The thing about going to Bali is that you have to get there. And then, presumably, you have to get home. That travel is the rough part. Well, that and the traffic.
Our drive from northern Bali to the airport in Denpassar is 60 miles. Putu, the driver (not Putu the cook or Putu the random guy I kept meeting on the beach) suggested that we plan on about 5 hours for the drive. Having spent the last 3 weeks in vicious snarls of Balinese traffic, we had no problem agreeing with his suggestion.
In fact, the 60 mile ride only took 4 hours, but when we finally hit the streets of Denpassar, I really started to sweat it that we might actually miss our flight. in the city, we averaged about 2 mph for the final few miles of our drive.
In fact, I opted to skip stopping for a Babi Guling to try to smuggle onto the plane for a mid-flight snack.

We did arrive in time. After saying goodbye to Putu, we headed into the airport which, like most of the rest of the country, seemed hobbled together in a desperate effort to catch up with ever-increasing swarms of tourists and explosive, unregulated growth.
Security involved hoiking our suitcases onto the x-ray machine and then wandering past a guard to collect them on the other side. We discovered, after getting through security that we were actually quite early for our flight. Too early, in fact. We had to leave the check-in area and go back through the wall of security to wait in the main open area of the airport.
The airport, like most public places in Bali, was not air conditioned, so in the blazing, oppressive heat, we decided that our best option was to get some hot, spicy soup for lunch.

As we sat in warm puddles of our own sweat, we looked for things to do in the time we had to wait before we could move to a different area of the airport and continue to wait. I found a sample bottle of Arak in the airport gift store and my mood brightened considerably.

the Balinese airport featured some amenities not found in airports in the west.

When we were finally allowed to go through security, we found that our gate, 6-B, was downstairs in a moldy-smelling lower level of the airport. We sat around for a bit before a lady came to the gate and began setting up signs indicating that the next departing flight was NOT the flight to Singapore that we were taking. I asked her if this was the gate for our flight.
"No. Check the boards," she said, indicating the electronic boards which all said that our flight to Singapore was leaving out of gate 6-B.
As more and more passengers arrived at the gate, they all began checking with one another.
"This is the flight to Singapore, right?"
"Are you going to Singapore?"
If we were in the wrong place, we were all in the wrong place together.
Soon, a security guard came and began rearranging the velvet ropes that they used to cordon off the gate areas. This would become a theme over the next hour or so. Different employees would come and rearrange the ropes to suit his or her particular esthetic design sensibilities.
The airline employees eventually decided that gate 6-B would serve two flights. One to Singapore and the other to Kuala Lumpur. This was never announced. They simply relied on rumor and hearsay to make sure everybody knew.
In addition to watching the constant rope redecorating, I enjoyed watching a kid working at the Circle K who was playing a shooting game on his phone really loudly. He was completely ignoring every person who came to the store to buy something. It was fascinating to the point that Kerri told me to stop staring because I was starting to look like a creepy old man.
Which was a fair assessment, I guess. Especially when I started filming him because I thought it was so refreshing to see an employee who was bold and honest about his contempt for customers. Please enjoy two minutes and watch how this kid just ignores the dude standing right in front of him trying to buy his wares. It warmed my heart in strange ways that I still do not understand.

