mr whippy

Ironmen have aid stations to help them get through the heinous event, so it is only fitting that we stop on our afternoon walk to fuel up on coconut "ice-cream" from the not-so-whippy-nor-frosty boy. This is my first sighting of Coneman the Icetarian, but Tom admitted that he has had close encounters with him down in the past when I was away. I thought the bike vendors only offered stinky fish, which I am in no hurry to run after.  The theme music comes by way of his mobile phone wired to a speaker, and the ice-cream is kept firm with the help of crushed ice and a high concentration of seaweed powder. 

With energy restored, the walk continued to aid station number two which offered a mouthful of fresh lontar juice. Immanuel is our contracted climber, and he provides us with one litre, three times a week for use in our green smoothies. This is a small portion of his weekly collection, especially in the peak flow months of July and August. 

Being that the walk was a gruelling 30 minutes long and the sun was low in the sky, we had to finish the day with a few beers.

Just kidding. Here is photographic evidence of the first recycling programme in our village. The locals don't drink beer, but they are happy to collect the empties from the expats and trade them for half a cent each. Collect enough and you can buy yourself a new plastic bucket. 

birthday adventure

Just the two of us on a borrowed motorbike. Bathers, sunnies, long sleeved shirts. A loaf of camp oven bread, salad and art supplies in the backpack. Over the newly graded road to our favourite south side beach and beyond. Returning home when my butt was numb and the dusk shadows long. Yes, I feel lucky. 

out on the town

On the village chief's new motorbike for the ride into town. Despite the shock absorbers and a padded seat, a scooter is not built to comfortably negotiate the pot holes and corrugations, and while the first half  hour was pleasant enough, the butt numbing pain soon set in.  I long to ditch the helmet and take the weight off my neck, but catastrophic thinking imagines us skidding into a roving goat and my head meeting the road.  Slowly, slowly.  There isn't anything in town worth rushing for.

We are on the mission to find steel and a boilermaker-welder to build us a new, termite proof tank stand.  Tom draws up the specs while I sip floral iced tea and admire the decor.  There is little choice of eating joints in town, and nothing you would call a cafe. This in Indo for Indonesians.  Rice, deep fried balls of unidentified meat, oily curry and boiled beans. A still life display in the window behind a lacy curtain.  Very still and not much life. We select a jackfruit curry, boiled kankung (water spinach) and rice. $1.00 per plate.   For dessert there is the option of an es campur from a street cart. Jellied bits with all artificial colours and flavourings, shaved ice, sweetened condensed milk and coconut.  A month's sugar intake in a single bowl.

Behold we have a shopping list, and start our search in the magic shop for WD40, a battery charger, a toilet seat and 2cm screws.  Plenty of buckets, no toilet seat and a rusty battery charger.  It is also he place to get your official photos taken; amongst the exhaust pipes, fans and guitars. 

Waste management is not high on the council agenda, nor the public's awareness.  The sign above says "It is prohibited to throw rubbish into the river and ocean."

We track down a metal worker, who has a side line in busted motorbikes.  He claims he is up for the job and will study the plans and SMS us with a quote, which we will duly counter offer, and much polite laughter will ensue as we agree on a fair price. 

bali transit

For most visitors, Bali is the destination they have been counting down for; annual leave, school holidays, honeymoon, girls pamper trip or post-season footy debauchery.  We are in the unusual situation were Bali is a transit zone or a weekender.  Like a trip to the city from down south, when lounging in cafes and browsing through boutiques melds with food shopping and errands in the light industrial area.  We are neither tourist nor expat, although we wander in both shoes. 

We had three nights in Bali enroute to our end of the archipelago. First on our list was to hire a scooter and head straight to Bintang supermarket for a banana binge.  Floods and cyclones have pushed bananas in Australia to a luxury level and we were dearly missing our staple food.  The whole kilo was devoured before we left the carpark.

There was still room in the tummy for more tropical fruit and a soy latte at Grocer and Grind while planning our list for the day. (Note : G & G have a new branch on Jalan Uluwatu in Jimbaran, which is a welcome addition to this espresso starved area).

You might imagine my list to be populated with a massage, pedicure, bikini wax and hair treatment; in between high tea and a beach walk. I thought that as well, until the reality of picking up new bamboo blinds, shipping air cargo and getting fingerprinted at immigration bunted the spa activities aside.  However, we did both get to the haridresser; for Tom's pre-season hair cut and my damage control treatment.

"Oh dear madam, you're hair feels like sand."

The blinds are to replace those destroyed in the wet season storms, thanks to the failure of our assigned worker to close down the house.  The domestic air cargo is not on any tourist itineraries that I'm aware of, and so should it remain.  Unless Gen Y and younger would like to see what a typewriter looks like.  Look mum, no cords!

more expense

We've only had a motorbike for five days, and already it has cost us a new fuel filter, oil change and two tanks of petrol, because the first one leaked out.  The trusty old pushbike has only demanded one new pedal and the odd bit of free air in the tire.  Still, cheap bike rent for a week, and provides us with wind in our hair.  My push bike riding is never that swift.

Bought two litres of oil from the shop for $2 then paid $1.20 for the oil change at the newly opened motorbike garage. They love getting greasy and grovelling around on the ground.

Oscar fueled us up with his dipper.  He works almost 100 hours per week for A$20. Less than $3 per day.  Our tank of fuel was over two days wage.

on your bike : petrol power

As expats have settled in to the area, the collection of motorbikes has expanded, and come the off season when the winds are onshore, the board racks are loaded for surf missions further afield.  A friend has lent us his brother's motorbike for the week, and while it sounds like a lawn mower and feels like sitting on an old washing machine, it handles the bumps better than the scooters and is free.