An Amusing Little Whine: Debbie's New Shirt

Pour yourself a glass of wine. A big one. Or a Bushmills and Ginger, if you prefer. This is going to take a while…..

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Winter has finally arrived. It took its sweet time coming this year and that was just fine with me. Lots of people kept talking about how “lucky” we were this year. It was so mild and so warm. We were just lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky. I kept wanting to scream, “SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! JUST BE QUIET! YOU’RE GOING TO JINX IT!” But they didn’t shut up and it’s here now and all the “lucky” people are now sitting in coffee shops grumbling about the cold and ordering more coffee because they’re afraid to attempt the walk back to the car.

But, even with the cold weather and the snow, it still didn’t feel like winter for me. Something was missing and I couldn’t figure out what. I finally figured it out the other day. No Dukoral commercials. They were always one of my sure signs of winter. Late Fall/early Winter, as sure as the geese heading south, the Dukoral commercials would head north. I don’t know where they went but they’re missing-in-action this year.

Dukoral, for those who don’t remember, is a preventative for diarrhea – traveler's diarrhea, to be specific. I’ve never been sure why they were so specific about the “traveler’s” part but apparently there’s a difference.

I miss the Dukoral commercials. They were very entertaining – especially the original ones. They were always an excellent source of material for people (and I’m not naming names here) who like yelling at their TV when it says something stupid to them.

They generally consisted of a series of short clips or vignettes, four or five seconds each, of people doing fun things on their vacations. There was a father buried up to his neck in sand by his children; a groom carrying his bride, still in her white wedding dress, down a pier toward the ocean; a person about to bungee off a bridge. In each clip the camera would close in on the person’s face. They always had a big smile of happiness on their face. Then you would hear a low rumbling, gurgling sound and the smile would quickly fade to a look of (pick one) concern/fear/abject terror. And then the voice-over guy would say, "This is not a good time for traveler's diarrhea."

This always begged the question: if this is not a good time for traveler’s diarrhea, then when is a good time for traveler’s diarrhea. Is there ever a good time for traveler’s diarrhea? And what is the difference between traveler’s diarrhea and the plain old stay-at-home kind? The root cause might be different but the symptoms are pretty much the same and isn’t that what really matters? When you’re stuck in the middle of six lanes of traffic that hasn’t moved in 30 minutes, it doesn't really matter whether you’re on your way home from work or on your way from the airport to your hotel in Istanbul. Either way, it’s not going to be pretty.

But the fact is, the statement, “This is not a good time for traveler’s diarrhea” does seem to imply that there are times that might be okay “for traveler’s diarrhea.” Try to imagine what such an occasion might be……

You and your soulmate are vacationing in a tropical paradise. You’ve just made love on a deserted beach in a secluded cove and now you’re just lying there in the bliss of the moment. The sun warms your still-tingling bodies. The ocean and sky are such amazing shades of blue that they don’t even exist on the colour charts. There are waves gently lapping at your feet. Palm trees sway gently back and forth from the gentle breeze wafting in from the ocean. It’s idyllic. And suddenly you realize that there is only one thing missing. Just one thing separating you from the perfect memory. You prop yourself up on your elbow, look lovingly into the eyes of your partner through life’s journey and say, “You know, there’s only one thing that could make this moment better.” She looks back at you, curiosity piqued, and says, “What’s that?” And you reply, “We need a good case of diarrhea – traveler’s diarrhea, the best kind. When we get back to the hotel, I’m going straight into the dining room and order some raw squid for dinner.” After all, nothing says romance more than last night’s dinner trickling down your thigh.

So, somewhat sadly, the Dukoral commercials have vanished. But as I was thinking about their absence the other night, it reminded me of something else – something that the commercials always brought to mind.

It happened in Bali. But before I can talk about that, I have to set some context – give a little background about what life in Bali is really like. So let me explain……

The Denpasar International Airport, Massage Parlour and Batik Emporium

When you fly to Bali, you fly into Denpasar. Denpasar is the capital city and the home of Bali's only international airport. Denpasar International is your first taste of Bali and it drives home one thought above all others, “Well, Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore…..”