Eventually, I had to pull myself away from my entertainment because gate 6-B had opened and they were boarding a plane either to Singapore or Kuala Lumpur. It was never announced which. Kerri and I decided that either option was better than sweating in the airport any longer and we'd risk it. We boldly marched through the doors and boarded... a bus.
Which was a bit surprising considering the vast ocean we had to cross to get home.
The bus drove us to our plane, which was, inexplicably, at a gate on the other side of the airport.
Our flight was hot and full. through sheer luck, we wound up with one of the few empty seats next to us. We had booked our flight through Emirate Air and this plane was a different company. Since we had booked through Emirate, they had thoughtfully arranged to have meals provided for us. So, once in the air, about 20 poeple on the flight, including us, got meals while all the other passengers got to watch us eat. It was cute.
The flight was smooth and short and on the descent into Singapore, a crew member made an announcement to gently remind customers that we were flying to Singapore and that the possession of cannabis products in Singapore is occasionally punishable by death.
Yes. Really.
It seems like something they might have announced before takeoff to provide anyone the opportunity to make a discreet trip to the bathroom or at least to quietly hand their bag of weed to the kid working at the Circle K.
The airport in Singapore was huge and spotless. We had to take a shuttle from one gate to another. The bus ride across the airport took 20 minutes. It is a BIG airport.
Once we arrived at our gate, we found that it wasn't, in fact, our gate.
After a few panicky minutes trying to figure things out, Kerri suggested that we ask someone for help.
"But what if they think we have weed?" I whined.
"Why would they think that?" she asked.
When I couldn't think of a good answer, we approached an airport employee who told us that we were about 74 miles away from our gate.
We began the long trek through the airport and finally reached our gate, which was locked up behind thick security bars. Each gate in Singapore has an entirely separate security checkpoint with x-ray machines and body scanners, and politely hostile guards who are sick of your shot before they even see you.
When I put my carry on through the machine, a gentle alarm started honking and a guard politely pulled me aside.
"Oh my god," I hissed to Kerri. "They found my weed! They're going to kill me right here."
"You don't have any weed," Kerri said.
"But what if that kid at the Circle K planted some one me?"
I was very, very tired at this point.
"Seems unlikely," Kerri said before she was yanked out of line by an angry guard who was barking something at her in a language we did not understand.
"See you in prison," I said as we went our separate ways to be tortured and killed.
"Excuse me," a guard said to me, indicating my backpack, which, at this point in our trip, had honestly been through at least 8 security screenings. "Is this your bag?"
"Please don't kill me, dude," I mumbled. "It was that asshole kid st the Circle K."
The guard looked confused, but carried on officiously and politely. "You have a blade in your bag."
"A what?" I asked, perplexed. Because, seriously, that bag had been screened more closely than a supreme court nominee over the course of our trip.
"A blade. A knife, sir. I need to inspect your bag."
I then became an ugly American. "A blade? There's no blade in my bag. I've been through 76 security screenings. How could there possibly be a blade in my bag? Don't you think I'm smart enough to know that you can't..."
And then he pulled a small multi-tool out of my toiletry kit. It had about 1/2" of sharpened edge on it.
"I'm sorry, sir. you cannot take this on the plane."
"What the..." I sighed. "Okay. Toss it in the trash, buddy."
I spent a few meditative minutes repacking my belongings that he had scattered everywhere and remember that Kerri had also been pulled aside for interrogation.
When I found her again, she was fuming.
Kerri has had both knees replaces and, as such, is more machine than human. At lest between her thighs and calves.
"What's up?" I asked her, treading carefully because she was livid.
"I don't know. Some guard just yelled at me for going through the scanner that she told me to go through. Something about my knees an metal."
At that point, the guard returned. "You went through wrong scanner. Why did you go through that one?" she barked at Kerri.
I ducked to avoid collateral damage.
"Because that's the scanner you told me to go through," Kerri said, through gritted teeth.
"But you have metal knees!" the guard said. "You can't go through that one."
"YOU SENT ME THROUGH IT!" Kerri said.
"Be cool , dude," I said. "If they toss you in prison, I'll have to carry both suitcases home. It will hurt my back. Seriously. They kill people here for smoking pot."
The guard huffed and walked off again.
"Screw this," Kerri growled. She pulled on her shoes and walked away from the security area toward the actual gate.
"But, but, but, " I bleated, hopping behind her, "They're going to throw you in prison and kill you."
"At least then I can get some rest," Kerri grumbled, marching away.
I strongly suspect that Kerri is now some sort of international fugitive and I'm trusting all of you to help keep that secret.
After that security delight, we had to show IDs and passports three more times before getting on the plane.
I'm all for security and safety, but maybe simmer down, Singapore.
The flight to Dubai was a brief 6.5 hour jaunt. It was comfortable enough, but we were both exhausted by the time we got there.

