Dear journal of the historical investigations of the island of Bali by Paulina M. Gifford, My research reveals that the Ngurah Rai International Airport (Denpasar, Bali) was named after a young colonel, called I Gusti Ngurah Rai, who fought against the Dutch for Balinese independence after World War Two. He was a great hero of the Balinese people.
And now I, Paulina Gifford, have arrived on the island he fought so hard for.
I, Paulina Gifford, have arrived in Bali.
The flight to Ngurah Rai Airport was lengthy. According to my calculations, it took just over six hours, which is fifteen minutes longer than the advised flight time from Melbourne to Bali. However, we did encounter congestion on the runway, so this would account for the delay.
I found the flight reasonably enjoyable. There was an abundance of satisfactory food, and several radio stations of interest, free for passenger use. They even had Radio National’s Hindsight history station. Woohoo!
I don’t think Daisy Blue enjoyed the flight quite as much as I did. She kept sighing in an unnecessarily dramatic fashion, and asking the attendants inane questions about cheese.
Mum slept for most of the way. She tires easily, due to the extended hours she puts in at her very important job. I didn’t mind the lack of communication, as I was able to think and plan, and jot down notes about places I would like to visit in Bali, and the historical investigations I might undertake upon visiting them.
Upon our arrival at Ngurah Rai, I was thrilled to be presented with traditional Indonesian kueh. Kueh are intricate cakes and other small dessert goods commonly found in countries in the Malay Archipelago. They are like an Asian version of Spanish tapas. Also, they are very yummy. I was quite hungry, so I ate several.
Finally, we got through customs. I had a brief conversation with the passport man (my Indonesian is still in development). I told him I thought the weather was patas. Initially, I did not understand his amusement, as I had merely been trying to communicate that the weather was hot. After he stopped laughing, he explained to me that the word for hot in Indonesian is, in fact, panas and that a patas is a fast semi-express bus or train. Very embarrassing, and an indication that I must focus more on my study of Indonesian linguistics!
We are now sitting in traditional Indonesian becaks on our way to the hotel. A becak is like a mini horse and cart, only with a man instead of a horse. It is quite slow (and therefore not at all like a ‘patas’ – see, I am learning!), and strange, but it is fun! Well, at least, I think it is fun. Daisy Blue is complaining that she is hot, and whingeing that the air is smelly.
Indeed, the air does have a distinctive aroma – of incense and banana leaves and cloves.
But I like it. I like the smell of Bali. It smells like possibilities . . .
And historical significance, of course.
I will write more later this evening as, though this traditional ride is pleasant, it is also rather bumpy.
PS: I beg of you, Balinese deities, please make that girl stop complaining. I am going quite mad. The only time she shuts up is when she sees a ‘hot’ surfer ‘dude’ out the window. I just want her to be quiet. Ah, that’s better. She has stopped, while she is staring at another unkempt young man . . . oh, no. She’s started again. I wonder what the penalty is, in Bali, for pushing a girl out of a becak . . .
Paulina M. Gifford