A mob of people in colourful attire suddenly surged into the road ahead, moving towards the taxi. A graceful group of women led the way, carrying soaring towers of fruit on their heads, chatting affably as if their loads were inconsequential. A group of teenage boys with percussion instruments followed, their hands pounding out a syncopated rhythm. Behind them came families, the women in glittering sarongs and sashes, the men wearing cloth headdresses cocked across their foreheads and loose white shirts flowing over gilt-edged sarongs. The elderly walked hand-in-hand with the children, a whole community moving as one.
Henry stared at the procession, overwhelmed by the splendour and foreignness.
‘This is a big village,’ said the driver, turning off the engine. ‘We have to wait twenty minutes. Very important ceremony.’
Henry laughed at the beauty and absurdity of it all: never in downtown Twickenham would a religious procession stop traffic. Not without media coverage and copious letters to the editor from outraged citizens, at any rate.
After several minutes without the air conditioner, the heat in the taxi became unbearable and Henry opened the door for fresh air. Several children in the passing crowd spotted him and yelled, ‘Bule! Bule!’ before laughing hysterically. Henry wasn’t sure if they were making fun of him or being friendly, but he waved at them all the same.
Several young women turned their faces towards him then, flashing stunning white smiles beneath perfect almond-shaped eyes, their body-hugging lace blouses offering an alluring glimpse of corsetry beneath. He watched them pass, their thick dark hair undulating over smooth caramel necks and cascading down slim backs. He nodded in greeting and they looked away bashfully, giggling behind their hands.
Henry held up his phone to film the passing ceremonial crowd. Before long, lulled by the drumming, he found himself yawning again. Slumping down across the back seat, he closed his eyes, allowing the fatigue and jet lag to smother him to sleep.
‘Pesta Burung is here, mister.’
Henry sat up, squinting at the neon lights blinking in his face.
‘Where are we?’ he asked, shielding his eyes to look down the alleyway in which they were parked. It was miraculous that the driver had managed to negotiate such a narrow thoroughfare.
‘Pesta Burung,’ the driver repeated. He motioned to a shopfront and helpfully translated: ‘Bird Party.’ A group of women were seated on large cushions inside the window, partially obscured by a white gauze curtain.
A hard-faced young man in black jeans and a denim shirt emerged from the shop and approached the taxi. He smiled, and Henry noticed that several of his teeth were missing.
‘You want massage, mister?’ he asked, thrusting a laminated menu at Henry. It was covered with thumbnails of women, each with a descriptor beneath.
Puspita, 18. Loves to give hand massage.
Ami, 25. Famous pick-the-mango technique.
Mitra, 21. Best BJ in Bali.
Appalled, Henry turned to the driver. ‘There’s been a mistake. This is not what I—’
‘You no like my girls?’ The man turned over the laminated card. ‘What about my boys?’
Henry gasped at the young male faces on the card; some looked barely adolescent. ‘No, no, you don’t understand, I’m a birdwatcher. I’m here to … watch birds.’
The man regarded him blankly for a moment, then smiled. ‘I understand.’
Henry exhaled with relief.
‘You like to watch,’ the man said. ‘Girl-on-girl, boy-on-boy, or threesome?’
‘Please,’ Henry appealed to the taxi driver, ‘let’s go.’
The young man laid a hand on Henry’s arm and spoke sharply to the driver. Henry wrenched his arm away and, blushing, removed his iPhone from his daypack. He found the website entry and pushed it in front of the man’s face.
‘See here,’ he said, pointing at the section called Birdwatching in Bali. ‘These are the birds I’ve come to see. Starting at the Pusat Burung.’
The man studied the web page for some time. Then he threw back his head and cackled so loudly that some of the women sitting in the shop rushed out. They crowded around him, passing the iPhone between them, while he recounted the story in Balinese.
‘Ahhh!’ the driver almost shouted. ‘You did not tell me you meant burung of this kind!’ He laughed heartily.
‘I tried to show you at the airport,’ Henry said, his face still burning.
The driver looked as if he was going to pass out from sheer hilarity. ‘In Indonesia, burung means two things,’ he said. ‘First, the thing with feathers, yes? Second is the thing between your legs.’
This made the group of women howl with laughter.
