info"++

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!

Search This Site

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.