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INDONESIA Like a huge red molten coin, the sun sank toward the sea and set my world ablaze. Cherry-orange waves splashed onto the sand. The sky became a crimson cotton field.
I rented a motorcycle. With nothing but a backpack and a crude road map of Bali, I set off on a 5-day circumnavigation of the island. Along the way I found a different kind of romance. My 250-CC Honda cost only 48,000 rupiah ($5.45 U.S.) per day. She had a busted speedometer, a missing left mirror, and dents that conjured up a dozen accident scenarios. But her engine purred like a panther. With a smile on my face and a twinge in my gut, I motored toward Denpasar, Bali's traffic-congested capital. At the first stop light, and at every lighted intersection thereafter, motorcycles and motor scooters squeezed through the gaps between idling automobiles. When the light turned green, hundreds of vehicles lurched forward, releasing clouds of exhaust that made me wish I'd rented an air-conditioned jeep. Once outside the city, however, the traffic cleared. I shifted gears, pulled back on the throttle and fell into the rhythm of the road.
After reaching Ubud, the epicenter of Bali's art scene, I stumbled upon the residence of Ketut Liyer. A local artist and Balian (medicine man), Ketut was busy counseling Made, an unemployed hotel worker. Like thousands of locals, Made's joblessness is a direct result of the October terrorist attack. (The bombings in Kuta sent shock waves throughout the Balinese tourism industry. Five months after the attack, which left more than 200 dead and hundreds injured, the occupancy rate of many hotels hovered near only 20%. At most restaurants, empty tables outnumbered those that were occupied.) Nevertheless, the Balian put "magic" in Made's resume. She walked away smiling, confident of securing a job.
For two nights I slept at the home of a reclusive U.S. expatriate who asked that her name not be mentioned (she's a retired friend of a friend). My hostess lives in a rustic 2-bedroom bungalow, perched on the edge of a deep ravine. Her open-air living room faces a jungle of coconut palms through which orange light blazed as we drank mango juice at sunset. Early the third day, I headed for Tirta Gangga, some 70 kilometers to the northeast. At one point I turned from the main road, bounced along a dirt track, and chanced upon the tiny fishing village of Kusamba. Friendly locals gathered around and explained, through a series of hand gestures, how they make a living turning sea water into salt for export to Japan.
Tirtu Ayu is a water palace built by a Balinese rajah in 1948. It's graced with swimming pools and ornamental ponds from which sculpted fountains spout. I spent a quiet, luxurious night in a marble-floor villa that featured a four-post bed. At 180,000 rupees ($20.45) it was a steal. The next morning, I motored along a winding mountain road that offered dizzying views of the rice terraces you see in guidebooks to Bali. From there I sped along the northeast coast, stopping once at a roadside shack where an attendant stuck a funnel in my gas tank and poured petrol from a glass jar.
After 5 days and more than 300 kilometers of island biking, I found myself at Legian Beach, witnessing another spectacular sunset. Lovers strolled along the shore, holding hands, pointing at the flaming horizon. I sat alone in my wooden beach chair, wondering if I should rent another motorcycle. click here for more images of Indonesia Next
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