We found some recliner seats and tried to get some rest before the powerhouse 13 hour flight from Dubai to Boston. I wound up wandering around for a while. Dubai is so big, it's a bit hard to get your head around. And just as I began to, it was time to board our flight.

Emirate Air does a good job making a 13 hour flight as comfortable as it can be.
Which is not very.
The food is actually very good. They offer free alcohol. The staff is very accommodating and nice. And they pride themselves on having a diverse flight crew from many different countries. In fact, at the beginning of each flight, they announce how many countries the flight crew is from and how many languages they collectively speak. Our final flight had crew from 21 countries speaking 24 languages.
One of the languages was Japanese. When a flight attendant from Japan came through to offer breakfast, she offered omelettes or mblegrumphasmph.
"Excuse me?" I asked. "Omelettes or what?"
I could not understand her.
She consulted the card she held in her hand. "Mblegrumphasmph."
"I'm so sorry," I said, genuinely embarrassed at this point. "I still didn't catch that."
And that's when the Indian dude next to me leaned over and told me that it was a north Indian dish that is commonly served at breakfast.
"Oh, HECK yeah!" I sang. "I don't care what it is. I'm IN! Thank you."
I spent a lovely couple hours chatting with my new friend about India, Indian food, and his travels back and forth between Albany, NY where he lives and Calcutta, where most of his family lives. He made this marathon trip about once a year. Something I cannot even imagine.
We chatted on and off.
We wandered around the airplane.
We watched movies (I especially recommend Apocalypse Clown).
And then, just like magic, we landed in Boston.
And were gifted another opportunity to practice patience in a line of hundreds of people waiting to go through customs.

When we finally got to talk to the customs agent, he took out passports and glanced at them.
"Where are you coming from?" he asked in that particular accent that only people from South Boston can manage.
"Bali."
"Where do you live?"
"New Hampshire."
He looked at me as if that were slightly disappointed in me and waved me by.
Our son, Alex, kindly picked us up at the airport and drive us home where we both flopped in bed and slept for about 12 hours, dreaming dreams of Babi Guling.
We are home.

Today is our last full day in Bali and we're going to squander it drinking and floating in the pool and watching duck parades and battling pirates.
As one does.
I started the day with a walk through the local neighborhood. I have mentioned Balinese traffic many times in this blog, but today, I was caught in a different kind of traffic jam.
A Duck Jam.
There are, as I have also mentioned, duck herders, who transport large flocks of ducks down the roads and along the beaches here in northern Bali. And now, I have video proof, non-believers! 3 very short videos, in fact.

As a bonus, you get to hear my extremely limited grasp of Balinese. The transcript, with translations, for those who care:
Omsuasiastu -  Greetings fellow human who speaks conversational Balinese!
Kenken kabre - How are you?
Babek! - Duck! (Because, really, that's about all I could say at that moment.)

As a side note, you see the duck herder for just a moment in the first short video. Look at the huge smile on his face. That was the usual reaction to being greeted in Balinese. It could have been my pronunciation, but I really think the people are just naturally very friendly and delighted when someone who is clearly not Balinese makes an effort to learn a bit of the language.

The last video shows the traffic jam this caused. I could get used to this sort of traffic jam.

I continued walking for a bit, enjoying the area and the smiling people.

