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What a delicious day....
As my inwards started to right themselves, I wanted to get away from the tat shops and see more of the island. I found an outfit providing 'real Balinese countryside experience tours', run by an old guy raised on a farm who subsequently taught himself English and realised that the odd tourist wanted to get a handle on the real thing.
His syllables were sometimes out of order, and his accent was a cross between those of Yoda and the worst oriental restauranteur in South London. As a tour guide, though, he was nothing short of pure gold.
We drove up into a village which was at least two villages away from anywhere you might find on a detailed map. Then we put on palm hats to protect us fron the sun and switched to a pedicab. A gimmick for tourists perhaps, but as the guide said (I'll semi-decipher for you), "not easy to hear silence over car with ears, yes?". Too true. The laid-back natural beauty was punishing on the senses. I entirely see why the Dutch East India Company hung on here until after the second world war.
We peddled on to the local primary school, where I got to chat to the local kids trying to learn English. "he speak much good English", said the teacher of me to the kids, graciously.
Now, colleagues will know how I love a whiteboard. Children with questions about England in the middle of nowhere with a stub of chalk and a blackboard? Of course. Can I do some sums too? Er. Please. Please, Mr Tom? Okay. Sure.
I think it's fair to suspect we massively over-ran on the itinerary, but you can guess how much I cared, and my old guide was over the moon.
So we peddled a way further. Then stopped. Breakfast for the guide. His farting and belching came at no extra charge. Having finished, what do qe do we with the breakfast things? The standard, but unnerving Balinese approach to litter: drop it on the ground.
Then we were trekking up into the rice fields. I assumed the guide was going slowly due to his age, but a few minutes in I realise how naive I had been. This was tough going. The analogy with Yoda didn't stop with his accent, this guy was unstoppable - as strong as an ox and able to shimmy up a coconut tree to get us a young coconut to drink if required.
Also, I'd been given a walking stick that looked a lot like a broom-handle. A prop for tourists? Wrong again. The rice fields are irrigated to get the rice to grow, in a fortnightly cycle of flood and let dry. The channels are only a few feet wide, but little crossings are here and there made of whatever a farmer has to hand. Facilitating the gentle introduction into the rural environment of a lumbering Brit is not a priority. So you need to stride/ jump across the channels, unless you plan to fall through the nominal bridges designed for malnourished but spry 5'3'' farmers. So, give the giant a stick so he doesn't screw one of the little dams and waste water.
The guide talked through every tiny step of planting, growing and harvesting rice, the irrigation, crop rotation, pests, management of cattle, the shrines to the farming gods, and so on. It was fascinating.
Not to bore you, let me pick out a pearl or two. If you've seen rice fields before you'll know that while the lines of rice are precisely equidistant they aren't straight, as the shape of each field doesn't accommodate nice straight lines. A good harvest needs the rice plants to be well spaced to yield properly, so how do they keep these waving lines carefully equidistant?
Each line is placed apart by the distance between the planter's nipples. How many lines can a planter plant? 3. Why? Because by swaying a shoulder's width left and right, a planter uses the same nipples to do 3 lines rather than two.
I was then allowed to get on a cattle-drawn plough to smooth out a new field, hence the photo...and basically
... I broke the plough. Properly broke it. It wasn't designed for a giant with a few pounds to shed. Let's be honest. It wasn't 'designed' in the western sense at all. It was made. Made out of bits of tree and coconut rope. But then I went and broke it.
The two cows pulling the plough seemed impressed. The one on the left saw it as a potential day off, and started eating some nearby vegetation; the one on the right raised it's eyebrow as if to say, "Really? You thought sitting this guy on my plough was a good idea?". Cows have surprisingly expressive faces.
The locals were inordinately pleased noting I'd just sat straight down through their livelihood. Why? Apparently this is epic, mind-blowing good luck in that village. A sign of a bumper harvest on the way. With all may heart I hope that's proven to be true, because I was terrified I had ruined the future of the village.
The remainder of the day was lovely, but not as arresting. A tasting session of Arrack (at. 50% alcohol this stuff is loony juice, and tastes like meths smell), how to make a Hindu offering out of palm leaves and flowers, and more coffee-making. I also met some very lovely Aussie teachers in the same village who made for delightful company.
Sadly, the Bali Belly picked up painfully on the way back. Cramps and 'urgency'. Very wearing.
- comments
Rob Sounds awesome mate. What a wonderful experience, so pleased you are enjoying yourself. Shame about the guts, hope you feel better again soon.
Giggles Definitely a writer or a university lecturer. That's your calling!!