Massive Mountaineering

This week I finally stopped putting off the challenge of conquering Mount Batukaru. The peak, which stands at a modest 2200 metres above sea level is the second highest in Bali. Each day that I have lived here it has loomed above me as if taunting me for further delaying my climb. With my departure for Europe rapidly approaching, I could take no more and succumbed to the necessity of the ascent, which exists simply because one can.

The reason that I hadn’t made the trek until now was not entirely down to tardiness. For starters, it is not often that I get a full day off from the various bits of work that I do up here. Secondly, we are still in the rainy season. This not only makes the climb rather unpleasant, but as I soon realised, it makes it quite dangerous too. Guests are not permitted to do the trek if it has rained in the two days prior to the planned date. I later found that this would have been the case on the day I climbed, but the decision was made to let me go anyway. I am obviously not as important as paying guests; Or visibly fitter. We’ll trust that it is the latter.

Mount Batukaru at 6:30am

So on Tuesday morning at seven in the morning, with a backpack full of rice and chicken I met my friend Kadek, who was to act as my guide for the day. Kadek is eighteen years old and works in the garden at Bali Eco Stay. Last year he trained to lead trips up the mountain for guests, but as I found out close to the summit, he has only climbed it three times including that training session. Despite the fact that Kadek was a little green, his enthusiasm and knowledge ensured that my trip was fantastic.

I was rather concerned to learn from Kadek that there would be nowhere to fill my water bottle on the mountain as we would be bypassing all of the rivers. This meant that the modest 650ml that I was carrying was to see me through a gruelling four hour climb and two hour descent. As I was not willing to resort to drinking my own urine just yet, I was on liquid rations for the day.

The departure point is at Jati Luih temple, where we were greeted by our welcoming party in the form of a monkey. He was extremely friendly indeed, approaching us without fear and wishing to share everything that we had brought along. He made a cavalier grab for my shoelaces at one point and spent a lot of time eyeing up my iPod. Eventually he got away with the offering that Kadek had made at the temple. The Balinese are extremely devout followers of their own brand of Hinduism, so throughout the ascent, Kadek was inclined to stop and make offerings to the various gods at their temples. I cannot begin to imagine the horrors that we were being protected from.

Monkey on the rob

From the first temple, we entered the rainforest with Kadek reeling off the names of all the animals that lived there but that we would not see. They included deer, snakes, eagles, hogs, monkeys and some kind of big cat. As it turned out, we did spy another monkey of a different species to our thief and I was extremely surprised to hear Kadek tell me that he’d never seen one before. I was to hear this a few times over the course of the hike in relation to various pieces of plant life, prompting me to ask him whether he’d ever been there before. It was as a result of this conversation that I learned that he was a relative novice.

Spiky jungle plants

The climb through the rainforest was tough. At 2200 metres, I will admit that I had not expected to have any trouble reaching the summit. However, it is not the height that makes Batukaru a challenge but the terrain. There is no path to speak of. Instead Kadek had to lead the way with a knife, cutting his way through dense rainforest while climbing relentlessly. On any mountain that I have climbed before, there have been well trodden paths that as well as rising towards the peak, weave their way across flat ridges and valleys, giving some respite for the thighs. On Batukaru this is not the case. It is a direct march up hill over whatever obstacle may be in the way, through tangles of roots, mud, rock and heavy ferns.

Tunnelling under the ferns

Whenever I encroach on a new community in foreign land, I do enjoy giving something back. So it was that I gave the leeches of the rainforest a good feeding. Somehow they managed to find their way to my feet, leaving my socks with a polka dot pattern that looked like Minnie mouse’s bow. Along with a few scratches and scrapes from vicious plants, these represented the only injuries I sustained on the climb.

I was pleased to be shown all of the sights on the way up, particularly the spot where a local gentleman had slipped and fallen to his death a year earlier. Most unnervingly, this was around ten minutes before we arrived at the ‘hard section’. This came as we emerged from the rainforest into a dense jungle of ferns that cover the top part of the mountain. In order to traverse them, you must cut through them, walk over them and crawl under them as you wind your way up to the peak. At times there are sheer drops around which one must skirt, all the while climbing further. One slip and a plummet down into the forest is the reward.

Kadek hacks a path with his knife

But four hours after departure, Kadek and I emerged victorious at the summit, where he went about his religious duties and I tucked hungrily into my packed lunch. Disappointingly, we spent the break shrouded in dense cloud and so the spectacular views that I had been promised were rather concealed. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the rewards of a good feed and the promise of a rather more rapid bound down the mountain, which we completed in about half the time. Gravity can be so very helpful at times.

