buses,
scattering dogs, squeezing past laughing groups of children, and
all the time the never-ending blare of the horn and the frantic
effort to keep at top speed, as if fleeing in the face of some natural
disaster.
A final
earsplitting blast on the horn as we swerved left to dodge a family
of four, miraculously glued together on the back of the one motorbike;
a sharp lurch to the right to avoid a head on crash with a lorry
full of worshippers returning from a temple ceremony - and Denpasar
was behind us.
Along
the roads we rushed, through innumerable villages, whose high mud
walls, topped with thatched roofs, seemed literally to squeeze open
to let us through. Incredible that such a huge car could pass through
such narrow lanes at such speed. On we raced over rivers, across
bridges, wher~ the carved stone gods, a hibiscus of frangipanni
bloom tucked behind their ears, sat placidly on guard - assuring
the traveller a safe journey - the little offering of rice and flowers
lying at each god's feet, a gentle reminder to him to do his best!
On
and still on Past duck boys shepherding their flocks with long bamboo
poles tipped with a white cloth; past little groups of fighting
cocks each in his wicker cage, lined up at the side of the
road a slight detour to avoid a sway-backed sow, soft pink and grey,
snuffling at a muddy pool in the centre of the road; a minor delay
while four stately white geese, disapproving yellow beaks held high,
paraded nonchantly across our track And then suddenly, we were rumbling
over a suspension bridge, a river churning white over rocks far
below, a brief glimpse of lithe bodies bathing in the shallows,
of colored lengths of cloth drying on the banks; a raucous hoot,
as we shot past a young artist, half hidden behind the
Stack of paintings wedged across the handle bars of his ancient
bike; a swirl of gravel, and we swung off the road, to pull up triumphantly
in small courtyard, where two monkeys swung from the branches of
a frangipanni and a chorus of Selamat Datangs greeted our arrival
My
Bali experience had begun...
Come
Up And See My Injection
There
are intrepid trippers who can live in one of the more septic slums
of Egypt, or spend weeks in some certified headhunters' haunt of
the Upper Amazon, and emerge with never a twinge.
Let
me hasten to assure you I do NOT belong to this bunch. Rather 1
tend to be the type whose eye but catches the merest glance on an
advertisement for throat lozenges, and immediately I am smitten
with two kinds of pneumonia, followed by galloping consumption.
With this for a track record, it is not to be wondered at that soon
after arriving in Bali 1 caught a cold. Yes, 7-degrees from the
Equator, punctured fore and aft with injections against tropical
diseases - both popular and rare varieties - and 1 catch a COLDI
Not mark you, just a cold, but a breatheatching, ribshattering bronchitis.
The hotel manager heard me (who couldn't) and arrived. with the
sister from the local clinic. The assistant manager ca ' me to carry
her bag, and my house boy came. He had never lost a guest yet, and
from his face I could see he didn't want me to be his first casualty.
The
sister took one look at me and prescribed an injection. On the word
injection the manager stepped across to my bed and inquired shyly
"Do you mind if we all stay until sister gives the injection?"
Assured of my consent, all the men politely retreated to the far
side of the bedroom, faced the wall and waited while sister bared
my buttocks and gave the healing jab. When I was respectably hidden
again beneath the sheet, they about faced and quietly took their
leave - except the house boy, who knelt at the foot of my bed, massaging
the soles of my feet. Weary, but puzzled I asked why Because I cannot
think of anything else to help
I did
not need the services of the clinic sister again until my second
visit to Bali. This time I stepped on some wet moss and catapulted
spectacularly down the last half dozen steps leading to the swimming
po~I, managing to damage three ribs and cut open my head in the
limited time at my disposal.
(Happy
to say, there was only minimal damage to the stepis:)
The
scream with which I accompanied these acrobatics brought the hotel's
full complement of houseboys running to the rescue - followed closely
by two water carriers and the lamplighter.
When
the clinic sister arrived, she cut away large chunks of blood caked
hair, applied a dressing and carefully combed the remaining hair
to disguise the repair work. The bruised ribs were gently massaged
with a mixture of coconut oil and finely chopped onion.
All
told, I looked like a bandit and smelt like French salad.
Next
day sister re-dressed my head while -the assistant manager, bending
low over the bed, puffed furiously into the open cut, only taking
time off occasionally to inquire if the blowing made the wound cooler.
|