We decided to give up on finding a decent beach and try our luck in the shops. Following Raya Pantal Kuta, the main beach front street, as it curved inland, we past numerous expensive looking restaurants and resorts all without so much as a foreign looking face in the window. We rounded the corner and found ourselves on a long street lined with shops selling a variety of goods from clothes and shoes to wooden carvings and other souvenir-type artifacts. One the sidewalk outside of each shop was a small green woven palm basket full of flower petals and rice and the occasional Ritz cracker. It was obvious to us almost immediately that there were very few international travelers in the immediate vicinity. Offers to "come in and look," "buy some sunglasses, boss" "a sarong for you, madam," came from every angle as fliers for massage parlors were thrust into our hands. Escaping the barrage by ducking into the vestibule of a courtyard surrounded by shops, we found ourselves immediately accosted again. "What would you like to buy?" "Come look at my shop." "Shoes, some new shoes?" I tried to look uninterested, keeping my eyes averted from anything someone might pick up and try to sell me, while Steven followed a young Balinese man into his shop and began looking at board shorts. Having made the mistake of letting my eyes linger too long on a pair of "Oakley" sunglasses, I soon found myself trying, politely at first, and then firmly to convince the man that I didn't care if the sunglasses were Oakley or RayBan, I never spent more than $15 on a pair of sunglasses at Target and I wasn't about to spend $50 on a $100 pair of sunglasses even if it was steal. Realizing that my repeated protests were not soon to abate, my pursuer switched tactics and, walking over to Steven, began trying to convince him to purchase the sunglasses for me because "your wife likes this pair." I walked in behind the man and immediately corrected him, exclaiming that I did NOT want the sunglasses and that I had told him repeatedly that I did not want to buy them. At this point, Steven had found a pair of green Billabong board shorts that he liked, but realized that we had not exchanged a sufficient amount of money and were short on Rupiah. He explained to the man of the shop that we did not have enough money for the shorts but that we would go to an ATM and come back to make the purchase. At this, the man announced that he would accompany us to the ATM. My patience for the hawkers having been pushed far beyond its limit and my personal space and freedom of decision under threat, I snapped and turned to Steven, informing him, in a low growl "He will NOT follow us to the ATM. If you want to come back and get the shorts later, we can, but we're not buying anything from these people." With that, I stormed out of the shop, a rapid fire burst of "No, no, no, no, no," shooting from my lips as I made my way back through the barrage of hawkers, Steven turning to the guy at the shop with a shrug and a "my wife..." as an explanation and following me out onto the street.
We decided to do a little sightseeing and wandered around visiting various temples. Balinese Temples are similar to temples we saw in Cambodia, with large stone facades surrounding a central doorway that leads into an open area in which lie various alters, tables, and platforms for religious ceremonies. Each temple has the face of a deity or lesser god, to whom that temple was built. The doorways of the temples are flanked by smaller stone carvings of "guardians" who protect the temple and its inhabitants. I spent a good part of the morning snapping pictures of all the guardians and the intricate detail on the temple gates.
Having shaken off the unease brought on by our unsuccessful shopping episode and built up our resolve to enjoy the experience despite all of the hassle, we found an ATM and headed back to buy Steven's shorts.
We entered the vestibule of the courtyard and to my surprise, no one seemed put off by my earlier hasty retreat. They welcomed us back and happily sold Steven a pair of shorts and managed to convince me to pay $10 for the sunglasses I had previously declined to purchase.
Our purchases made, we made our way up a spiral staircase to the second floor to a Balinese spa listed on one of the fliers we'd received, advertising massages for $6 US.
The atmosphere of the Spa was appropriately soothing, complete with a fountain and soft music, the antithesis of the mayhem of the shops below. We both sunk into the chairs in the small waiting room and confirmed that we wanted a traditional Balinese massage. We spent the next hour and a half enjoying a massage and a post-massage chat with an English speaking Javanese woman who ran the salon.
After our massage, we walked back down though the shops (a $7 pair of sandals jumping into our bag as we left) and walked back out to the beach. Feeling rejuvenated and happy with our purchases, our defenses were down as the next wave of Balinese hawkers began their attack. As soon as we walked out on the beach, we were surrounded by middle aged Balinese women with a rainbow of colors draped over their shoulders imploring us to buy a sarong. I recognized one woman, Lynn, whom I'd escaped earlier by telling her "maybe later," and managed to duck out of the circle before she noticed me. One woman wouldn't be shook off so easily and followed us out on the to beach begging us to buy a sarong. My conscience joined in, "You like sarongs. They are versatile. She only wants three dollars. Where are you going to find a sarong for three dollars. And maybe three dollars is a lot of money for her. Why don't you just by a sarong?"
Finally I relented and bought an attractive black embroidered sarong. As I was putting away my money, a familiar face came into view. Lynn. "Remember me? You said you'd come back later. And then you bought a sarong from her. What about two? Buy one from me, too." And my conscience chimed in, "You did tell her you'd be back later...". So Steven picked out a second sarong.
Waving goodbye to Lynn, we didn't get two steps before we were accosted by another woman intent on giving me a manicure. I declined repeatedly, even after she'd picked up my hand and examined the poor state of my nails having been neglected for a month and chided me. I tried to walk away, but she had my hand in a vice grip, a friendly smile on her face. She could smell my weakness. Finally, I relented, saying, "Ok, I'll make you a deal. I'll sit for a manicure if you tell me about Bali while you work. She agreed and I glanced at Steven who gave me a look that suggested he doubted my sanity, before sitting down on the sand like the sitting duck I was about to become.
Unable to move while Marie worked on my nails I was a prime target for every hawker in the area. The first to get to me was another Wayan, a wrinkled gray haired old woman with a face that made me wish I'd be Balinese when I got older. She spent 10 minutes trying to convince me to buy a fake flower on a hair tie for a dollar and I spent 10 minutes trying to get her off the subject of the flower and onto her own life. While Marie worked on my nails and Wayan worked on my resolve, a third woman came up with a pedicure set and began examining my feet. Having been enjoying the banter with Marie and Wayan, I immediately launched into a lighthearted refusal of her service explaining that I like the bottoms of my feet to stay rough so I can walk around barefoot on the hot sand. Defending myself from two sides, with Marie blocking me from the front, I was completely at the mercy of a group of Indonesian tourists who decided that I would be an amusing addition to their family photo and crowded around behind my back while somebody took a picture. I looked up to see Steven chuckling in the background and wished he'd had our camera to capture the circus this was turning out to be.
With Marie finished, Wayan long gone leaving her flower in my lap with a command to "Pay Marie," and the pedicure woman politely brushed off, I was free to join Steven for a walk back to our hotel.
After an outdoor shower in our roofless bathroom, we changed and decided to find somewhere to eat. The sun had set and we walked down the road in the dark hoping to find out where all the other traveler's were. We walked down one deserted street after another, turning back towards our hotel and setting out again in the other direction. Finally, when we were starting to get a little spooked by the lack of life on the street, we heard a faint rendition of U2's 'In the Name of Love.' Walking towards the sound we found ourselves in front of a very lively bar, filled with people yelling to each other over the sound of a live cover band. Thrilled to have found some entertainment, but not wanting to shout at each other over dinner, we decided to eat in the restaurant next door before relocating to the bar for drinks.
After a quick dinner, we were soon seated at the bar in Peanuts, Kuta's resident Harley bar singing along to Gun's N' Roses (or at least, I was).
Sunday, February 01, 2009
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