doesn't want the sun to make her skin darker. These concepts are completely foreign to me, coming from a land where weight-loss gimics and diet fads make billions of dollars every year, probably only slightly more profitable than tanning beds and self tanning creams. I would love to be as petite as Ani with perfect chocolatey skin. It's funny, in a non-funny way, how everyone wants what they can't have.
been waiting until we got to Ani's shop (and it had been painful in the blazing heat) to get some new tropics-friendly clothing. I tried on pretty much every sundress at the shop and performed a little fashion show for all the women who were passing the hours with us on the shop's porch, so they could vote on their favourite dress. Good thing too, because Jonathan was doing the useless 'Whatever you want, honey. They all look nice' boy thing ('a happy wife is a happy life'). Sensing tension, as I huffed and puffed at Jonathan's less-than-interested response, Ani ran to the next shop to borrow a mirror. 'They won't mind. We share everything here,' Ani told us, referring to her neighbours in the close-knit shops on her street. 'No one ever goes hungry, because if I have something, I share with them, and they share with me. If someone has chili's, everyone has chilis. We are like family.' I looked around at all the smiling faces and nodding heads. I would be happy if I got to hang out with Ani all the time too.
about the prospect than he was. Unfortunately Ani didn't sell rice hats (hurray), but, her neighbour did (darn). And this is how Jimmy entered our lives. Jimmy is the rice hat's name. 'Jimmy the Rice Hat,' is the name on the adoption papers, if you want to get specific. That's right, folks, this hat is so large, it has it's own personality and name. Jimmy practically needs his own seat on the bus. He was handmade by the father of the shop owner from bamboo. After Jonathan had forked over the small amount of cash to buy Jimmy, the woman sat with us on Ani's porch and weaved a chin strap for him. Jonathan loves Jimmy. As do all the locals we pass on the street who smile, giggle and yell 'Hey, Farmer!' as we walk by. Maybe they're onto something! Maybe we could arrange a day in the fields for dear old Farmer Jon and he could see how Jimmy would live up to the challenge... He also picked out one of Indir's hand woven Lombok sarongs. It really is a piece of art. You should wear it 'Lombok style' Ani encouraged him, showing him how to properly tie it around his waist. No doubt, ever since we had visited a sarong-clad Adam in Squamish, Jonathan had been dreaming of this moment. His smile reached his ears as he happily paraded around in his new hat and skirt. My smile resembled something of a grimace.
and they certainly looked that way. The detailed design on the one Indir picked out for me weaves blues, pinks, greens and golds together in a stunning pattern. The gold strings practically glittered in the soft light of the shop. I was so excited, and so honoured to have been given such an exquisite, handmade scarf. Indir is very very talented. 'Make sure you tell Adam that I gave you a scarf!' Indir instructed me with one of her huge toothless smiles.
out long enough, surely a meal time will pass. The shuttle staff are usually so friendly and the other travellers so chill-axed and chatty, that really the whole ordeal is more entertaining than annoying.
created Man,' the voice continued, 'And he saw that it was good.' Jonathan looked around confused. Were other people hearing this as well? 'On the Third Day, God created Music- and he saw that this was good.' The story started to take a surprising turn... 'And on the Fourth Day, God created the Club- And all the Good people- Got Down.' I burst out laughing. Boom Boom Boom, went the bass. Pound Pound Pound went my headache. I looked at our watch-it was 8:13am. How long was this bus ride again? The booming other-worldly voice wasn't through with it's suggestions yet though. 'This should be played at a high volume!' It instructed. OH. MY. I watched the driver's hand on the wheel. Was he going to obey this demanding 'voice'? He didn't make a move for the volume. Small victories. 'SOS' the voice bellowed. At least we were on the same page now...
enjoyed the music occasionally slowing to a complete stop only to be eased back to life with the 'broken record effect' given courtesy of Mitta DJ. It has been a real struggle (and a challenge that likely even has flopped) to paint a delightfully accurate musical performance of our ride. If somehow you can imagine all these parts layered together, though, you just might be able to find stardom in Indonesia! And yes, the bus ride was that long...