Rooted

 

Dogs in Hoodies

It is a sad feature of life in Britain that many adults find themselves living in fear of certain groups of young people. Whatever the reasoning spouted by sociologists, youth workers, politicians or education workers, the sorry fact is that some kids can be extremely intimidating. I’m quite sure that most people reading this will be able to relate in some way to that horrible feeling of fear that a pack of teenagers can arouse as they stalk the streets or commandeer half a bus. With this, comes that panicked hope that they will just leave you alone. Moreover, there is a certain shame attached to the fear as they are after all, only kids. But the riots last year showed that sometimes, the fear can be justified.

The hoodie. A symbol of disaffected youth. Photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/drgaz/

Unsurprisingly, it is a rather liberating feature of foreign life to be freed from this peculiar aspect of British life. Of course it does exist across the world, but either through fortunate geographical positioning or linguistic ignorance, I am yet to experience a youth culture abroad as exists back home. I am not afraid of, nor intimidated by kids from other countries.

That is not to say that the other countries don’t have problems of their own. In Finland, for example, it is the alcoholics who occupy every square in Helsinki the moment their benefit cheques arrive. They congregate in loud groups and clutch their crates of overpriced lager, slowly drinking themselves deeper into their sorrow. But this can often provoke a feeling of empathy amongst innocent passers-by, who find themselves on the receiving end of the slurred drunken outbursts that break up the monotony of the drunk’s day. Although it is possible to empathise with the kids in Britain for whatever has guided them towards their situation, the immediate reaction amongst most people is undoubtedly fear.

Here on Bali inhabitants are subjected to a different terror, but one that draws a number of parallels with those sad aspects of youth culture in Britain. Here, it is the dogs. Those four legged-best friends of ours, who provide so many British owners with companionship, obedience and protection. Well in Bali it is the same story, only here there are a host of difficulties associated with dogs that will cause even the most devoted canine lover to raise their guard as they walk the streets. They are not the healthy, loved animals that we are familiar with, but underfed, unloved mongrels who exist at the very bottom of the pecking order. They are wild.

As with the aggressive elements of Britain’s youth, it is from the pack mentality that the dogs derive their power. A short walk into the village makes this immediately evident, as one is met by the first mongrel upon approach. Upon sight, he will begin to bark incessantly. With unrelenting fervour, he yelps a dry, throaty cry that drums out a monotonous rhythm until the invader is long gone. The bark itself is an irritating sound. Like the dogs themselves, it is not healthy and full of life, but bedraggled and rough. It sounds as if each animal is barking through a throat lined with sandpaper.

This alone would be manageable, irritating as it is. Unfortunately the dog is not alone. It’s is a warning to other dogs and it sparks a chain reaction that shoots down the village like a nerve impulse. The beasts come racing to the road and ring out a chorus of aggressive barking that goes unanswered by their owners (if they have one). Some braver individuals race up behind you and begin to stalk you with a low, sinister lurking. They skulk slowly at your heels, continuing to snap their rasping bark as they follow.

A particularly rough specimin. Photo courtesy of http://www.flickr.com/photos/axaphoto/

It is extremely aggressive behaviour and unfortunately it comes at every turn on the mountain. It is easy to imagine that any one of these dogs can and will bite, whether provoked or not. The rabies crisis that has plagued Bali since 2008 makes this a very serious danger indeed.

The dogs are the hoodies of Bali, although the ASBOs have been overlooked in favour of mass vaccination and culling programmes. They amass in groups intent on intimidation for their entertainment and they make it impossible to walk through their territory without arousing fear.

 

Jungle Jogging and Rice Running

I have recently signed my contract for another year with the Helsinki Wolverines (details are on my other blog, which can be found HERE) and as such I am now well into my pre-season training programme. I am in the fortunate position of having an excellent environment in which to do some hill sprints, as well as some longer runs in order to boost my aerobic fitness. Up to this point, these have been relatively short runs on the roads between the villages of Kanciana and Kemetug. However, yesterday I impulsively deviated from my usual route in the middle of a run, deciding to combine my exercise with some exploration.

As is the norm, I was running in relatively heavy rain and was thoroughly drenched within two or three minutes. It is simply too hot to run in any other weather up here, but the cooling effect of the rain is extremely welcome. I cannot say exactly why I chose to turn off from the road on to a sodden dirt road, which took me on a steady climb up to the top of the valley. It was a strange decision as underfoot was a particularly treacherous combination of thick mud, large puddles and wild grass. Each footfall was like a lottery where first prize was firm ground, while a losing ticket got anything from a deep pool of water to a knee deep plunge into thick mud. This made parts of the run more like a stumble.

What I did get was a rather enjoyable tour of some thicker vegetation. Although the path was poor, it took me deep into the forest and made for a nice change from the road. Eventually, the path crossed the river and took me back down the other side of the valley towards the road, which I reached after about half an hour. I continued on my usual route to Kanciana, and began my return home. But having enjoyed my detour and still feeling rather fresh, I decided to turn from my path once more and explore yet another path.

