Bali - The Search for Negara

Laurie Weed's Portfolio Travel Writing Asia Blog Index

Asia Update 1: Bali – The Search for Negara

May 2002

We survived the flight and overcame the lack of onward tickets (required for legal entry to Indonesia and approval of our tourist visas,) with three trips through the line and a mere $40 USD bribe for the immigration officer. Came directly to Ubud in central Bali and spent a few days sleeping and getting acclimated. On Day 2, we set off on a short walk (or so we thought,) and 5 minutes off the main road we encounter an engraved boulder in the road that reads, "House for Rent.” Deciding it would be fun to acquire a private love nest/play-writing warren for a month or so, we try to investigate but end up lost in the meandering miles of rice terraces near Penestanan. No map or compass in either of our bags, of course, but it's no problem because every 10 minutes or so, we happen upon some locals who are eager to give us clear directions back to Ubud, (i.e., "turn left at the rice field...")

Following all of this helpful advice led to a very long stroll, traversing the same road at least twice in opposite directions. After a few hours, we realize we have been walking along the ridge parallel to Ubud most of the time, and we descend the steps to the main road just as the sun is going down.

Day 4: We've made few appointments to look at rentals after breakfast. The food at our hotel degenerates daily, so today Craig opts for an early-morning market run. Amid all of the strange options, he manages to locate some fresh rolls and a disturbingly bright pink substance in a jar. We decide it's a near relative of jam and safe to eat. The first house we see is disappointing: too close to town and very small. The second one sounds promising, so on vague telephone directions from the owner, "Negara”, we rent a motorbike ($3 a day with "insurance”, whatever that means,) and head towards the next town. Negara's instructions: "You know where the Four Seasons Hotel? Good. Turn right. Then go past the waterfall. Then go ask the local people for me; they'll find me. Everyone knows me, Negara."

Twenty minutes of wobbly riding in terrifying traffic, and we reach the town of Sayan without being killed or killing anyone. Our growing confidence flounders a bit when we come to the Four Seasons and discover that there is no road to the right (or otherwise,) and no waterfall. We drive several more miles along the ridge to find a public phone and call Negara again. He's forgotten all about the waterfall, instructing us to go back to the Four Seasons, turn left, and look for a school. He assures me that there IS a road; we just missed it. Just try again, he insists. We turn around and try again, but no road materializes. We decide to take another approach and ask a few random people for directions to the school, hoping to prevail with the law of averages.

About 2 hours later, we happen upon the right road - a good half-mile BEFORE the Four Seasons. Triumphant, we pass the deserted schoolhouse and cruise into the small village of Penestanan-Kawa. At the crossroad is the inevitable wooden platform where old men sit in the shade all day and make important decisions. They all stare as we drive up -- no talking. From the back of the bike, I wave and grin wildly, shouting, "Hello!" but my friendly overture doesn't warm them up much. They mumble amongst themselves, and then one reluctantly climbs down to assist the lunatic tourists on the motorbike.

With some difficulty, this man confirms that we have found the only school in the area. After a lot of haphazard translation, it comes out that there IS a Negara in this town, and although everyone seems dubious that Negara could be expecting us, we are waved off in the general direction of his house. The buildings are not numbered or otherwise distinguishable, so after a few passes we are led directly to the house by a patient teenager who speaks some English...Negara at last!

The boy wakes him up and he wanders out to the courtyard -- blinking, scratching his paunch, and adjusting his sarong. He speaks zero English and has no idea who we are. With some help from our guide, we exchange a few questions and find out that this Negara, the only one in town, is a batik painter. He does not, in fact, have a house to rent. We apologize for waking him and leave, utterly deflated. The boy explains slowly, as if talking to very small children or mental invalids, that "Negara" is a rather common name; perhaps we should ask for a family name next time?

A few more circles through town on the bike -- each time waving maniacally and giving "thumbs up" as we pass the old men on the platform -- and we are ready to admit defeat. Too bad, because the house sounded lovely and after our extensive tour, we agree we quite like the little hamlet of Penestanan-Kawa. We pull up to the platform again, and admit to the village elders that the Negara they sent us to is not our man; he has no house to rent. One of them, having watched us tear through the village in blistering heat for the past hour, shrugs and admits rather stonily,

"I have house for rent...you want look?"

He seems half-hopeful we will decline, but we have become firm believers in snatching the unexpected opportunities as they arise. We nod enthusiastically. The old man wanders off to get the keys, and within minutes, we're following two young men on a motorbike. This caravan immediately leaves the paved road and charges along a narrow, rather perilous path through the rice fields. Craig's limited comfort with driving the motorbike on the road turns to abject fear as we speed along an off-road obstacle course of potholes, bumps, and mud slicks, dodging around the occasional dog or chicken in the path. At one point, I hop off the back and hike, letting him face death alone on a steep dip that appears to lead directly into the ravine.

Suddenly, the road smoothes out and a beautiful, green vista spreads out ahead of us. Directly in our path is the "House for Rent" boulder we passed a few days before. We park the bike and follow our smiling guides into the rice paddies on foot, trotting along a maze of 8" wide, raised walking trails. At last, we stop in front of a new, Western-style house, surrounded by fishponds and flowering trees.

Abraham, the man acting as agent for our prospective landlord, explains that the house has electricity, a private well, telephone, hot shower, and functional appliances including a small CD stereo (this is a huge selling point for the music addict who managed to spend $70/month on batteries in Thailand -- about the equivalent of backpacker lodging for the same amount of time.) In spite of our daylong tour of Sayan, Penestanan, and the surrounding territories and townships, the house is a 5-minute walk from the stairs that lead back to Ubud. The price, about $250 USD per month, includes daily housekeeping, garden upkeep, and all utilities except telephone use. The kitchen is adequately equipped with cooking utensils and dishes. The only thing in the fridge is an unopened jar of the salmon-colored "jam" we had for breakfast...we are home!

We stay and chat awhile with Abraham. He's originally from Java, but lived in Boston for a few years and speaks English well. Occasional misinterpretations are hilarious: worried about walking home through the rice fields at night, Craig asks Abraham if there are a lot of dogs around. Abraham replies yes, there are always a lot of them scavenging the fields after the rice is cut down; sometimes people are bothered by the noise, but it's really not so bad. Craig questions further: Are they aggressive? Do they travel in packs? Do they ever attack people? Abraham reassures him this never happens, but privately shoots me an incredulous look. Realizing he has heard "ducks" not "dogs”, I summon all of my (limited) self-control to keep a straight face. Neither of them catches the error, and the conversation ends with Craig satisfied that the dogs are not dangerous and Abraham shaking his head at the strapping young foreigner who is apparently very fearful of rabid duck attacks.

Possible duck mutiny notwithstanding; we decide to move in the next day. A handshake suffices as both contract and security deposit: we have a house in Bali.