It probably would be quicker if I SWAM there. Not that I voiced this opinion, of course. This lesson I learned many moons ago. We were headed up to a cottage on Maple Lake in Northern Ontario in the trusty old family mini van. Tally Hoe Road was a long, windy roller coaster type road that was probably only several kilometers, but felt like millions. My mom was behind the wheel and my cousin Adam was with us. Adam, still not known to be slow moving, boldly stated that he could 'walk faster than we were driving.' So, my mom pulled the van over to give Adam the opportunity to test his theory and 'walk the walk.' Literally. In the photo I took from the back seat there is a barely noticeable pint size Adam far far behind us, emerging out of a cloud of dust. Probably ours. Lesson learned.
We t-boned another boat barely 30 seconds after leaving port. We just slowly floated towards each other, both boats with conked out motors, until the crash was inevitable, watched by all, avoided by none. By port, I mean the beach, by which you roll up your pants, pin up your sarong and discard your shoes before wading knee deep to board the boat. At this point, you, balancing your bag on one arm, your other bag in other other, and your shoes on your head, grab helplessly at the almost-attached, but mostly wavering, side posts and attempt to pull youself onto the narrow, wet slippery spit of wood while at the same time avoiding the sharp prop of the exposed outboard engine and managing the ongoing onslaught of waves. Then comes the obstacle course comprised of boxes of bananas, bags of greenery, satchels of rice, ziplocks of dried or fried something or other, old people, wide-eyed children, wooden doors, windows, a nursing mother, French tourists, grimy loose boards and a very pasty, very overweight blonde 
haired, 20 something, smiling dreamily and wearing square glasses, and whom (for reasons beyond my understanding) is wearing jeans and a dress shirt and has managed to somehow board the boat in his pristine white running shoes and socks. (?)
unrecognizable delicacies yelled in what I'm sure was a language but really sounded more like one, long mumbly word in high pitch tones. The man sitting on the bow, his legs dangling over the front, would yell and the man in charge of the motor in the rear would crank on the pull cord until the old motor spurted to life again...for the moment at least. 'Are there sharks out here?' Jonathan asked the fifth time the motor ceased. 'Do you think we could swim to shore without getting all our stuff wet?' he wondered by the sixth, as we apparently decided to drift over instead of bother the engine again. By this time, of course, the boat would have turned itself around. So we were now facing the wrong direction and much of the motor's new, yet short life would be spent re-directing us to our destined island.
radar of these people. Its shocking in a not-so-surprising way. So, we by pass all the hawkers offering us rides with their mini horse drawn buggies (this is a car free island) and shouting 'You need room!! Good deal!' and make the hot, sweaty trudge about one kilometer to our reserved Bungalow. Its true. We are cheap (I think 'thrifty' sounds better than 'cheap'). We probably could have gotten a ride for about $2, but gladly (?) forgo it by principle. The principle of cheap (thrifty).
hole of a room, fear of disease ridden mosquitos, geckos that live on the walls, 1am rooster calls, followed by the 5am call to prayer at a nearby mosque, followed by the constant roar of junkie motorbikes and their even junkier engines. Anyways, you can imagine how excited we were with our splurge of a highly recommended bungalow with a private roof top living room, complete with hammock and a plethora of pillows and a bathroom we didn't have to blindfold ourselves to enter. I emailed a month ago to reserve. For only one night, the bungalow cost more than seven times our otherwise nightly budget. It would be worth it, we told ourselves. Its Christmas!
'We will stay here one night,' I declared, more like a colony leader deciding where to set up a new capital city than a backpacker giving in to spending a night in luxury. 'Then we will decide if we will stay longer.' 'If you are still really unhappy you can have the room for 400,000,' Bernard offered, a last attempt at a peace treaty. I almost smiled. Bernard sent over a timid looking employee with two complimentary ice frappachinos... which I enjoyed from the comfort of my hammock. As soon as my head hit the soft hand woven material, Jonathan knew as well as I did that there was no way we were leaving this heavenly spot the next day. 'That was great bartering,' Jonathan complimented like it was all some sort of show. I glared at him.. with more than a hint of a smile breaking through.
Cottages with his Indonesian wife four years ago. All the bungalows are beautifully built, creatively decorated and encircled the flower-lined pool. Breakfast, which was included, was a spectacular event. It all started with fresh juice, of which after trying pineapple, lemon, orange and watermelon, we decided that banana was by far the best because it was more like a smoothie than a juice. Then, Jonathan would order the 'chocolat chaud' which was made rich and 'en francais' with cocoa, sugar and steamed milk, and I would get tea, with milk (another luxury). Then came the pancakes, stuffed with bananas, pineapple and/or coconut and topped with chocolate sauce or honey. If I wasn't ready to roll myself to the beach at this point, a fresh fruit platter would follow with watermelon, banana and pineapple. All artfully arranged on fine (looking) china. Sigh.