This time I was deceived by the appearance of the path, which stared out as a relatively good road. However, as it descended into the valley, the road gave way to yet another dirt track. This track soon became a tiny mud trail that wound its way through thick woodland and was evidently long-forgotten. My run had become more of a thrash through the jungle. I could have made very good use of a machete at this point. Moreover, I wasn’t entirely sure where I was. With each step, I went deeper and deeper into the unknown, enduring the lashing of overhanging branches on my battered face and body.

As the sky overhead erupted with violent crashes of thunder, a further concern grew in my mind. Having dashed past two snakes already, I could not be certain that in this terrain I wouldn’t land one of my size elevens a little too close to a particularly bad-tempered specimen. The last thing I needed at this point – tired, wet and a little lost, was to be bitten by one of the two poisonous species that inhabit the mountain. I had no choice but to plough on, but my fear was not helped when I rushed headlong into a thick spider’s web. It was the kind that you see in the movies. The kind that has either been there for an extremely long time, or has been made by a spider that is seriously overdoing the energy drinks. I clawed it from my face and ploughed on, hoping that I hadn’t brought the spider along with me.

Finally, I found the river. If there is anything that I have learned from Ray Mears, it is that if you find a river, you are certain to be safe. I turned and followed it up the valley, while the path continued to diminish beneath my feet. Eventually it wore away and vanished altogether, leaving me trampling through the undergrowth with no idea of what lurked beneath. Just as I felt ready to turn back and try to find another route, I emerged from the forest at the foot of a steep rice field that towered above me, with the lodge sitting at the top of one of the adjacent paddies. Relieved, but uncertain as to how I was going to complete the ascent, I scampered up the incline, gasping for breath. It is not easy to negotiate rice fields, as to make one’s way along the walls that separate each paddy, one must tread lightly. There is a very real possibility of collapsing one of these barriers and causing considerable damage. Luckily, I only once did I come dangerously close to accomplishing this on my way to the top.

Sodden and battered, I made my way back to the lodge and turned south to finish the Kemetug leg of my normal run. To my relief, there are no turn-offs on this road. Triumphant, I returned home with some scratches, a bruise or two and around a kilo of mud on my trainers. Jungle running is incredibly fun.

 

Feeling The Muck Between My Toes

A few years ago, I read a short magazine article about barefoot rambling. It highlighted the growing interest in hiking across the English countryside, whilst naked from the ankles down. The benefit of this, so the article claimed, was to further decrease the impact of human presence whilst exploring the country. I distinctly remember thinking that this was a fantastic idea, but as with so many more hair-brained schemes, nothing ever came of it.

Tootsies perched on the paddies.

So this afternoon I thought I would give it a go, replacing English countryside with Balinese paddy fields. The attraction for me was not as eco-conscious as the writer of the magazine article, but more to do with the pleasure one can derive from walking barefoot. In the past three months, I have pretty much shunned the normal practice of wearing shoes altogether. There is simply no need to do so around here, other than when I go running (although last week I ran twice without them). I have become very used to the soles of my feet being on the ground.

The path through the paddies.

My first venture was a short stroll across the rice paddies that are strewn across the valley that we inhabit. After crossing the concrete walkways that allow navigation around the lodge, I reached the edge of the fields and took my first steps on the grass-covered path that winds down towards the river. These first steps made me acutely aware of two apprehensions that I had not previously considered. The first was snakes. I had hoped that my numerous encounters with them would have desensitised me somewhat to my fear. They hadn’t. On top of that, I was barefoot in their house and a fairly easy target should one of them decide that I was a little too close to his paddy.

Forest floor - a little prickly.

The second was concern as to where I was putting my feet. This was a combined wish not to tread on something painful and a natural inclination to avoid treading in mud / puddles / cow pats. One of the beauties of walking is to appreciate the environment in which you are strolling. This can be difficult when you are constantly watching where your next footfall will be. But through walking barefoot, one is inclined to tread lightly, decreasing the chances of hurting oneself on something sharp. In becoming aware of my slight discomfort, I was able to banish it quickly and get on with enjoying my walk.

From the forest, across the paddies.

With my initial anxieties duly discarded, I was able to unlock a fantastic new way to enjoy hiking. The first indication of this was my first step onto a part of the path which had been worn away to packed mud. As my foot connected with the floor, I felt the warmth of the mud that had been cooking in the sun all day. It rose deep into the bones of my foot and caused me to consider the family of lizards who lie basking in the sunshine on the mud outside my bungalow. It acts like a huge solar powered electric blanket for them as they cook away the day.

Mud between the toes. One of the best feelings in the world.

My experience continued to delight me throughout my walk as I laid my feet on grass, mud, forest floor, water, rock and rather enjoyably, cow dung. Each one brought a new dimension to my experience and allowed me to appreciate not only the scenery, but also the ground upon which I walked. Furthermore, I was treated to some stunning views of the valley and of Mount Batukaru. In most hiking, one most frequently uses the senses of sight, smell and hearing to enjoy their surroundings. In walking barefoot, the sense of touch can be enjoyed with every single step.