This is Bali, a tropical paradise to which few places on Earth can compare. Life on the island seems like simplicity itself. Uncomplicated and peaceful. And its airport reflects that. It is not like most international airports. We had just flown from beautiful, cosmopolitan and exceptionally modern Singapore. We got off the nice shiny Singapore Airlines jet with about 200 other people and headed into the terminal. The first thing I noticed was that the baggage carousel was about 6 feet long. The second thing I noticed was that there were approximately 200 other people who were noticing the same thing and they were all thinking the exact same thought that I was, “Oh no you don’t. You’re not getting in there ahead of me.” People were already jockeying for space along the rail of the remarkably inadequate carousel and I was deathly afraid that someone else would accidently grab our luggage and it would go on yet another oriental adventure without us.

Momentary digression: Since arriving in Singapore, 5 days earlier, our luggage had already gone on two different “adventures” without bothering to invite us along and, frankly, I was getting a little tired of it. We were never quite sure what it was up to or where it was heading. It just never seemed to be the same place as us. So, this time, I was determined to keep it close at hand. Little did we realize that its biggest adventure was yet to come. In a few weeks it would be taken hostage and held for ransom by an extortionist/terrorist masquerading as a taxi driver in Seoul, South Korea. But that’s another story for another time.

So, not wishing to see our luggage go on yet another adventure without us, and also not wanting to be separated from my freshly laundered socks and underwear, I did my best Gordie Howe impersonation and waded into the melee, head down, knees crouched, elbows flying, to rescue our suitcases from whatever terror lay waiting for them at the other end of the carousel.

I was feeling very pleased with myself as I pulled our last suitcase out of the madding throng and put it down on the terminal floor. That satisfaction only lasted a few seconds, however, when, without uttering so much as a single word, a herd of approximately 15 Indonesian men swooped in, scooped up our bags and headed for the exit at full gallop. I had no idea if they were porters or if we had just been mugged. All I knew was that our luggage appeared, once again, to be doing its own thing without us. It was rapidly disappearing in one direction and the currency exchange, which I desperately needed to visit, was in the opposite direction. Debbie was standing there looking at me with a helpless kind of oh-not-this-again look on her face. I called to her and told her to stay with the luggage while I converted some money. And then, not really knowing if I would ever see my wife or my underwear again, I headed for the currency exchange.

Monetary Culture Shock

I coined a new term while we were in Bali. I called it “Monetary Culture Shock.”

The currency in Indonesia is the rupiah and when we were there it was trading at 1550 rupiahs to one Canadian dollar. Converting $250 made me feel like I had just won the lottery. The man just kept handing me money! Wads and wads of cash! I started to think that I should start looking around for a wheelbarrow rental outlet because I was literally running out of places to put it all. My pants pockets were full, my shirt pockets were full and it was still coming. What next, down the front of my shirt? It occurred to me that I should put some in my luggage but I couldn’t do that because my luggage had already been stolen!

Eventually, the man stopped handing me money. I had no idea if it was the right amount. I really didn’t care anymore. The sheer volume of it all was making me feel a little dazed. And so, armed with so many bills that it felt like I should have a squad of armed guards accompanying me, I set off on my first quest. Somewhere on this island, I had a wife. My job, find her…..

When I reached the terminal doors I was totally unprepared for what was waiting on the other side. There are approximately 4 million people on Bali and, based on the evidence in front of me, all but nine of them owned and operated airport shuttle vans. There was a sea of minivans. It seemed to go on and on forever, stretching to the horizon in all directions. It was like a real-life game of Where’s Waldo and my wife was Waldo and she wasn’t even wearing the striped sweater and toque. I stood there, gaping, wondering where to start looking when suddenly the most horrifying thought popped into my head. It occurred to me that, “I’m going to spend my entire stay in Bali searching this parking lot for my wife.” And then I quietly cursed my suitcase. At least it had taken Debbie along this time.

I stood there scanning the scene in search of a familiar face when out of the corner of my eye I saw a pair of arms waving. And so, in a scene that would not have looked out of place in a news report about the release of Middle Eastern hostages, we were soon all together again.