On my way back to the villa, a guy stopped his scooter to chat with me. We had the usual discussion, "Where are you from? How long in Bali?", etc. Then he said,
"You teach me English, I teach you Indonesian!"
I have learned that you do not agree to things like this. You do not say, "Maybe tomorrow." They will come back tomorrow.
So I tried, "Yeah, we're doing great teaching each other right now."
"Okay!" he said, starting up his scooter and heading off. "I see you in the middle."
And he rode off, leaving me in a cloud of dust and confusion.
Meet me in the middle?
As my Australian friends might say, "What the fuck are you talkin' about, mate?"
I continued my walk back to the villa, pondering ducks and how many Bali Bangers I could make with the remaining rum (answer: plenty...). I walked for several minutes and then, rounding a corner, I almost walked into my new friend. He was off his scooter and smiling brightly.
"Shit," I muttered when he took off his backpack and put it on the ground. I knew where this was going.
He pulled out a bright yellow cloth - the same one he had been holding up at the beach wall of the villa a few days before. He unwrapped it to display the same cheap plastic trinkets he had tried to sell me then.
"Very nice! Make good gift!" he said.
"No, thank you. Selamat tinggal."
I walked off an, mercifully, he didn't follow me.
Just outside the villa, I met two guys who I assumed were gardeners at the villa next door.
"Omsuasiatu!" I said.
"Suasiastu," they replied. "Marrrrrrrijuana?"
"No, thanks, Boss," I said cheerily.
I opened the gate and headed into the villa.
We had heard that drugs were rampant in Bali - specifically  'shrooms. We had also read that 1 in 3 people trying to sell them are undercover cops. The penalties for drug possession are steep. Not as steep as Singapore, as we will see tomorrow, though.
I hadn't been offered any drugs in nearly 3 weeks, so, while it wasn't 'shrooms, I really feel like out vacation is complete now.
Once back in the villa, I had one final chance to enjoy the rice farmers next door. They were in their kubus, tooting their plastic trumpets and banging their sheets of metal to keep birds away from the rice. If you listen carefully in the video, you can hear the tooting that was a near constant background sound during the day here.

We did a bit of packing for tomorrow, but spent most of the day just relaxing in the pool and wandering along the beach.

And, as if the day wasn't already magical enough, what did we see while wandering along the beach?

But it got even better! We saw our final duck parade in Bali! I mean, unless one accompanies us to the airport tomorrow, of course. It would probably be difficult to explain at customs, but I'm willing to try if things shake out that way.

After the pirate attack and the duck parade, we were ready for dinner. Kerri had ordered an Indonesian dish called Beef Rendang, which was spicy and delicious.
I ordered grilled fish with Balinese sauce. That was the entire description, so I took a chance.

When Putu brought me the fish, I was slightly startled by its pre-chewed appearance, but it was delicious. The Balinese Sauce that accompanied it was a dangerous shade of red that warns of dire gastrointestinal consequences for any who dare to eat it.
"What is the sauce?" I asked Putu, noting its vaguely fishy aroma with top notes of volcanic, supernova heat.
"Chili, garlic, squid!" she answered brightly.
"Bagus! Suksema!" I said. "Good. Thank you!"
But that was a lie. A terrible, terrible lie.
It was not good. And, while I was very thankful for the meal that Putu prepared, I was not thankful that she presented me with an evil bowl of living pain.
I tried a tiny smear of the sauce on my fish and was immediately transported to a different and terrible universe of fish-flavored pain. The sauce, which I shall now and forever call Lethal Lava Sauce, was a bit warm in the same way that the universe is a bit big or that time is a bit long.
It was a nuclear explosion condensed into a pinpoint of excruciating agony on my tongue.
When my vision cleared and the steam stopped shooting out of all my orifices, I got up off the floor, wiped my running nose, and opted for the sambal mattah, a fresh hot sauce that I've really been enjoying in Bali, primarily because, while it is very hot, it doesn't actively try to kill me by dissolving my esophagus.

We spent the remainder of the evening packing and burping up steaming cloud of squid-scented pain. We took a break to relax and watch our last sunset in Bali, while my tongue and intestines slowly smouldered inside me. Tomorrow, we start the ordeal of heading home.

