Tag Archives: Bali

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Watch Out. There’s a Snake Right There.

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Weaving through the punishing heat past the Quick Shop, on my two-wheeled international debut. Claire, on the back of the scooter, squeezed my arm and said, ‘Watch out. There’s a snake right there.’  

And there it was, a long, green-brown thing, slithering across the road we were troublingly also on. My eyes darted, scanning. Cold fear. It was moving quickly — even for reptiles a good idea when traversing any Indonesian thoroughfare — it’s green-brown length whipping into a bush and rustling it wildly. It was big — I only saw the back end of it and that was all of six feet. How long overall? I shuddered in my seat. My distinctly un-altar boy response was, ‘Fuck me.’ Though to be fair, among St. Roses altar boys, this was conventional.

Seconds earlier and we’d have run over it — subsequent pictorial investigations suggest a cobra — and doubtless it’d have been flung up by the front wheel of our scooter so, like Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Lost Ark, I was face-to-fang with it. We were far from a hospital.

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Kicking my fins, I tapped Claire before pointing to the ocean floor. Fluttering about, she turned and we now saw it together. A black and white, striped sea snake. It was small and ignored us before zig-zagging off into the warm murk of the Bali sea.

Back aboard the boat and describing it to the local in charge of our snorkelling trip he cheerily explained, ‘If one bites you, you have about five minutes.’ I frowned and he smiled. ‘Enough time to say goodbye.’

It was a Banded Sea Krait and they’re highly neurotoxic, causing paralysis and respiratory failure. A CV to make the entire family proud. Each year hundreds of Thai and Indonesian fishermen perish when dragging up their nets and surprising one of these shy reptiles. They prefer life on the seabed. We all have our limits.

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In east Bali my running streak broke through the psychological barrier of 900. I mapped out a route through the village and into the deep green countryside and rice fields. It was tough in the harsh humidity and already blaring morning sun — upon returning to our bamboo villa I’d instantly fall into the pool. Of greater concern were the dogs along my daily trail.

Some were apathetic but others were territorial and guarded the narrow path past their homes and temple. These barked with menace, so I avoided eye contact. The hounds were often in poor health and appeared unloved. While I felt sorry for them, I was more worried about my exposed, spindly legs which through canine eyes may have presented as a KFC snack pack.

Rabies is common in Asia and each day on the island there’s an average of 183 suspected rabies bites. Recently, before the authorities intervened — think Atticus Finch — a rabid dog bit eighteen people. Was my running streak worth this risk? If treated quickly, most recover. For others, however, an especially gruesome death arrives following seizures, paralysis, delirium, coma, and most worryingly, excessive salivation.

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Jogging beside a lush field, I wondered if a muted, underacknowledged purpose of travel is this: to confront our own mortality. Especially as our seemingly gentle tourist activities on this tropical paradise revealed startling, wilder threats.

Is this also why we temporarily abandon the security of our lives — to glimpse, however briefly, the slender edge between beauty and danger? To immerse ourselves in a more brutal ecology — to glance timidly at death while being hand-in-hand with your wife as you swim among the deadly reptiles? Snakes on the good earth and in the usually restorative ocean. Ominous dogs. These encounters jolted me toward gratitude — for the calm, suburban safety of home.

It seemed the island, for all its beauty, had its own curriculum for the living.

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Country Roads, Take Me Home — Again and Again

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Sedans feel selfish in Bali. The local brothers picked Claire and me up at the Taksu Sanur Motel in their boxy people mover. Here, there are only two types of vehicles: scooters — cheap and nimble — and people movers that carry half a dozen or more.

Heading north up the east coast the brothers queued up some music on a phone. We immediately recognised the twangy guitars of a beloved American performer. The brothers sang along in broken but affectionate ways. You know the words. Join in!

Almost heaven, West Virginia
Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River

Claire and I suppressed our giggles, barely. What better way to engage with Western culture and to learn English (should you wish) than courtesy of the clear-eyed melodies of John Denver’s ‘Country Roads, Take Me Home.’ I do think it’s a terrific song about the love for home with its introspective, soaring bridge that often makes me misty and want to jump in my car and hurtle up to Kapunda.