Mount Batukaru and some rice.

At around the halfway point of my stroll, I met a local farmer who looked at me and my bare feet with the look of utter bemusement that I only see when I go running. I am quite sure that the Balinese all think I am clinically insane. What may have confused this farmer further was why I had obviously chosen to go stomping through his cows’ excrement. As I write this, having tried to wash the smell off my feet three times since I began writing, I am asking myself the same question.

I enjoyed my barefoot walk so much that I am going to make a bit of a habit of it. You should too. Feet are extremely sensitive, so why not go for a walk and treat them to something other than the inside of a stinking sock for once.

 

Not Adapting To Life On The Mountain

Yesterday I recounted a few of the adjustments I have made in my transition to Balinese life. Important as these things are, they are only the successes. Far more crucial are those things that I have failed to accept and cannot see how I will ever do so.

1. The durian

For those of you who don’t know, the durian is many things. For the hungry and the insane, it is a gloriously tasty fruit; For people with an acute sense of smell, it is pungently offensive; For the enraged, it is an extremely harmful weapon; For the Balinese, it is a highly sought after commodity and for the poor man who lives next to three large durian trees, it is a series of terrifying thuds at any hour as it falls to the floor.

The durian is a fruit with a taste rather like fried hot dog onions. It grows on trees that reach twenty metres or more in height. The edible part of the fruit is the dense flesh of the interior, that is encased in a rock solid shell that is covered in small spikes. Each fruit ranges in size from that of a child’s head to that of an adult. It has the foreboding appearance of an old medieval mace and the weight of a melon.

The durian

When the fruit drops, it does so with such a velocity as to make an almighty crashing sound as it collides with foliage on it’s descent. When it hits the floor, the sound can be heard across the lodge, triggering the great Balinese stampede to claim the prize. This is no exaggeration. They absolutely love the stuff and they will drop what they are doing and race to the tree as soon as they hear a drop in order to secure the stinky fruit for their own.

Death tree

For me, the situation is rather different as I am the poor sod who lives in the shadow of the three towering trees, which are currently fruiting beyond all local expectations. The first consequence of this is that I have become too afraid to walk underneath them. The fruits fall at an unbelievable pace and to catch one on the head would most certainly cause instant death. A further consequence of my proximity to the killer-fruits is my nightly wake-ups. They normally begin at around 10pm when, in the pitch black, the serenity of a still night and a babbling brook will be broken by a loud crack as the fruit separates itself from the branch. This is shortly followed by a tremendous thump as it collides with the ground outside.

At 10pm, this is just a small shock. At 2am, it is an extremely scary noise to wake up to. Then again at about 4am. Imagine having your bedroom door kicked in or your wall knocked through in the dead of night. Such is my current nightly terror.

2. The school timetable

My main job up here is as Huey’s tutor. That is what I receive my room and board in exchange for and it is a thoroughly fantastic arrangement. However, on top of that I spend many hours each week volunteering in the local village. Twice a week, I teach English classes here at the lodge to adults and children from the surrounding area. On Tuesday afternoons, I head down to the school to support the English teacher there and help him to develop his teaching. On top of this, I coach football to the boys, volleyball to the girls and I am endlessly stocking the library with books for the kids to read.

All of this is fantastic stuff and I thoroughly enjoy it. However there is one aspect of the whole thing that has developed into quite a disruption – the school timetable. To begin with, I have no idea what it is. All I know is that the kids spend six days a week there and that Tuesday is English class, while Saturday is for sport. However, those six days are by no means set in stone, nor are the number of hours in each day. It has become quite common for me to head to the school shortly after midday and find no one there.

So they have a flexible timetable. That is putting it politely. Especially considering that there have been only two or three occasions when I have arrived at the school and there has been a lesson in progress. The most common sight is all of the kids sitting outside in the sun while the teachers relax in the staff room.

Tia at one of the many ceremonies.

It seems that there are a number of widely accepted reasons for the fractured nature of the kids’ schooling up here. The first is the ceremonies. Far be it from me to condemn someone’s religious practices, I understand what an important part of life they are up here. What I can’t adapt to is the sheer frequency with which ceremonies occur. In one month, I travelled to the school on four Tuesday afternoons for English class. On three of those days, I found locked gates and was heckled with shouts of ‘ceremonies’ from houses as I passed.

Often, it is upon my arrival that I learn that there will be no class. It seems that forgetting to tell the teacher is an integral part of cancelling lessons. On those occasions when we are able to get in the classroom, I cross my fingers for the sun to endure. At the first indication of rainfall, every child leaps from their seat and charges up the road to their homes before the teacher has the chance to open their register. I have never seen a school empty so quickly.

