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Hot And Cold Walking Water

It would be idle to suppose that a hotel in the mountains of Bali is like any other hostelry.

On arrival 1 had been allotted a houseboy, escorted down a flight of roughhewn stone steps, across a bamboo bridge, spanning a miniature, but vocal, waterfall and installed in my bungalow.

A bungalow let me tell you, that would have had Somerset Maughan down on his knees begging for admittance. A bungalow with a thatched roof and walls made of bricks the color of ripe apricots, set between slabs of pale grey sandstone. A bungalow with windows fitted, not with glass, but with shutters of plaited palm painted a gay canary yellow. A bungalow where flowers hung from the ceiling in coconut shells or were massed in bowls of blazing colour on every shelf or table. A bungalow which for me at that time had but one point of interest - where was the sandbox?

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Hastily I tried a door opening off the bedroom and stepped into what was obviously my Balinese sandbox. A gleaming white pedestal stood beside a waist-high white tiled enclosure, a canvas bush-shower was suspended over a sunken recess, and a table draped with bright batik completed the cheery effect. I smiled happily. Five minutes later 1 emerged - neither smiling or happy. A pub with no beer was one thing - a comfort station without water was something else again. And not a tap, button or chain could 1 find.

In the living room 1 could see Sana, my houseboy, busily tucking fresh hibiscus blooms into an already overflowing table decoration.

"How do i wash my hands?" 1 asked.

Sana gave a final touch to the hibiscus bowl and smiled---First we see the garden.