When I arrived at the van, Debbie was still surrounded by the pack of Indonesian men. “Oh, great,” I thought. “She’s collecting people now.” They looked like drones hovering around a queen bee. As they started putting our luggage on board the van, the leader of the pack of porters and/or muggers (I still hadn’t decided which), stepped forward and looked at me expectantly. I assumed that he was going to apologize for the way that he and his pack of baggage man-handlers had accosted our luggage. However, no apology was forthcoming and so we just stood there looking at each other expectantly, each of us wondering why the other one was just standing there, silent, with such a dopey look on their face. It was the van driver who finally broke the silence. He leaned over and suggested that I should "tip the porter." TIP THE PORTER? Not five minutes earlier, this same pack of individuals had performed an act of synchronized mugging with such tremendous skill and daring that even the most jaded New Yorker would have been moved to a round of spontaneous applause. It could have been an Olympic event! But, instead of chastising these men, the van driver was telling me that I had to reward them – with money!

Feeling totally trapped, I reached into my pocket and pulled out part of the tremendous wad of bills that I had just been handed at the foreign exchange. I peeled off a 100 rupiah note and handed it to the porter. This is where it started getting tricky. To my way of thinking, 100 of anything had to be a lot. But instead of thanking me for my tremendous generosity and wishing me much happiness and many children, the porter looked at the note as if I had just put the carcass of a dead mouse in his hand. He looked at the money, and then he looked up at me, and then he looked back at the money, and then he looked back up at me..... And then that awkward silence descended over us again. I started wishing I was Kreskin because, for the life of me, I could not figure out what this man was waiting for. The van driver, who no doubt had seen many cases of monetary culture shock before, was once again much more helpful. He leaned over and whispered, “You just gave him a nickel.”

I had just received my first taste of monetary culture shock. It wouldn’t be the last.

So, I relieved the porter of the incredibly generous 100 rupiah note that I had just given him and gave him 1000 rupiahs instead. I felt like I was giving him the access codes to my bank account. “Here. Would you like my cameras, too?” It wasn't until much later in the day that I realized that I had still only given him about 60 cents. I sincerely hope that he thought I was German.

So, having navigated the porter customs (mugging customs?) of the airport and our first taste of monetary culture shock, we got into the van and took the terrifying ride from Denpasar to our resort in Sanur (more on Balinese driving a bit later) and checked into the hotel. For the record, it was worth the terrifying ride. The place was amazing. Now it was time to break out the cameras and start exploring the island.

Momentary digression: Debbie and I are not ones for group tours. We don’t like traveling with the herd or having other people decide what we should see and how long we should see it for. We very much prefer to travel independently. We’ll rent a car or engage a local driver/guide and, that way, if we find something we really like, we can take as much time as we want and explore it at our leisure. It’s also a way to get off the beaten path and that’s usually where the most interesting things are. It’s definitely where the best photos are and, for me, photos are a very important aspect of travel. I enjoy photography and, when I say that I enjoy photography, I mean, I enjoy it and I wish I worked for The National Geographic Society. Debbie is also an outstanding photographer so, between us, we do a lot of shooting when we travel. I consider our photos the best travel souvenirs that we have. Years after visiting somewhere, we can pull out the albums or open the folder on the computer and, as we leaf through the images, it all comes back as if it were yesterday.

I always feel sorry for people who go someplace really exotic, like Africa, and come home with 12 photographs. Especially now that we live in the digital age.

My parents, who were never part of the digital age photographically, were what I would call “sporadic” picture takers. When they finally did get a roll of film developed (and they could make a roll last for years) there was always great anticipation to see what was on the film. Because nobody could remember!

"And here's Aunt Velvita standing in front of the hotel. And here's one of Aunt Velvita and Uncle Osgoode by the taxi. And this is the picture I was telling you about. There's the tiger chasing Uncle Osgoode up the tree. It turned out a little blurry and I probably should have taken a second one but I didn't want to waste too much film, you know. And here's one of… oh my, that's Christmas from 2 years ago......"

But primarily, our reason for avoiding tour groups is because they usually make it much more difficult to see and experience whatever it is that you’re trying to see and experience. And it’s also much harder to get really good images when you're part of a large group. There are always so many tourists in the way! If I'm in a bushman's village in the middle of the Kalahari, the last thing that I want in my photographs is some white guy wearing red plaid Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt that says "I got crabs at Phil's".