 

Adapting To Life On The Mountain

I have now been a resident here in my mountainside sanctuary for almost precisely three months. As people who have spent time in unfamiliar surroundings will know, upon arrival it can take some time to get used to things, from the climate to the customs and traditions. In order of which the acclimatisation occurred, here are some of the things I’ve found myself getting used to in my time on the mountain.

1, Morning Tea

My weekday mornings have a fairly regular pattern to them. I awake as the sun rises between 6 and 6:30 am, thanks to the absence of any curtains. As of this morning, I embark on my morning run – a twenty minute jog between the villages of Kanciana and Kemetug. This is one of the few cool times of the day and it allows me to make alternative use of the afternoon rains (see point 2). I then head up to the restaurant with a book and have my first cup of tea of the day with my breakfast. Immediately following breakfast, school begins with Huey. We try to get all of the ‘boring stuff’ like reading and maths done before 10:00 so that we are able to enjoy morning tea without a return to sums looming over us.

The daily parcel of delight

Morning tea is without a doubt, my favourite part of the day. All of the staff gather in the bale and are brought cups of tea and coffee by the girls in the kitchen. As we all begin enjoying our drinks, a lady from the village shows up with a bucket full of packages wrapped neatly in banana leaves. Contained within is a tasty portion of ‘Nasi Champur’, a traditional Indonesian meal consisting of rice, tempe, nuts, beans and an egg. The whole thing is garnished with a chilli paste that is hotter than Jessica Ennis after a particularly hard workout. For the Balinese, this is no problem. The wolf it down as if it were as mild as a natural yoghurt. Every morning without fail, it gives me hiccups.

The joy contained within and the spiciest stuff in the world.

There is so much that I love about morning tea. Firstly, its like a second breakfast every day. What is not to love about that? The food is always delicious and if maths and English have sent me back to sleep, it soon gives me a kick up the backside. It also gives me the opportunity to hang out with the staff a little more. They are all lovely people and morning tea lets me ask them questions or brush up on my Indonesian. I can say all of the days of the week now. All thanks to morning tea.

2, Getting thoroughly soaked

Normally you can set your watch by the rain here. There are exceptions to that rule, like last week when it poured for 60 straight hours without a hint of relenting. But when following their normal pattern, the heavens will generally open for around an hour at about three in the afternoon. Far from the icy drizzle that Britain endures for eleven months of the year, this rain is tropical. That means that each drop is as warm as a hot spring and the size of a marble. Not only that, but a tremendous volume of water falls from the sky in a relatively short period of time.

I think I stopped using an umbrella on around the third day that I was here. It just seemed utterly futile. Even when sheltering oneself, one still gets soaked through as the rain comes down at such a velocity that it bounces off everything it touches and splashes you from all directions. Furthermore, it is so hot here that even if someone is soaked to the bone, they will be dry within four and a half minutes of finding cover.

In fact, the rain has become my friend here in Bali. Following early attempts to get stuck into some off-season training, I found that anyone capable of doing a single press-up would be able to break a heavy sweat out here. The humidity lingers in the valleys like a pungent fart trapped in a loose fitting pair of boxer shorts. There is so much moisture in the air it is imperative to keep shifting furnishings around in one’s abode, so as to avoid inviting unwanted mould. It can be swelteringly hot on some days, meaning that the heavy afternoon rain comes as a welcome window in which to work out. I am regularly seen, soaked to my core, trudging up and down the valleys, or doing some lifting with my makeshift barbell while being hammered by a tropical storm.

It is hard to explain to English people because back home, rain is cold and miserable. Here, it is warm and refreshing. Some of my favourite ever workouts have happened on this mountain for that very reason. Even more invitingly, the post-workout shower is already provided. Just strip off and shower where you are.

3, Only learning four names

The Balinese have a strange system of naming their children. As it happens, they have a strange system for naming their adults. I would love to go into a detailed cultural explanation here, in which I explain the significance of each handle. But I can’t. I am afraid that I simply do not know all of the intricacies of the naming process here. Instead, I will tell you the few important things that I have learned to help me to avoid offending people.

The crew at morning tea. Only four names required. Huey not included

Firstly, all women of motherhood age are called Bu. This makes things nice and easy. The only exceptions are Mini and Wayan in the kitchen. I have no idea why they are called Mini and Wayan. Luckily, the second rule is that there are a lot of Wayans so if Bu is deemed inappropriate, she’s probably a Wayan. The Bu thing is a sort of ‘mum’ word. All women seem to be called ‘Ibu (insert name of their child here)’, so Bu is a shorter version of that.

So we have dealt with 50% of the population straight away. What about the blokes? As far as I can tell, this largely depends on which order you were born in your family. I, for example, was the third-born child so my name is Komang. Simple. Number two male child is a Made and number one is either Kadek or Ketut – I can’t remember which. This accounts for about 70% of the men I know in Bali, so it gives some good room to throw some guesses out there when you can’t remember a name.