I hear her voice, in the morning hour she calls me
Radio reminds me of my home far away
Driving down the road I get a feeling
That I should have been home yesterday, yesterday

Lunchtime on Monday and the traffic’s dense but moving as we slowly weave our way to Sideman, east of Ubud. The song finishes and I wonder what will be up next. To our aural surprise we have: ‘Country Roads, Take Me Home’ by John Denver. Except it’s not JD on repeat but the tune’s been pinched by some gormless baritone, likely with a too large hat draped on his too large, empty (Texan) bonce.

It’s a wonderful song, of course, but nothing should be played twice in a row. The second listening is always diminished, an entirely foreseeable disappointment. Still, for us in the back seat, it’s an intercultural education. Finally, the Appalachian Mountains have come to south-east Bali.

Tragedy! One of the brothers — he has pretty good English due to his stint on a cruise ship — was poking about in the console and glovebox when he timidly announced, ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I left my phone at the hotel so we’ll have to go back.’

Rather than spend an unnecessary hour in the car, Claire and I are deposited at Sanur Harbour. Strolling around, we’re constantly asked if we’d like a taxi. It’s like being questioned in a bakery if you’d like sauce on your sausage roll. I want to scream, ‘Yes, I’m so unspeakably dim that I need a stranger to alert me to my condiment requirements. Of course! Sauce. Thank you kindly retail assistant.’

Sometime later the brothers return in the people mover, all phones now present. We’re hot so it’s a relief to be in the cool of the car. Again, we steer north. The brothers both fumble with their phones — driving’s no impediment to this — and for our shared, involuntary pleasure, they recommence the tunes.

We then hear that familiar guitar picking — in the key of A minor — and the warm vocals of one Henry John Deutschendorf Jr whom you may know better as John Denver.

Almost heaven, West Virginia
Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River

Three times in under an hour — and we were still stranded in Sanur, vehicularly and musically. Claire and I squeeze each other’s hand in silent, intimate acknowledgement. We’ll hear it twice more before we leave — drifting from waterfalls and restaurants, the song now a comical motif, an improbable Asian companion.

Listening to the song in the future, I’ll remember those lovely brothers and that captive drive along the coast of a small Indonesian island.

Music really does surround our tiny, receptive world.

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Before Breakfast, You

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I wondered about you as I ran along the Balinese boardwalk. I imagined you in our room — fixing your hair, brushing your teeth, tidying up a little like Ann in The Famous Five. I hoped we’d cross paths. I liked the quiet intimacy of that thought.

The context of the moment matters; it offered a hopeful glimpse of our future. Up early, somewhere tropical. Taking our exercise — as you sagely remarked while coming down the stairs, ‘Even on holidays, we probably need to stay active.’

Running along the boardwalk, after peering in at Pier Eight — we’d have a late-afternoon drink there during our stay — I felt pleased about the morning ahead. Swim. Reading. Breakfast. You.

I had on my Glenelg Footy Club 2024 premiership guernsey. Running in it’s great. It’s lightweight and often a conversation-starter. Just by a beach hotel an older chap and his wife hollered across at me, ‘Is that a Glenelg top?’ I was lost so welcomed a break. ‘Yes,’ I panted, stopping with them by the boom-gate. He continued, ‘I’m from Mundulla, near Bordertown. They’re the Tigers, too.’ We swapped footy histories and off I trudged through south Sanur.

If Claire and I were to meet, I hoped it would be along what I’ve now dubbed the Police Path — no cars, few scooters, only the odd dog ambling along with no real morning agenda and the tourist police office right there. I sensed you were close, just as you had sensed me that summer afternoon, watching the world’s slowest cricket match.

Blue denim shirt. Sunglasses. A singular freely offered smile. Coming around the corner, in the dappled morning sunlight, there you were.

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To Alex and Max, on our Bali Holiday

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Hello there Alex and Max

I hope you enjoyed your trip to Bali. I learnt much about the island but more importantly the three of us and found it to be a holiday of fun and spirited, positive conversation.

That you both went on your first flight overseas by yourselves is of significance. You did well, especially given Max’s mid-flight mishap, and I was proud and relieved when you both strode up the airport’s departure corridor, looking relaxed.

