I don’t want to leave Ubud, but I take solace in the fact I’ll be back in a month for the writer’s festival. The rain has stopped and the air is still and heavy with humidity. I make one final visit to Kafe, take delivery of two kilos of raw cacao beans from Leah at Raw Food Bali and jump on the rickety bus back to the lowlands.
On the short trip through Legian to my hotel, the proud taxi driver tells me that Australian’s always choose Bluebird Taxis because “they safer, have correct meters and handsome drivers.”
Full of courage from my scooter riding around Ubud, I hire a zippy pink step-through and set off onto the traffic clogged streets of Legian. It is slow going through the jam, so there is little chance of a serious dingle. It is not the pleasant experience it was winding through the peaceful backroads of Ubud, and I breathe in enough pollution to warrant detoxing for the rest of my life in Antarctica.
In my search for bed-sheets at Bali Galleria I see a swish Loreal hair salon and divert my wanderings for a hair cut. The male staff are as gay as a mardi gras. When I comment on the all male staff, he tells me, “men like us know what women want.”
My hairdresser’s name is Ee-aw, as in donkey, and he is horrified at the damaged state of my hair.
“Where did you get this colour done? Oh darling, don’t you use a vitamin product after surfing?”
He insists on cutting off a long chunk of my hard earned blond tips, and holding up the mirror so I can see my new do, he seems quite happy with himself.
“Now you look like Celine Dion.”
That’s a long call, but I feel rather glamorous, until I put my bike helmet on and it all goes flat.
On the short trip through Legian to my hotel, the proud taxi driver tells me that Australian’s always choose Bluebird Taxis because “they safer, have correct meters and handsome drivers.”
Full of courage from my scooter riding around Ubud, I hire a zippy pink step-through and set off onto the traffic clogged streets of Legian. It is slow going through the jam, so there is little chance of a serious dingle. It is not the pleasant experience it was winding through the peaceful backroads of Ubud, and I breathe in enough pollution to warrant detoxing for the rest of my life in Antarctica.
In my search for bed-sheets at Bali Galleria I see a swish Loreal hair salon and divert my wanderings for a hair cut. The male staff are as gay as a mardi gras. When I comment on the all male staff, he tells me, “men like us know what women want.”
My hairdresser’s name is Ee-aw, as in donkey, and he is horrified at the damaged state of my hair.
“Where did you get this colour done? Oh darling, don’t you use a vitamin product after surfing?”
He insists on cutting off a long chunk of my hard earned blond tips, and holding up the mirror so I can see my new do, he seems quite happy with himself.
“Now you look like Celine Dion.”
That’s a long call, but I feel rather glamorous, until I put my bike helmet on and it all goes flat.
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