I think that after three months here, I have finally learned all of the staff’s names. Now to start work on the 60 or so kids I teach each week…..

4, Chucking food / plates / scraps out of the window

There is something extremely liberating about carelessly tossing scraps from your plate over your shoulder. I don’t eat much fruit back home so I’m not used to peeling fruit and throwing the waste on the grass. However in Bali, they have a gorgeous fruit called a mangosteen to which I have become addicted. In all seriousness, If we had mangosteens in the UK, I would eat fruit. That is how good they are.

The glorious mangosteen

It is not often that there is anything left on my own plate that has not been devoured. However, should there be some leftovers or seeds from a fruit or something, I have now become accustomed to simply chucking it out of the window. Although perfectly acceptable behaviour here, I don’t think that would be appreciated by the folks at the local Wetherspoons.

But nowhere does the feeling of throwing aside the remnants of your feeding frenzy deliver more joy than at morning tea, where one is able to toss their banana leaf plate under the burgeoning banana trees in a strangely cannibalistic way. Bananas are cannibals? Well that has just turned my world upside down.

 

Competitive Defecation

One of the significant measures of an Eco-lodge is its self-sustainability. Here at Bali Eco Stay, John and Cath have done a great job of utilising the natural features of the land in order to ensure that the place is able to function fully using very few outside resources. The waterwheel that powers the place is a fantastic example of this. Its beauty is in its utter simplicity. By running a discreet pipe from the top of the waterfall to a wheel at the bottom, they generate enough power to keep the lights shining brightly and my laptop connected to the internet.

Not in the contest...

However, my favourite eco-feature here at the lodge has to be the toilets. Far from the hole-in-the-floor long drops that one might associate with eco-friendly living, the facilities are enough to rival any British commode. Furthermore, they flush and you can stick your loo roll down there once the deed is done. As if that weren’t enough, all this is possible in a private, open-air setting that enables the user to fully relax and enjoy themselves.

All of this is, of course, fantastic. However, the impressive part is what comes next. Once derrières have been cleaned and hands washed, just what happens to one’s faeces? The short answer is that they are eaten in the restaurant. Not immediately of course, but weeks or months later in the form of delicious fruit and vegetables, all filled with the goodness and nutrients of good old human excrement.

I shall explain. Each bungalow here has its own waste water garden that feeds directly from the outgoing pipes from the bathrooms. From the toilet, the sink and the shower all matter feeds directly in to a large tank buried below the surface. This tank is perfectly positioned to ensure that all incoming waste comes in at high speed. This mixes up everything already in the tank and breaks it all down into a manageable slurry.

Once broken down, all of the waste mixture can now escape through tiny holes into an outgoing pipe. This pipe feeds into a long planting bed, filled with plants that simply love to drink nasty water. Finally, the plants use all of the nutrients and goodness that human bodies regarded as excess to grow an abundance of fruit and vegetables for the kitchen. Recycling 101.

Not only is this brilliant in terms of self-sustainability and waste disposal, but it also allows one the opportunity to see how one’s excrement is performing. I walk past my waste water garden numerous times each day and am constantly analysing the height of the plants and the colour of their leaves and flowers. What’s more, I am always interested to know whose shit made my bananas taste so good.

It is with great regret that I am unable to share a taste test with you all (although it would be interesting to see how many people licked their screen if I told you to – experiment for another day). Instead, I would like you to take part in a little competition I have set up with myself. Throughout the article are four pictures of waste water gardens on the property. If you would be so kind, could you rank all four gardens based on the health of the plants within them (greenness of leaves, height, size of leaves etc). A simple 1,2,3,4 in the comments box at the bottom will suffice.

Naturally, one of them is mine and I want to win. Little did I know that my competitive nature would one day lead me to be fighting battles with my own waste. I will announce the winner at the end of the week. I will also be heart broken if it is not me.

 

A Very Early Christmas Present

My secret Santa let me down this year and failed to deliver me a gift at all. To be fair, it was considerably easier for me to have Amazon do all my work for me. He, on the other hand, would have had to buy something himself and send it all the way to Bali. He didn’t bother. But last night, I was pleased to discover that he decided to send me next years gift over 11 months early. Or at least that’s the conclusion that I have come to. Surely he is far too organised to have sent this year’s presents late….

Anyway, in the privacy of my bungalow I greedily surveyed the rather battered packages that had made their way up the mountain from whatever disorganised pile of mail passes for the Balinese post office. While examining the two recycled printer-paper boxes, two questions immediately sprung to my mind.

1, How can two boxes labelled with Royal Mail stickers indicating their value at £10 each, add up to contain goods costing under £15 (the agreed value of secret Santa gifts)

2, Were the contents of the packages intact, considering the packages looked like this…..

From Stockport to Bali.... with an elephant sat atop it.