Is there anything as exhilarating as that first crisp, new morning in a different country? Friday dawned in Kuta, and our hotel is a few minutes from the beach. We go along Poppy’s Lane past all the clothing stores and eateries and then explore the Beachwalk Shopping Centre. Pausing to check out Hershey’s and Starbucks, we have lunch at Avera where Max has margarita pizza and Alex has the first of many plates of Mee Goreng. I appreciate how curious and excited you are. There’s constant chatter. We spot the Bali Bomb Memorial and talk about this.

You both barter for the first time and show a confident, courteous grasp of how to do this. When I mention that it’s enjoyable for us but of great importance for the locals, you nod. It’s another step in becoming a global citizen. We visit the Jimmy Fooking Hendrix shop. With his well-practised routine, he makes us all laugh.

You subscribing with such enthusiasm to our Blue Lagoon trip was superb. We could’ve remained in Kuta in our established routines, but you expressed a keenness to venture beyond and I like this too. Snorkeling in the warm ocean on that Monday, it was terrific to watch you swimming above the coral with clown fish. We even saw some garfish! Sadly, no mantra rays. A wonderful morning!

I loved late afternoons on Kuta Beach when after a day of investigation, we’d sit on beanbags at the Fiki Fiki Bar. Young coconuts for you two and a (rare) beer for me. We’d discuss ways to manage the ceaseless stream of people selling things. How about Max’s pedicure? Big toes only (budget restraints). Alex hired a board and went surfing. These were entertaining moments in which the wider world was embraced by you both.

Our final day was invested at the fabled Waterbom Park. Despite my hesitations it was a fantastic afternoon, and I loved our shared rides on the Python and the Twin Racers. Barreling down those terrifying, often blackened tubes and being at the mercy of ruthless gravity, I found immense joy in doing this with you.

This conclusion to our time in Bali was deep in profound meanings about family and sharp mindfulness for me. I felt a delightful sense that it and our entire trip had been most triumphant, executed with eagerness and open-heartedness, and gave me a glimpse of your blossoming futures.

Love, Dad

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Three Balinese Beers

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Bintang

Rented daily at the Fiki Fiki Bar on the beach at Kuta, this was a functional and fun beer. Alex, Max, and I bombed onto the beanbags and the boys each had a (young) coconut as the sun submerged into the Indian Ocean. Somedays, Alex then surfed for an hour, while Max and I yakked and repelled the unrelenting torrent of often comical hawkers. There were cultural and interpersonal lessons for all. On successive days one fellow tried to sell us (purportedly) temporary tattoos featuring enriching life advice such as, ’Talk shit, get hit’ and ‘You wish, jellyfish.’ However, removed from a convivial context Bintang can be a dull, flavourless slog. It’s occasionally the sole option at local restaurants but let’s not be overly critical for a beer is a beer is a beer, as almost sung by a faceless German techno band in 1985.

Diablo IPA

An India Pale Ale in Indonesia? The homographic repetition of ‘Ind’ could be a good sign. And it is. On Saturday after yoga Claire investigated a Bintang supermarket (no relationship with the aforementioned beer) and bought herself a few treats (including a dress ring) before returning with a new beer for me to investigate. It was a restorative change and after dark, I scrutinised it as we collapsed in and out of the villa’s sparkling water. Gang of Youths soared into the sultry Ubud air. Invigoratingly zesty and aromatic with citrus, it’s well-suited to the tropics and at 4.9% comes with not inconsiderable clout (hence the name Diablo, even if a little overstated). I might try to get some in Glenelg.

Prost

Clean and crisp, this golden lager is amicable, and you know the name is German for ‘cheers.’ In Ubud, I’d collect a pair at the Ratna supermarket for poolside refreshment however there was early distress during our stay as I couldn’t find the villa’s bottle opener. So, despite my brash promises of cultivated behaviour, I had to knock the top off with a decidedly bogan methodology (no teeth were involved). Ultimately, this beer displays only minor charisma despite its slogan proclaiming the philosophically knotty and largely indefensible, ‘Good people drink good beer.’ I also read a suggestion that Prost has, ‘notes of corn and hay’ but remain unsure as I didn’t share my ale with any English-speaking local livestock.

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Bali Hai Five

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Swim-up bar

A particular late afternoon indulgence was among Claire’s aspirations, and this informed our choice of Seminyak hotel (The Mercure). So, kitted out in our bathers, we tiptoed (Claire) and dove scruffily (me) into the unexpectedly brisk lagoon pool, waded about tokenistically, and then as the clock ticked over to Happy Hour, clambered onto our watery seats.