(free equipment provided by Sejuk), lounging sea-side sipping yet more juice and then retiring to our rooftop to while away the afternoon reading and recording every luscious moment in our journals. When we finally got hungry again we would wander around and parooze the menus, making the most difficult decision of the day: which bamboo-hut, with ocean and volcano view, would we eat in today? A couple days when we were feeling extra ambitious, we would circumnavigate the tiny island on foot, following the white sand beach that ringed it. The entire walk took about an hour or so, depending on how many times we stopped at cafes to recharge with a 'Bintang' (Indonesian beer).
On Christmas Eve we went on a snorkel tour that took us around to the best snorkel spots on all three of the Gili Islands. We were on a small 'glass bottom' boat with only about five other people. There were tons of colourful fish, beautiful coral and a couple sea turtles. Poor Jonathan couldn't see much without his glasses, so he mostly saw a kaleidoscope of colours. 'Stay with me and you will see turtles!' Our guide told us. 'You don't stay with me and you will not see them!' I didn't know how he could ensure our snorkelling failure if he was out of our sight, but I wasn't going to risk it. That was the plan, at least. The boat had barely slowed to a stop when our guide jumped in and was immediately lost among the fifty or so other people from a collection of other snorkelling tours. I don't know if you know this, but everyone looks the exact same with a snorkel and mask on. Especially from in the water. 
Oh well. I waited for Poke-e-mon to finally hop over the edge and join me and we set off in the direction of the mob. 'Where are we going?' asked Jonathan. Poor blind man. 'I don't know,' I replied, 'But I think we are chasing a turtle or something.' People had started to kick more frantically all in the same direction. I thought I heard someone mumble something about a turtle. Either that or they were all making a mad dash to avoid a shark. I preferred the turtle option, so I went with that one. 'All fifty of us?' Jonathan wanted to know. I laughed. 'Yup. It's going to be one of those real intimate experiences.'
beach. We figured it would be harder to get lost this way, and the white sand reminded us of the snow we were missing back home. The night was gloriously clear and before long, the black sky was pierced with an explosion of twinkling Christmas Eve stars. Despite being thirty degrees and very far way away from everyone we know and love, we still felt the magic of Christmas Eve walking home along the beach that night. Jonathan and I talked about Christmas-es past and wondered what all our friends and family were doing for the Holidays. We reminisced about being a kid on Christmas Eve, believing in Santa, debated about Santa's favourite cookies and that time there were reindeer hoof-prints on Jonathan's rooftop.
still in my mouth, I could just almost taste a little bit of ...something. Err. Bad timing, cold. Bad timing.
back to mainland and prepared ourselves to fight it out with the company from whom we bought the ticket when we got there. Whenever my mom loses something at home, she calls in the powers of St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost things (or at least that's my interpretation), and says the little rhyme. 'Tony, Tony, are you listening? Tony, Tony, something's missing!' Miraculously, Tony always comes through, and sooner or later the item is recovered. I gave it a last ditch effort, challenging Tony to find something that we potentially didn't even have anymore. We sat huffing and puffing a few more minutes. Jonathan checked the money pouch one last time. There, in between 10,000Rp bills, he found the lost ticket! It was like Charlie when he found the Golden Ticket to the Chocolate Factory. He was Charlie, waving the ticket around above his head and I was like Grandpa Joe doing the jig. Woo hoo! Now if only we could convince the ferry guy to refund the boat ticket we had bought.... not likely.
recommend making it your base on Gili Air. It was one of the few places we have been that we weren't ready to leave when the time came. The other day Jonathan and I were sitting on the edge of a bed in a dank hotel room taking turns sticking our faces into a disgustingly dirty fan for a smidgen of reprieve from the humidity, when he turned to me and said: 'You know..... If we only bought one meal a day..... and shared it.... we could afford to stay at Sejuk for the rest of our trip!' He calculated. Hmmm. I closed my eyes and gave it the moment's consideration the idea deserved. 'Tempting. Very tempting.'
I'm a complete balance-less disaster, so I wear a helmet riding a bicycle too. The other day we rented bicycles and asked for helmets and completely confused the bike owner. 'Ohhh you want a motorbike? I thought you wanted a bicycle' he said. 'No, a helmet for the bicycle,' I replied. He pretty much fell over laughing.
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