After yesterday's spicy meals, I spent a relaxing morning conducting a campaign of military-grade firebombing of the toilet. I'm sorry you had to read that, but I'm more sorry that I had to experience it. Will it teach me? Will I still eat tooth-meltingly spicy foods?
Of course I will.
Just, not today.
I had a cup of coffee to douse the flames, read a Dharma talk, and was doing some yoga when Wayan, the gardener arrived. I think he must have thought I was having some sort of medical episode.
"Mr. Marrrrrrrty?"
"Selamat pagi, Mr. Wayan!" I said, untwisting myself from the patio.
He eyeballed me strangely.
"Arrrre you okay?"
"Yoga!" I announced brightly, hopping up and brushing the ants off my butt.
He nodded and let is pass.
We chatted of this and that for a while before he started his work for the day and I started my complete lack of work.
Or so I thought.
I went for a stroll on the beach. While listening to the soothing waves and exploring the new batch of Pepsodent tubes, diapers, and water bottles that had washed ashore overnight, I discovered something amazing.
Just below the high tide line, I found a half exposed nest of turtle eggs.
Since we visited a turtle conservatory for about an hour, I am obviously now a marine biologist and I knew that this was not good.
In fact, I suspected that this could better be classified as Really Bad.
Naturally, I sprang into action and started taking pictures to show Kerri.

I quickly ran back to the villa to get Kerri so we could BOTH take pictures.
"What's up, Mr. Marrrrty?" Wayan asked as I dashed by, picking bits of plastic garbage from between my toes.
"I found a turtle egg nest on the beach!" I yelped.
I took him out to show him. Since he is from Bali, and we were in Bali, he would naturally know what to do in any situation that occurred in Bali.
He looked at the turtle eggs, nodded, and started back toward the villa where he grabbed a maddox and a shovel.
"Are you going to make an omelette?" I asked, my brilliant wit shining through even in this dire emergency situation.
"?"
"The turtle eggs. Are you going to make an omelette?" I asked again.
"Ommm...?" he cocked his head and looked at me as if you might look at a child who is desperately trying to be funny, but is failing so badly that you can't even fake a smile.
My comic genius is lost in translation here.
"Wait!" I said. "I want to get Kerri."
He shrugged and sat in the shade while I raced inside to get Kerri.
We all walked out to the turtle nest together and Wayan began digging a deep hole far above the high tide line. We then carefully dug up all the eggs, put them in a bucket, and relocated them to their new, luxury accommodations.

After they were covered up, Kerri and I celebrated their safe relocation with a Bali Banger in the pool while we awaited our real Balinese massages.
I've never had any sort of massage, so I don't have any frame of reference for comparison. Two women arrived on their scooters and dragged lounge chairs up from the poolside into the shade to serve as massage tables. Since they both had very limited English, I was able to focus almost exclusively on the excruciating pain that my masseuse was inflicting on ever muscle in my entire body. It made it difficult to convey the concept of "You are killing me... please stop..." and, with the notable exception of my ceaseless, piteous whimpering and the occasional rupturing of one of my less vital internal organs, the entire hour-long massage session was almost totally silent.
She poked her thumbs or elbows or some sort of heavy excavation equipment into soft parts of my body and then just kept pushing until she his something hard: a bone, an organ, the lounge chair on the other side of me.
I'd like to say that I was relaxed and felt great after they left, but, in fact, I felt like someone had taken out theor frustrations on me with a ball-peen hammer.
When they finally packed up and went off to hurt other suckers, Kerri said that it is important to drink a lot of fluids after a massage to flush toxins from your body. While my body, as previously noted, had been subject to an inordinate amount of flushing already today, it was decreed that Bali Bangers were imperative to our recovery.