A swarthy DJ pumped rock classics out over the resort, but curiously he had just a solitary speaker hooked up, so we heard ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ with only the vocals and guitar, and it was a monstrosity. Claire ordered a cocktail, and I took a Bintang. Although the actual beverages didn’t match the thrilling context, this occasion of fizzing, longitudinal expectation had arrived, and it was fun.

Our Balinese villa

Pressing apart the rustic wooden doors. As acclaimed travel writer Bill Bryson says the next moment is one of delicious anticipation and now our eyes dart about, skimming and taking in the sweep of our bungalow. Private pool, outdoor shower, wide kitchen, four-poster bed.

We swiftly began a routine in which I’d purchase our nightly beer and gin accompaniments on our way home at the Ratna shop. Gliding about in the warm pool on the blow-up bed, doing gentle laps as languid music (a LRB playlist) drifted out across our muggy night. Vertiginous geckos kept us company.

Scooter!

Even at unlikely hours, Ubud’s traffic is bunged up, and so we’d each hop onboard a green Honda Scoopy. These riders earnt our trust with their spatial awareness like surgeons and nimble zip like mosquitoes. Slung along Jalan Raya (the main drag), we’d squash between a stationary car and the gutter, breathing in but not shutting my eyes, so mesmerising was each buzzing little trip. They judge distance and opportunity like champion athletes but show ceaseless respect for all.

In Australia horns are tooted with aggression but here they’re informative and aimed at collective benefit not selfishness. Although Bali is Hindu, the road-users are on the path to enlightenment and liberation from suffering and this is vehicular Buddhism.

Pyramids of Chi

Dark inside the pyramid now that the neighbouring ignoramus has finally turned off his phone. On mats with little blankets over our legs, we’re here for aural healing and I need it as there’s lately been way too much Pink invading (guerilla-style) my distressed ears. Claire and I hold hands and the deep voice of the English guide (an Estuary accent) says she’ll begin our session with what will be my debut gong bath.

According to the website, ‘These waves interact both with the water in our bodies, with our DNA and with our chakra system aiding the intelligence of our bodies to feel, heal, relax & release.’ The bath’s dramatic but I enjoy no (aural) healing and have limited consequent need for the earnest (emailed) after-care regime. Still, it’s ninety minutes of shared peacefulness.

Daily walk in Ubud

Rice fields lazy-thick with watery mud. Heavy, wet air envelopes us, and our path is uneven and narrows between the villas. Buzzing, lime scooters politely pick their way past. Dogs roam but mostly ignore us and don’t seek a pat on the head. Dotted about are warungs or restaurants. We frequent one named Mesari which does delicious beetroot and pesto salad and nasi campur and beef rendang.

On the path’s another eatery cutely called Whole Egg in which we have Sunday breakfast. The café only seats eight and the owner prepares everything with calming patience. Chatting, we take in the fertile, sweet air and then Claire’s banana pancake and smoothie appears while I have granola with yoghurt and local fruit. Claire saw a review that suggested it was like being in your Mum’s kitchen.

It was.

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Max. fourteen.

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Happy 14th Birthday!

Smiling, I regularly think of the note you’d leave on the fridge whiteboard – a small yet significant gesture that speaks volumes about your character. Your ability to infuse humour into everyday life, coupled with your thoughtful nature is always a delight! The simple declaration became more than just a message; it’s a testament to your wit, your creativity, and your unique perspective on the world.

the cordial is pre-made

Watching you blossom in drama has been a joy. I like you telling me about the acting challenges you’ve been set and how these are progressing. I’m excited to see you on stage later this year, playing a character and entertaining the audience. Keep embracing those opportunities to express yourself and develop your skills.

And let’s not forget about basketball – a sport in which you truly have ability. Your talent on the court is undeniable, but what sets you apart is your understanding of teamwork and being able to bring others into the game. Of special interest is your ability to navigate both victories and defeats with grace. Remember, it’s not just about winning games; it’s about the lessons learned along the way, the friendships forged, and the growth that comes with every season.

Regrets are mostly not about the things we’ve done but rather the things we didn’t do. Given this, I believe you should keep playing basketball. You can do it!