‘I drive taxi for twenty years,’ said the driver, wiping his eyes. ‘Foreign men, the bules, they always come to Bali to use their burung.’ He gestured to his crotch, then at the shop. ‘This is what you want too, I am thinking. But you are first bule to ask for real birds.’
Henry nodded, trying to see the funny side. ‘I see. It’s been quite a misunderstanding then. Now, please can we go to Pusat Burung?’ He retrieved his iPhone from the pimp and found the website once more. ‘It says here that it’s in, uh … Ubud.’ He pointed at the word.
‘Ubud is a very long way,’ observed the driver. ‘We stop the meter now and you pay me another three hundred thousand rupiah.’
‘What, on top of the two hundred thousand already?’ asked Henry. ‘Why?’
‘It is far away. I will take you to a hotel in Ubud tonight. You can go to Pusat Burung tomorrow morning.’
Henry sighed. The additional charge would take the cost close to twenty-five pounds, which seemed excessive. But marooned in a dark alleyway in the middle of Legian, he realised there was little scope for bargaining.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘But I haven’t booked accommodation in Ubud.’
‘No problem,’ said the driver. ‘There are many places. I will take you to a resort, my cousin works there.’ He began reversing back along the alleyway.
‘Come back next time, mister!’ the pimp called out from the kerb, surrounded by the huddle of women he sold by the hour.
Henry couldn’t bring himself to return his smirking smile.
To-kehk, to-kehk, to-kehk. A strange call roused Henry from his dream.
He’d been drinking a pint of ale at The Albany with Jim, surrounded by a swathe of dark-haired lovelies. Suddenly, the prettiest one—who was wearing Balinese ceremonial clothes—turned and asked him, Why aren’t you talking to me? The whole pub fell silent, looking at him. With the crowd awaiting his answer, Henry felt the adrenalin flooding his body: the tingling extremities, the intense heat, the parched mouth, the panic. All he could do was stare at the woman, mumbling incoherently.
He sat up in bed. It took some time for his eyes to adjust to the soft light of dawn. Dozens of marigolds decorated his room, looped in garlands over mirrors, or arranged in delicate patterns on antique-style furniture. The previous night had been too dark, and his own fatigue too great, for him to notice much beyond the incessant whining of mosquitos.
He got out of bed and reached for the door, running his fingers across the ornate swirls carved in its wooden frame. Gripping the slider peg, he opened the door. He stepped onto the verandah in his boxer shorts, looking out over a broad rice paddy. Frangipani trees and coconut palms lined its perimeter, and neat rows of rice plants rippled in the breeze. He stood for a moment absorbing the beauty, noticing the warmth of the air, even at this early hour.
To-kehk. There it was again, the call, closer now. It sounded like a cuckoo—possibly channel-billed, a common species in this part of the world.
TO-KEHK, TO-KEHK, TO-KEHK.
Startled, Henry looked up. Clinging upside down to the verandah ceiling was an enormous gecko, at least ten inches long. Its olive-green body was speckled with orange spots, and its bulging eyes were an unblinking gold. It started up its strident call once more, and Henry instinctively backed away, accidentally bumping into some
one. The man stumbled and dropped a small basket, which promptly rolled off the verandah, scattering a trail of colourful blossoms behind it.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Henry said, dropping to the floor to try to salvage the flowers. ‘I didn’t hear you there.’
The man stood up and adjusted his sarong. ‘You were listening to the tokek talking.’ His eyes danced, as if he found Henry amusing. ‘A tokek?’ Glancing up at the ceiling, Henry realised the lizard had vanished. ‘I thought at first it was a bird.’
The man chuckled. ‘And it probably thought you were a giraffe. You are very tall.’
Henry laughed too. He certainly did tower over the man, who was slim and fine-featured, with wrists and ankles that looked as though they might snap under pressure. There were crow’s-feet around the man’s eyes and streaks of silver in his neatly clipped black hair, but his smooth skin and boyish smile gave him an ageless air.
‘Er, hang on,’ said Henry, conscious of his bare chest. He’d read somewhere that Indonesians favoured modesty. He hurried back into his room, grabbed yesterday’s t-shirt from the small pile of dirty washing on the floor, then pulled it over his head.