So we don’t do that.

The Wayan Nengam Travelling Circus

So we arrived in Sanur, checked in, explored the resort and then, feeling quite overwhelmed by the beauty of the place, decided to head out to explore the town and see what transportation options existed for the wide variety of places we wanted to visit on the island. We had seen a billboard in the hotel lobby that listed available tours and their prices (all in the tens of thousands of rupiahs!) but the tours all seemed rather, well, herd-like. As we were crossing the parking lot, we were approached by a young man named Wayan who asked if we were interested in hiring a driver. He seemed nice and he insisted that we come over to inspect his van which he assured us was very new and washed every day – and not just with water, but with drinking water. There is a subtext here – there is a difference between water and drinking water. I should have noticed that. I didn’t.

The Monkey Forest

Wayan seemed like a nice enough guy so we agreed to take a trip with him to the Monkey Forest the next morning, bright and early. And it worked out great! Wayan proved to be an excellent guide/driver. He quickly discovered that Debbie and I were both photographers and so he stuck to the back roads whenever possible for better photo ops. And we saw some amazing sights!

Asian Travel Tip #1: Under no circumstances should North American drivers attempt driving in Indonesia….. or the Phillipines, or Malaysia, or Hong Kong, or Korea, or….. well, you get the point….

All vehicles in Indonesia are required, by law, to have an important safety device installed in them. This device links the brakes, accelerator, steering wheel and gear shift lever to the horn. If the driver makes any attempt to speed up, slow down, change gears, turn or change direction, the horn sounds automatically. It didn't seem to matter where we were or how much traffic there was around us, there always seemed to be about a thousand horns going off somewhere. We could be driving down a dirt road surrounded by rice fields and without any other vehicles in sight in any direction and still there would be horns blaring from somewhere. Perhaps the people themselves were carrying horns and honking them intermittently to remind wayward tourists that they’re not in Kansas anymore. I’m really not sure.

The sound of Wayan's horn going off usually indicated that he was about to take our lives into his hands by performing some sort of bizarre vehicular maneuver that, on North American roads and highways, would have resulted in the immediate forfeiture of your driver’s license. It could have been passing a car that was itself in the process of passing another car. It could have been changing lanes four at a time – on a 2-lane road. It could have been “shooting the gap” between two cars or trucks or motorcycles which were travelling side by side but at a speed that was significantly slower than we were going. They do paint lines between the lanes on the major motorways, but I really don't understand why. These people don't even stay on their own side of the road, much less in their own lane. Let me explain that….

The craziest thing that I saw Wayan attempt (well, while we were in the car. I have no idea how he drove on his own) occurred at 70 MPH on a 4-lane motorway with a wide concrete and grass median down the center. Wayan couldn’t find a satisfactory route around, past or through a large pack of vehicles in front of us so he waited, calmly and casually, until we got to an opening in the median and then pulled, still calmly and casually, onto the other side of the road. He, and by “he” I mean “we”, drove for several miles on the wrong side of the median, with no way to get back onto the “correct” side of the road. The reason that it took several miles to get back onto our side was because every time we passed another opening in the median where we might have gotten back onto our own side (and I say “our own side” with a certain degree of cynicism) there was never any room for us. There were always 3 or 4 other cars already traveling abreast in the two lanes that we wanted to get back into. The highlight of this little adventure, however, occurred when we encountered two oncoming trucks travelling side by side. The truck in the median lane, which was also the lane that we were using at the time, albeit in a significantly less conventional manner than the truck, gave a mighty swerve in front of the other truck at the last second and, thankfully, nobody died. And it only took Wayan about 15 minutes to pry our eyes open with a screwdriver once it was all over. But what I found the hardest to comprehend was that, while this entire escapade was going on, Wayan just kept driving calmly, waiting for an opening in the median that he could get into and acting like he had not a care in the world. This was normal for him!