In June I’m keen for you, Alex, and I to explore Bali together. Investigating new cultures, tasting exotic foods, and experiencing different landscapes will broaden our horizons. I hope during your life you’ll keep seeking out those adventures for it’s through travel that we learn about the world and ourselves.

Your imagination is limitless, and your ability to craft immortal expressions never fails to make me laugh. Hold onto that youthful spirit and sense of wonder, for it’s what makes you extraordinary. Lastly, I want to reminisce about that moment in a Singaporean swimming pool when you made that legendary declaration to me that you were

cooler than a robot, older than the wolf

As you embark on another year of new experiences, new challenges, and new triumphs, always remember how loved and cherished you are. You have a heart of gold, a mind full of dreams, and a spirit that’s destined to soar. Happy birthday, dearest Max.

Love Dad

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The View from Afar

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darwin

It’s a hot and muggy evening in Darwin for the footy. And it’s a hot and muggy evening here in Singapore too. Both cities are former colonial outposts, and I’m watching West Coast and Melbourne in an apartment fourteen stories up, and can see across to the famous suburb of Little India. After the game we’ll head down there for a Rogan Josh Kennedy.

There’s a boisterous crowd in at TIO Stadium, and a grassy mound behind the goals. Both teams get an early goal, and Melbourne’s playing with welcome vigour. Coming to the Demons from Glenelg in the SANFL Billy Stretch collects some early possessions. It’s also the suburb to which I’ll return next week after I fly from here. Today the Tigers won consecutive matches for the first time in, well, eons after last week knocking off current premier Norwood.

I’ll soon be on the Glenelg Oval terrace, or in front of Snout’s Bar, named for 1970’s cult Tiger John “Snout” McFarlane. My mate Bob coached twelve year old Billy Stretch in SAPSASA, the fabled week long carnival for primary schoolers. He told me then Billy would play at the highest level. He was on the field with thirty-five other kids, but playing his own game.

I’ve been lucky enough to watch the footy in some fun places. I saw my Crows get flogged by Essendon in Barb’s Bar in the east of Bali a couple seasons’ back. The highlight of that night, apart from Barb’s rissoles and chips, was Black Caviar’s win in the William Reid Stakes; shown at half time.

I was in Singapore’s Boomarang Bar for the Adelaide and Hawthorn preliminary final of 2012. This was Tippett’s valediction before homesickness forced him back to the Gold Coast suburb of Sydney. I was strangely relieved when Cyril got the Hawks home in the final minute as I was to be at a Hong Kong conference the following Saturday. Barely into my new job, I didn’t think I could be suddenly stricken by illness, and seeking alternative treatment in a Kowloon bar.

During the second quarter West Coast exerts their dominance in front of the vibrant Territory crowd. I think of my only trip to Darwin, again for a training workshop (No, I’m not just a conference attendee!). By the final afternoon I’d had my fill of multi-literacies and neo-Marxist interpretations of Hamlet, so headed out to the Adelaide River for the jumping crocodiles and termite mounds. How many chooks are annually dangled off boats to coax the reptiles to leap up like Nic Naitanui? I couldn’t pause for a Darwin stubby at Humpty Doo, but there’s always next time.

I’m always keen to see how Shannon Hurn performs. The prodigious kicking Eagle is from Angaston which is in the Barossa and Light league along with my home town of Kapunda. Shannon’s dad William was a solid footballer with Central Districts in the SANFL.

Angaston is the scene of my own football misfortune. The season after I finished school the association changed the age rules for senior colts footy. To be eligible you had to be under eighteen at the start of July. A premature baby, my birthday’s in June so, both happy and forlorn, I watched on as my mates won a flag on Angaston oval. I didn’t play in one ever. My friend Trev took what we still reckon is the best mark ever taken by a Kapunda Bomber. A lanky lad, Trev rose impossibly to the crest of the pack, grabbed it and it stuck! This got the loudest roar when the video was shown at their recent reunion.

I spent most of that season in the B grade. We hardly won a game. In the huddle at three-quarter time of the final match we were down by truckloads. Our coach’s address was less Barack Obama than drunken barracker. “Well boys we’re in trouble. Again. And we’re out of excuses. I don’t know what to say. Just go and run a lap. Or something.”