We floated around in the pool and hydrated until Putu arrived to make dinner. She made an amazing noodle dish called Bakmi Goreng and a veggie dish that I love called Gado Gado.
As I went to the table to sit, she pointed. "Where you sit?"
I pointed to the seat I had planned on using and she placed a plate of Bakmi Goreng at my spot. She put another dish of the same food in front of Kerri.
I pointed at mine. "Padass?" ("Spicy?")
She nodded and smiled.
"Scali Padass?" ("Very spicy?")
She nodded again, her smiling widening.
I pointed to Kerri's plate.
"Tedak padass?" ("Not spicy?")
Putu shook her head. "Tedak padass."
My sphincter quivered as I sat.
"Her, Kerri?" I ventured as she picked up her fork.
"Not a chance," she said. "Enjoy your burning butthole, tough guy."
And I will.
Dinner was delicious and, mercifully, not as hot as last night's nuclear option. We assumed that she was going to make a serving of each meal for us to share, but she made two of each and, again, there was way too much food.
I brought an untouched plate back into the villa after dinner and wrapped it up to put it in the fridge for breakfast.
Putu suggested we could have it for lunch and kindly cancelled the lunch order we had already placed for tomorrow.
We spent a quiet evening trying to wash the massage oil off ourselves.
Tomorrow is our last full day in Bali and we intend on enjoying it to the fullest.

Today started with yoga, meditation, coffee, and a swim.
Today ended with fire shooting out of my butthole.

Our plan was to take a drive to Pura Ulan Danu Beratan, a temple on the shores of Lake Beratan. To prevent any possible mix-ups, I took a screenshot to show Putu the driver. In fact, I took two.

Putu arrived early, as usual. He had Wayan's mother with him, which was less usual, but very pleasant. We were never told (or, more likely, I never understood) her name, so I will call her Mrs. Wayan's Mom. She was a charming old lady, perched in the passenger seat up front. She was dressed up in a vibrant red dress, looking for all the world like my little Italian step-Grandmother.
I smiled and greeted her in Balinese. "Rahajeng semeng. Ken-ken kabare?" (Good morning. How are you?)
She smiled and stared blankly at me.
"She only speak Bahasa," Putu explained.
"Salmat pagi!" I said. "Apa kabar?"
Her face lit up with a glorious smile.
"Baik! Baik! Apa kabar?" (Good! Good! How are you?)
"Baik, suksema." (Good, thank you.)
And, with that, I was pretty much a spent force. Telling her that I like spicy food or asking her where the bathroom was seemed oddly inappropriate for the drive.
We hadn't met anyone in Bali who didn't speak Balinese, but she smiled hugely every time I was able to force a balinese word into the conversation. I was a bit flattered that she told Putu that my accent was good and she was surprised I'd only been speaking Bahasa for 3 weeks. But now that I consider it, she could have told him that I smelled like a hot fish fart and that when I talk I sound like someone who'd eaten too much durian and then suffered a traumatic brain injury.
I'll never know...
Balinese people, as I have mentioned, genuinely want to know about the people they meet. Age, interests, family, home. It's all good. And when Putu told us that the wizened, crinkled old lady in the car with us was 60 years old, Kerri and I both gasped a bit.
She's 7 years older than us.
She looked ancient.
She still had a big, bright smile and shiny, alert eyes. On closer inspection, I thought that maybe it was just a hard life lived primarily outdoors. She was doing all right.
All along the drive, we kept seeing long bamboo poles that had pegs of bamboo hammered into the sides of them. They were piled along the sides of road in several places. We honestly must have passed 200 of these ladders along the drive. They build them right on the side of the road.

Putu explained that they were ladders that farmer build and use to gather cloves, which are common in this part of Bali.

As we made our way to her village to drop her off, Putu stopped at a scenic overlook so we could see Twin Lakes, two gorgeous lakes (hence the clever name) nestled in a valley surrounded by lush green jungle.
And people selling cheap plastic crap, cashews, and, in a distinct change for the worse, one hawker offering the golden opportunity to have your photo taken with his:

1. Giant python
2. Giant fruit bat
3. Giant iguana

Aside from the small bats and the luwaks, we haven't come into too much contact with Balinese fauna. Kerri, who has a near pathological fear of snakes, handled herself quite well considering that she was within 100 miles of a huge python. She didn't cry OR pass out.
"Do people swim in the lakes?" I asked Putu.
"No," he said sadly. "Too dirty."
And that is Bali in a nutshell.
Gorgeous from a distance, but full of snakes, typhoid, and used diapers up close.