‘I’m Henry,’ he said, returning to the verandah and thrusting out his hand. ‘From England, if it isn’t obvious.’
‘Pak Ketut,’ said the man, bowing low and clasping Henry’s hand for the briefest of moments, before touching his own hand to his heart. ‘I thought you were American.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Henry. ‘I hope I don’t sound like one.’
‘Why?’
Henry didn’t know what to say. ‘Oh, I’ve just met a few loud Americans in my time.’
Pak Ketut continued to look steadily at him. When Henry failed to elaborate, he said, ‘Excuse me, Mister Henry, I have to finish my prayers now.’
Henry groaned. ‘You were praying when I bumped into you?’
‘Not yet. I had not lit the incense, which is when the prayer starts. I will go downstairs and prepare another offering, then I will come back. Tidak apa-apa. No problem.’
Henry was intrigued. ‘Do you mind if I watch you make the offering?’
‘Wait here. I will come back.’ Pak Ketut disappeared down the verandah stairs.
The sun was rising in earnest now, its golden beams transforming the rice field from shadowy grey to iridescent green. It was a fecund, vibrant colour that Henry had never seen in England. The field itself seemed to be pulsing with the promise of life and love in God’s own garden.
God’s own garden. Henry returned to his room to scribble the words in his journal. He didn’t even believe in God. Well, not when he was in England, he didn’t.
Returning to the verandah, Henry studied a map of the resort, Puri Damai, pinned on a noticeboard. He’d arrived here last night purely on the basis of a recommendation from the driver’s cousin. Now, in the clear light of morning, he was relieved to find his expectations exceeded. He’d taken the cheapest accommodation available, in a block of single rooms, but the resort was far more expansive than he’d imagined. There were gardens, bungalows and at least two swimming pools. The map also indicated that there were several large bamboo outhouses and three restaurants on site. At the southernmost reaches of the property, perched on the edge of a gorge through which the Ayung River flowed, was an area designated for ‘private retreats’.
Next to the map was a menu for one of the resort’s restaurants. Henry scanned the list of unusual foodstuffs—from dragon fruit and cacao to tempeh and turmeric juice—all of which seemed entirely at odds with his regular British diet of oven chips, baked beans and Mr Brain’s faggots.
His eyes moved further down the noticeboard, settling on a pink pamphlet:
Face your fears in Bali.
Join our popular ‘Fearless’ retreat at Puri Damai.
Next retreat begins 1 March: change your life!
What are YOU afraid of?
Reflexively, Henry answered the question: public speaking. Despite choosing an introvert’s career, despite completing a Toastmasters course in his early twenties, despite rarely having to actually galvanise himself to do it, Henry still had nightmares about speaking in public. Even its most casual versions—speaking to a group of strangers at a wedding, asking questions at a business meeting, or delivering an impromptu toast at the pub—would turn him beet-red, breathless and bumbling.
Never mind more formal occasions, like the upcoming twitcher convention he’d agreed to address in London next month. Why had he accepted that invitation?
Henry glanced at his watch: the Fearless retreat commenced tomorrow.
‘Are you afraid of something, Mister Henry?’
He jumped at the sound of Pak Ketut’s voice, right behind him.
‘Balinese men who sneak up on me,’ said Henry, smiling.
Pak Ketut smiled too. ‘What else?’
‘Public speaking,’ Henry admitted. ‘I don’t have to do it often, but I hate it when I do. And if I ever want a career apart from software testing, I’ll have to deal with it.’ He nodded at the noticeboard. ‘Are these Fearless retreats any good, then?’
‘Very good, guests say.’ Pak Ketut’s chest puffed out a little. ‘I am the retreat driver.’
‘How long have you worked here?’ asked Henry.
‘Five years,’ said Pak Ketut. ‘Before then I was a farmer, but it is hard to make much money from growing rice. When Puri Damai was built, the owner bought my family’s land to make the resort bigger. My village is just over there, not far.’ He waved a hand to the north. ‘The owner employs us all now. My brother is a kitchen hand, my cousins are gardeners, I am a driver. It is work that I love.’
‘That’s important,’ said Henry, realising that he had never ever described software testing as work he loved. ‘And you have excellent English, I must say.’