With the inherited excitement of a seven-year-old, I began tearing at the first package. Contained within was a message-in-a-bottle labelled ‘Captain Huey’ and a large book shaped package. I ripped the paper off to reveal a book about the Titanic and was momentarily very confused. The guilty realisation that I had just stolen a small boy’s opportunity to unwrap his Christmas present crept up my spine and made my ears ring like a school bell. I have never wrapped a present so quickly in my life. At least we had answered question one…..

Finally in the hands of its rightful owner.

Panic over, I moved on to my own box. Contained within were the following items:

– A copy of Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds

– A box of Weetos

– Eight Double Decker bars (now seven)

– A voucher for six months of online language tuition

– A packet of King Prawn Sizzler McCoy’s crisps (now empty)

– A packet of Mullet Power trading cards.

My Christmas haul

I am over the moon with my haul for the following reasons.

– I love Noel Gallagher. Although Liam was a big part of Oasis, Noel was the majority. When I listen to Oasis songs, I find myself enjoying the ones where Noel sings more than any others. That said, the album might be rubbish. only time will tell.

–  I am slowly progressing from my days as a beginner in the fantastic sport of ‘Hide the Weeto’. A few months practising my hiding skills amongst rats, dogs, ants and other beasties will take me to the dizzy heights of mediocrity.

– Double Decker bars are amazing and they make you feel like a man. Forget Yorkies – they are just girls chocolate in a builder’s outfit. The Double Decker is the middle-class man’s chocolate bar of the 21st century. It’s thick and substantial for the testosterone-filled beast in me, but it is smooth and chewy for the me that wants to sit and ponder what is going on around me. You can almost picture Rodin’s ‘Thinker’ clutching one in his hand as he searches for his answer.

– I have intended to learn Spanish for around twenty three years now. Yo soy rubbish. I have the time to do it now. But I’ll probably give up after a week because there is no one here to speak to….

– King Prawn Sizzler McCoys are just damned good. They aren’t just prawn cocktail…. they are KING prawn SIZZLER. Go and buy a packet and you’ll see. They are worth buying the 10 bag assorted multipack for.

– Mullets are hilarious. No question.

Gone in 16 seconds

So it was that we celebrated Christmas in January. Secret Santa is awesome. Merry Christmas 2012.

Some of my favourite mullet cards.

 

The Day I Saved Bali Eco Stay

New Year seems so long ago now that you may think it a little ridiculous of me to be writing about it. If this is the case, then I shall refer you to about half of my previous postings and I am sure you shall begin to appreciate that absurdity is familiar territory for me.

I am about to recount to you, a tale of heroism unmatched by any other on the lower slopes of Mount Batukaru. This story is one that will be told through generations, as those who were present retell it to their grandchildren, recalling every detail. It is a story of hopes and wishes; It is a story of fire and light; It is a story of dirty legs and smelly feet.

In the weeks leading up to New Years Eve, the decision was made that we would not be setting off fireworks to see out 2011. As tough as this may have been for poor Huey, it was true that loud explosions in the sky did not quite match up with the ethos of an eco-lodge. A number of suitable alternatives were proposed and it was finally decided that we would celebrate by lighting up the rice paddies with candles and releasing eco-friendly sky lanterns into the night. Each of the twenty-five lanterns was to carry away the attendees wishes for the new year, cleverly attached using post-it notes.

Kadek releases his sky-lantern.

For those of you who don’t know, a sky lantern is essentially a large paper bag with a bamboo frame at the bottom and a natural burner that fills the lantern with air and carries it off into the sky. The effect is beautiful as the flame lights the bag from within and looks fantastic as it gracefully glides across the sky.

Made with his lantern

So the big night arrived and the paddies looked glorious. The gardening team had expertly constructed fifty bamboo candle holders and distributed them across the paddy fields. As the evening wore on, the contrasting effect of the darkness deepened and the lights burned brightly, reflected by the flooded fields. Phase one was a great success.

Lights in the paddy fields

Once everyone had eaten and had enjoyed a drink or two, the time came to release the lanterns. Guests, staff and local children all clambered to stick their hopes for the year on to the huge paper balloons as Cath and I risked seriously burned hands in the lighting of each one. One by one, the lanterns sailed off into the night, rising briskly into the air and sailing off down the valley. Everyone was thoroughly enjoying themselves and the evening was turning out to be fantastic.

The first girls' lantern. No problems here.

But as we reached the penultimate lantern, disaster struck. It was the turn of the girls in the kitchen to write down their wishes and sail their lantern off into the New Year. Each one frantically scribbled their desires on a post-it and stuck it with the others. Then they took their place around the lantern and released it into the night.

One of the fundamental principles of the sky-lantern is that, when released, it floats upwards. This ensures that it is able to clear any trees or buildings that are in the way and generally avoids the risk of setting fire to anything. The girls’ lantern was released prematurely and thus began to make its way slowly down the valley, despite the screams of encouragement from those observing. A creeping feeling of concern began to trickle its way from my eyes, back into my brain as the flaming lantern continued its descent into the valley.

