Indonesia: To Ubud (Day 6, Saturday, 080109)

Bali's been a bit of a disappointment thus far. Though I haven't encountered those packs of Australians that have so horrified Eric--hot, strapping, dumb-as-dirt-dudes and their hot, "skanky, one strap hanging off their shoulders" girlfriends--it's been too touristy. Everyone you pass in Seminyak and Kuta is a tourist, and the white sand beaches and crystalline-blue waters that I'd been envisioning are nowhere to be found. I'm ready to go.

We have a 9-ish shuttle to Ubud picking, so we breakfast:



And I take photos and make video of the famed merbok (zebra dove), prized for its distinctive call (they even have competitions for the best-sounding in parts of Southeast Asia). The Inada has three of 'em hanging just outside our room, and they've been cooing us awake every morning (in conjunction, of course, with the slightly less mellifluous sounds of the roosters). Listen carefully, half of it is me whistling, trying to get them to respond, the other half is the birds themselves:



When the (late) shuttle finally arrives, Eric and I climb into the remaining seats, him in the front, left-hand passenger seat (they drive on the left side of the road, because in Indonesia, the right side is...suicide), and I in the backity back of the van. Shortly thereafter, I'm grateful for the motion-sickness tablet E made me ingest, as we're receiving little of the A/C (the German in the row in front of us gets persnickety about it being cold when my neighbor, an Indian dude, asks him to turn the air up so that those of us in the back can, I dunno, not die of heat stroke), and Indian Dude next to me is in a cold-sweat and making weird, I'm-going-to-be-sick, grunting noises. I cross my fingers that he doesn't hurl on me or in my vicinity. Direct it at the German, man.

The ride is actually fairly pleasant since the zigzagging, oceanic swerving typical of Balinese driving is more tolerable when you're inside an enclosed vehicle as opposed to on a scooter and subject to the whims of...your fragile flesh and bones.

We pass scooter after scooter of boys in traditional garb, sarongs and white tunics and headbands and, I think, tilakas, basically the same thing as bindis, but worn for different reasons.



Shortly thereafter, there's a stream of beskirted girls riding sidesaddle. They're belted in gold, long hair in ponytails, all demurely cradling a small covered basket in their laps. (My boo boo camera is unable to catch this with any semblance of a decent image.)

I dunno what any of this is about, but it's lovely nevertheless.

Same for the yard after yard filled with stone Buddhas: Buddhas forming this mudra or that, in different asanas...skinny, upright Buddhas, pot-bellied, reclining Buddhas. Also, nippled ladies who'd do any cut-rate L.A. plastic surgeon proud, tits all bolted on like grapefruit halves.

(I cynically assume that they're...like...concrete poured into molds, but Eric scoffs, since he's seen 'em working at slabs of stone with power tools. Folks are not exactly chipping away with chisels and mallets, but their symmetry, their "grace of accuracy" is man-made, at least.)

And you can't go 50 feet without spotting a stone altar or figure stacked high with offerings.

This is more like it.