Pak Ketut bowed slightly. ‘I practise a lot with guests. Many hours in cars.’ He motioned at the new offering he held. ‘Excuse me, Mister Henry, I will pray first.’
Henry watched as Pak Ketut laid a small palm-leaf basket at the top of the verandah stairs. It contained white, yellow, red and blue blossoms, a wrapped sweet, a five-thousand-rupiah note, and several joss sticks, which Pak Ketut proceeded to light with a cigarette lighter. As the incense began to smoulder, Pak Ketut crouched in front of the offering, his right hand weaving in the air, tracing invisible symbols. Finally, he pressed his hands together in front of his forehead, a frangipani between his fingertips, his lips moving in silent prayer.
Only when Pak Ketut opened his eyes did Henry realise he’d been holding his breath.
‘Is praying part of your job description?’ Henry ventured.
Pak Ketut stood up. ‘All the resort staff must pray. Not every day, but at least once a week. We are all part of Puri Damai, so we all want it to succeed.’
‘Is that what you were praying for, success?’ As soon as he’d asked, Henry wished he hadn’t. Back in England, he would never have quizzed a churchgoer about the subject of his prayers.
Pak Ketut appeared unfazed. ‘We say prayers of thankfulness for what we have and for … tri hita karana. “Balance” is the English word, I think, between God and humanity and nature. If we do not have that balance, life is not right. If we eat the wrong foods, or forget about God, or have too much fear, then we make bad choices.’
Pak Ketut’s words were hardly audible above the tranquil babble of the irrigation channel running alongside the rice paddy, yet they prompted Henry to ponder, Am I balanced? A geeky software tester who doggedly pursued feathered fancies to the detriment of his ordinary life?
He stared at the potted hibiscuses lining the cobbled walkway below, mesmerised by their translucent white blooms. After a moment, without really knowing why, he declared, ‘I like birdwatching. That is why I’ve come to Bali.’
Pak Ketut looked puzzled. ‘Is that research of birds?’
‘No, that’s ornithology.’ Henry considered the right descriptor, one that Pak Ketut would understand.
‘Birdwatching is like hunting, but for … people who don’t need to kill things. I watch birds in the wild. Sometimes I just get a sore neck from staring up into trees all day.’ He rubbed the spot on his cervical spine that had been tender for the past few years. ‘Sometimes I see a bird I’ve been trying to find forever, sometimes I see none for weeks. But that’s the unpredictable nature of birdwatching. It’s my escape.’
Pak Ketut nodded earnestly. ‘From what?’
From everything else, Henry thought.
After a moment, he said, ‘I’d like to go to Pusat Burung later today. Do you know where it is?’
‘Yes.’ Pak Ketut nodded again. ‘But I am sorry, it is closed. There is a big funeral for the head of the village. Many preparations for the ceremony. No businesses open in that village for a week.’
Henry couldn’t believe his bad luck. The prospect of waiting a further week to visit the birdwatching centre was more than unpalatable.
Pak Ketut smiled. ‘Maybe God has brought you here, Mister Henry? You think you have come to see the birds.’ He gestured out to the rice field. ‘But there is a whole world you cannot see. In Bali we call it niskala. These are things that can only be felt in the heart, in the spirit.’
Henry smiled politely, but wasn’t convinced.
‘Maybe you should join the Fearless retreat?’ Pak Ketut continued, motioning to the pamphlet. ‘It will help your public-speaking. In the breaks between sessions, I can take you to see some Balinese birds. There are herons at Petulu, local bird markets. We still have many in the jungle. I know the right places.’
That’s more like it, Henry thought. A local guide was exactly what he needed, until Pusat Burung reopened in a week’s time.
‘I can take you down to reception at nine o’clock if you would like to enrol?’ Pak Ketut offered.
Ordinarily, Henry would have declined the invitation. He’d never been one for personal development courses, but on this first, glorious morning in an exotic environment—on the Island of the Gods, no less—he felt uncharacteristically disposed to try something new. The cost wasn’t prohibitive and, with Pusat Burung closed for the coming week, he didn’t have any alternative plans. Perhaps it would even help him to prepare for the twitcher convention. What harm could it do?
Fearless Page 5