That just seems to be the way that things go in Bali. Without any apparent notice of anyone else on the road, vehicles weave back and forth, into oncoming traffic and out again, cutting each other off and generally creating the impression that absolutely no-one realizes the amount of damage that can be inflicted when these large metal machines start bumping into each other at highway speeds. But I never saw any accidents the entire time I was there and I never saw anyone get angry, either. These people do things that would illicit choruses of curses and "flipped birds" in North America but, in Bali, not only do the people not get angry, they actually anticipate the most unanticipatable actions and just get out of the way. Eventually, this chaos starts to take on a rhythm of its own. Almost like a dance. It could be very hypnotic if it were not continually being punctuated by the screams and whimpers of terrified tourists.

And, strangely enough, you do actually start to get used to it – almost expect it. Well, sort of. Even after several rides with Wayan, every now and then Debbie would grab my arm and whisper, “He’s doing it again…...” But as I look back on our occasionally death defying rides with Wayan, they barely make the top 5 on my list of the most bizarre and/or terrifying taxi rides I’ve taken.

Over our five days in Bali, we spent three of them enjoying the view from the back of Wayan’s van. Well, that’s not totally true. We did spend three days with Wayan, but only two and a half were enjoyable.

Oh Dukoral, Where Art Thou?

It was Friday morning. Our last day in Bali. On Saturday we were flying back to Singapore. Every Friday they have a huge open-air market in Denpasar and Debbie had been looking forward to it all week. And so, at the crack of dawn, Wayan was ready and waiting in the hotel parking lot to take us into Denpasar for the morning market.

The previous evening, we had dined at a marvelous restaurant in Sanur that Wayan had recommended. It was owned by his brother. The food had been amazing and for the umpteenth time on this trip we had gorged ourselves on shrimp and satay and a wide variety of Indonesian specialties. Afterward, we had walked back to the hotel and taken a romantic stroll down a very dark beach under a sky lit with stars only visible from the southern hemisphere. The Southern Cross was front and centre. It was just the way they portray it in the movies – strolling down a beach in paradise. Finally, we had headed back to our room. It was going to be a busy day tomorrow. Oh, but “busy” would not even begin to describe it.

Like so many things in Asia, the morning market in Denpasar is something that really must be experienced. It is not possible to do it justice with the written word. People bring everything imaginable to market including clothing and material for making clothes, fruits and vegetables of all shapes and sizes, rice by the bushel bag, fish fresh from the ocean and even livestock such as chickens, roosters, cows and pigs, and when I say livestock, I do mean LIVEstock. As you pass by each stall, the merchants invite you to come, examine their goods, see the quality of their wares and their incredibly low prices and, of course, buy the entire stall. I'm not sure what one particular merchant thought a tourist was going to do with live pigs, but he definitely seemed to believe that a complete set of matching swine was what every fashionable Canadian tourist was bringing home for souvenirs that year.

A Street In Denpasar

Of course, almost everything that makes a sound also emits an odor (including most of the people). After about two hours at the market, it all started getting to me, or at least that's what I thought. Debbie, who is tremendously sensitive to smells, was having no problems at all, but I of the cast iron stomach suddenly felt my cast iron stomach turning to Jello. I had to get out of there. Debbie didn't want to leave and I, believing it was just the overwhelming aroma of the market, agreed to meet her later and left to take a walk around Denpasar, convinced that all I needed was a little fresh air. I could not have been more wrong. It just kept getting worse and worse and I was soon faced with the undeniable fact that, if I was to survive this day, we would have to get back to the hotel, which was located in another town, soon. So I set off in search of Debbie and, despite her protestations that she wasn't ready to leave, dragged her to Wayan's van and we all headed back to the hotel. It's a good thing that we left when we did because if we had waited five more minutes I would have embarrassed myself in the worst possible way in the back of Wayan's minibus. And no amount of water, drinking or otherwise, would have been able to wash away the lasting impression that I would have left in the back seat of Wayan’s van. As it was, I sat at the back of the van, directly behind Wayan, urging him on faster and faster in a manner not unlike a stagecoach driver in a wild, wild, west movie – except that I didn't have a whip, which was probably a good thing for Wayan. Secretly, my brain was screaming, “YOU DID THIS TO ME! YOU AND YOUR STUPID BROTHER!”

We arrived back at the hotel with just seconds to spare. Imagine an Olympic high hurdler sprinting down a track, leaping all obstacles placed in front of him including chairs, coffee tables, suitcases, people……. but running with butt cheeks firmly clenched and knees locked together to prevent any chance of accidental cheek separation so that actual propulsion is only occurring from the knees down.