The rogue lantern prepares for its descent.

This rogue lantern presented us with two problems. The first was that of the poor girls. The Balinese are a deeply religious people and have a number of superstitions within their own unique brand of Hinduism. So to present them with the opportunity to sail wishes into the night and then for the vessel carrying them to go crashing down in a ball of flame may have been a bit harsh. More pressingly however, was that the lantern was plotting a direct course to collide with one of the bungalows. This just happened to be one of the two bungalows which have roofs constructed entirely from bamboo. Extremely flammable bamboo…

All around me there was panic as we stared hopelessly at the lantern on its path to inferno. I could feel Cath’s helpless despair as she stood beside me, holding her breath. But as the lantern approached the bungalow, it crashed straight into the sole orange tree that stands only yards away and became tangled in the branches. Instinctively, I sprang into action and headed for the winding path that leads through the undergrowth towards the stricken lantern. That run seemed to take hours and for the entire time, I was unable to see the tree for which I was aiming. I wondered what I should do if I was too late and the tree had caught. Should I sling mud from the paddy fields at it?

I rounded the final bend and was relieved to see that neither the lantern, nor the tree, had caught fire. However the flame within the paper continued to burn brightly and it was only a matter of time before the tree caught.  I could still hear the screams of the crowd above me as I bounded recklessly across the paddy fields. At one stage I lost my footing and with a tremendous squelching sound, I plunged my left leg knee-deep into the mud. Bravely I soldiered on and reached the tree, feeling the heat of the burner from at least two metres away. I grasped the bamboo frame with both hands and wrenched the lantern from the tree, readying myself to toss it into the soaking paddy fields.

But here, does our hero distinguish himself from others. Not content with saving only the bungalow, I paused and listened to the wild screams of the poor kitchen girls. I held their hopes and dreams in my mortal hands and I alone was responsible for what would become of them. So I gambled with science one last time. I released the frame. To my delight and to raucous cheers from above, the lantern sailed off towards the moon with dreams intact. New Year and Bali Eco Stay had been saved. Modestly.

 

My Wallet is Growing Mouldy (and Other Things That I’ve Learned This Week).

My Wallet is Growing Mouldy

Unlike the rolling plains of England’s green and pleasant lands, the lower slopes of Mount Batukaru have only two seasons. The first of these is the dry season and, rather predictably, the second is the aptly named wet season. In a manner truly representative of my forward planning skills, I have made myself at home here during precisely those months where the heavens open and the island endures a rather tepid shower. The severity of this rain does vary from day to day and on some occasions, I am blessed with only half an hour or so of drizzle. However, I have also witnessed a day here upon which it threw down enormous globules of fresh, warm water for over ten hours without respite.

The rain is actually not a problem at all. In fact, I welcome it with open arms as it offers me the opportunity to do some exercise without overheating quicker than a fire eater with a mistimed case of the hiccups. The biggest problem that I encounter is actually the humidity, which is currently at it’s peak at around 75%. It is totally essential whilst living in these conditions, for one to move one’s personal belongings and clothing around from time to time in order to keep them from attracting mould. I have already lost a perfectly good, if a little battered, straw hat to this problem. As you can see below, my wallet has begun to look like it belongs to a Scotsman.

 

90% of Balinese chocolate is bad

Back in the 1970s, Bali underwent a large-scale cocoa planting programme. The plant was not native to the island but it was decided that conditions were perfect for it to thrive. Hence the huge number of cocoa trees that are visible across Mount Batukaru.

Good Cocoa

However, mistakes were made and now around 90% of the crop is afflicted with a fungus that has rendered the fruits inedible. To look at a chocolate tree in Bali these days, one would think that they were looking at bats hanging from the tree, rather than fruit. Those few that survive are gorgeous, but are unfortunately in the minority.

Bad Cocoa

 

Balinese people can’t say ‘F’

This is just one of those curiosities of language, but can be terribly amusing nonetheless. Thus far it has prompted two weeks of pronunciation lessons in our adults English class, which has left the students walking away with jaws more painful than a pelican with a chewing gum addiction.

The newly installed 'pronunciation board' in the bale.

The most amusing inaccuracy is in the replacement of the ‘F’ sound with a ‘P’ sound. Kadek, who is one of the best English speakers on the staff here, proudly told me last week that he would be late for class because he had to ‘Peed the Pish’. On another occasion, I was informed by a staff member that Bali Eco Stay was great because it was ‘Peas Pool’. It took about three minutes for us to ascertain that he was trying to tell me that it was peaceful.

My favourite pronunciation problem comes from Costa Rica. Whilst teaching there, it was common to be asked the following question by students: ‘Tee-shirt, Do you like the bitch?’. Sun, sand etc……