With the West Coast comfortable victors, the crowd spills out into Darwin’s balmy night. And we head down to Little India to continue our balmy night too. My last Saturday in Singapore.

This story was first published in Inside Football. For more go to http://digital.insidefootballonline.com/#folio=1

kapunda

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The Frog and The Footy

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volleys

Ordering rissoles in Bali is a sign that I need to go home to Adelaide.

It’s a Friday night, and I’m in Barb’s sports bar for the Crows season opener. With an Adelaide Crow tattoo on his arm, mine host Ian ambles by as the club song choruses from the TV. He mutters, “It’s got a good beat, but I reckon the kids won’t dance to it.” He’ll say that another twenty-one times before September. There’s a galaxy of Indonesian dishes on offer, but I inhale a plate of meaty patties, chips and veggies. The footy is streamed from Channel 7 in Perth and, frosty long necks of Bintang aside, when I find myself getting misty-eyed about the Bunnings ads, I know the score.

Then there’s the frog. He lurks in the grounds of our Singaporean condominium, and he’s seeking a mate. After dark, his thoughts turn, as Barry White may have sung, to making a little love or as HG Nelson certainly said, to “wielding the night tools.” His call is a loud, resonating, metallic honk. He honks nightly into the cruel fug. His throbbing desperation wakes me up and keeps me sleepless. Nightly. I want to escape his amphibious ardour so am heading to South Australia for a June holiday.

Despite living on the equator, I love winter. The endless summer here delivers an effortless lifestyle of shorts and swimming, but Adelaide extends her charms. I like dressing for the cold; faded jeans and my boots- indestructible Blundstones bought in Kimba twenty years back. Include Dunlop volleys and a pair of dusty thongs and what other footwear is there? The Southern Ocean often lashes its wind at us so I’m a convert to the hoodie. I’ll stick a pair of rubber boots on each of our boys Alex and Max and they’ll be right. Cousins are often among our first friends and, happily, they’ll all soon be running, yelling and settling their necessary disputes.

I’ll relax in Adelaide, but also tour the Barossa, McLaren Vale and Coonawarra – viniculturally. Confirmed by one ignoble episode, tropical life and cabernet sauvignon simply don’t combine for me. It’ll be superb to plonk down with some old winter friends from Turkey Flat, d’Arenberg and Katnook, and discover what they’ve been up to. I’m confident that every bottle will burst with stories as I sit at assorted tables with Dad and uncork some robust conversations about footy, the Ashes tour and everything else.

Winter back home often hosts cloudless, still days of pale sunshine; ideal for beach walks and parks. Blokes occasionally label their pubs; Rundle Street’s Exeter is, “The X.” The boys name their preferred coastal playgrounds- the Nemo Park, the Buffalo Park and the Rock Lobster; baptised for the B52’s song I unthinkingly played them once. They also have to climb some trees with their mates.

Enthusiastically standing on the terraces as Glenelg play at Brighton Road could placate my football pang. Contemporary AFL spectators have little opportunity to appreciate the contest, as it should be enjoyed. Standing, skilfully, allows for better talking, laughing and barracking, and also expedites what Roy Slaven described as, “drinking in concert.” Unlike modern colosseums, I can wander to Snout’s bar or the BBQ while maintaining an eye and an ear on the ball, without burrowing down a concrete hole, like a rodent, seeking a snag or a pint.

Improbable footballers such as cult Roosters full forward Grenville Deitrich charm me. Treasured exceptions who, despite their prohibitive shape, advance to a high level. Thankfully, these survive in the SANFL. Just. I favour this over the AFL as the national competition is increasingly conquered by charisma-free robots, automatons manufactured into facsimiles of footballers like an Asimov dystopia.

A fire is vital. Grumpy’s Brewhaus at Verdun boasts a German-inspired microbrewery, wood-oven and combustion stove. A golden pint of Tomcat pilsner and a few slices of Funky Chicken pizza on a Sunday and I’ll be set. I taste it all now and can smell the drifting eucalyptus smoke as Alex and Max scurry through the last of the autumn leaves on Grumpy’s lawn.

Life here in the endless summer is fine, but like gravity, winter at home exerts an indisputable pull. It will be a languid exhalation but, ultimately, I’m hoping that when I return to Singapore, the amorous frog is on his honeymoon.

fire