It is known by many names throughout the world: Bombay Bum, The Tijuana Two-Step, Montezuma's Revenge, The Flaming Fanny, The Turkey Trots….. In my case, it was Bali Belly. A remarkable disease – it has but one symptom. One symptom that requires that you remain at all times within 10 feet of an unoccupied toilet.

The worst part about Bali Belly is that, long after your bowels have been purged of all their contents, it is still doing everything it can to continue emptying them. After your 15th or 16th trip to "relieve" yourself (nothing could be further from "relief"), you begin to wonder if you are starting to leave internal organs behind. Internal organs that you may still need if you manage to survive the ordeal.

So, for the rest of that day, Debbie was forced to use the facilities in one of the hotel restaurants if the need arose while the ravages of last night’s dinner continued to power wash my internals. This time tomorrow, I had to be on an airplane for the trip back to Singapore. A trip that would last 5 hours! I had never been so terrified in my life. Whatever the restaurant had done to me, it had to be undone by 10 a.m. tomorrow morning. But only if I lived.

Debbie's New Shirt (See? We finally got there! How's the wine holding up?)

Since our departure from the market in Denpasar had taken place earlier than expected, much earlier, and since it was becoming increasingly apparent that my only two objectives for the day were to see how loud I could moan and to find out how many times I could ask Debbie if there was an adequate supply of toilet paper in the room, Debbie found herself with several extra hours on her hands.

Earlier in the week, she had bought herself a pair of shorts at one of the local shops in Sanur. I had commented on how nice they were and we had decided that we were going to have to go back to and get me a pair before we headed back to Singapore. Debbie decided that this afternoon was as good a time as any. After all, I wasn't going anywhere. So she headed off to the shops and left me and my abundant supply of toilet paper to wallow in my own personal version of Dante’s Inferno. A couple of hours later she returned wearing a new shirt, did a quick spin at the foot of the bed and asked, "Notice anything different?"

I observed that she had bought a new shirt and she replied, "Well, I didn't exactly buy it."

And then she related the following story.

She had gone back to the shop to get me the shorts. She found the pair that she wanted and, as is customary in Bali, began to haggle over the price. The woman in the shop refused to go any lower than 2500 rupiahs. Debbie had only paid 2000 rupiahs for her pair earlier in the week and refused to pay more than that for mine. It is important to note that they are arguing over approximately 30 cents. But there was a principle involved. The haggling must have gotten quite spirited because the owner of the shop eventually got involved. She had been watching the exchange between Debbie and her clerk from a distance and finally came over and agreed to Debbie's price, but with one condition.

The shopkeeper informed her, "Okay, 2000 rupiahs for the shorts, but I want your shirt."

"You want my what?" Debbie replied.

"2000 rupiahs for the shorts, but I want your shirt," the shopkeeper repeated.

Now there is haggling and then there is haggling. This was the latter – some sort of alternative form of haggling that I can only describe as full contact haggling because it was at this point that the woman reached over, grabbed Debbie's T-shirt at the waist and whipped it up over her head and completely off her body. Yes, you read that correctly – the owner of the shop undressed my wife, without her permission, in the middle of her store. It was like the airport “porters” all over again. Suitcases? Clothing? Whatever. If you see something you want, just grab it and run and we’ll work the details out later.

So with no warning whatsoever, my wife and Canadian sensibilities found herself standing in the middle of the shop in her bra and asking the total stranger who had just disrobed her, "What am I supposed to wear!?" And the shopkeeper told her that she could have any shirt in the store.

No-one, especially Debbie, will deny that she likes to shop. It’s one of her favourite things. But this was a new spin on shopping, even for her. Only in Bali could she have found herself dressed in a zippy little ensemble composed of a pair of natty green shorts and the latest in boob fashions from Wonderbra while traipsing around a store trying on shirts until she found herself a new one she liked. Only in Bali.

Bali is a wonderful destination. It’s something everyone should experience at least once in their lifetime. But don't bother bringing your modesty. You won't need it.

A Few Sights From Around Bali