We continued along our way to drop off Mrs. Wayan's Mom. The drive took us along a serpentine road with gorgeous views of mountains, rice terraces, lush jungles, and at least 8,372 shops selling Babi Gueling and 1 liter bottles of gasoline. Maybe it doubles as a dipping sauce?
I'll never know.
With smiles and a few words of Bahasa, wee dropped Mrs. Wayan's Mom off at the local market in her village and continued our drive to the temple, which was... odd.
Gorgeous, to be sure.
But very, very odd.
The parking lot of the temple was full of tour busses, which is always a bad sign in my opinion. Tour busses mean tourists. Tourists mean crowds. Crowds mean dozens and dozens of Instagram people crowding each other out to get photos of themselves.
This temple was the strangest temple/amusement park hybrid I could possibly have imagined.
All the temples we've visited are real, active temples where locals go to pray and have religious ceremonies. All have welcomed tourists warmly and they all have areas that are off limits to tourists.
None, before today, had included gelato stands, a food court, paddle boats shaped like ducks, or places where you can rent "Real Balinese Cloths" that you can wear to pose in front of a theater style mock-up of the spirit gate located at the entrance to the temple. It was the Indonesian version of the "Olde Tyme Wild West Photos" that you can get a a certain sort of low-end amusement park in the US.
The line of Instagram people lined up for photos at the real spirit gate was long.
The line at the fake spirit gate was much, much longer.
I will never understand people.
But I don't need to. They were happy. I was happy. All was well.
There was an absolutely stunning temple with 11 roofs located on a small island about 20' off shore. This is the temple that appears in all the tourist information about Pura Ulun Danu Beratan. It was stunning, but, as it was an active temple, it was off limits.
Almost as wonderful as the temple were the dozens of Instagram People who had set up elaborate photo shoots everywhere there was room.

We made our way through the sweating throngs of Instagram People toward the food court where I was about to learn a hard lesson in pride.
Kerri ordered nasi goreng (rice) and I got mei goreng (noodles). The food was really, really inexpensive. Even by Balinese standards.
That possibly should have served as a warning.
"Medium or hot?" the waitress asked.
Kerri looked at me meaningfully.
The fact that mild wasn't even an option should have served as an additional  warning.
It did not. Not to me, at least.
"Saya sakar padas!" (I like spicy!) I said happily.
And stupidly.
I would live to regret those words.

My noodles were ferociously hot and I suspected that awful, terrible things were in store for my digestive tract soon.
If I survived, which I wasn't looking forward to. Kerri offered me some of her drink, but, fearing that it would simply turn to steam in my guts and kill me in a huge gas explosion, I merely whimpered and whined for a few hours.

We pushed our way through the ever thickening crowds of Instagram People and found Putu in the parking lot.

I asked him to please take us to Pepito's, the tourist grocery store, as I was in desperate need of Arak, juice, and Happitos. If my intestines are going to kill me, and they definitely want to, I'm going to fill them with alcohol-based deliciousness on my way out. Perhaps the drink will serve as an offering to the gut gods and they will simply let me be engulfed in flames and die quickly.

Back at the villa, we swam and I worked hard to prevent my insides from turning to a charred lump of intestinal lava. Arak, a high proof alcohol, seemed ideally suited to dousing the flames and by the time Komang and Putu (the cook; not the driver) came to make dinner, I was ready for it!

Kerri gently reminded me that we had ordered separate meals yesterday and that I had ordered mine spicy.

"Bring it," I said, tossing back another Bali Banger.
"You are sleeping outside tonight," Kerri warned. "If you poop the bed, we'll get a bad review on Airbnb."
"Pfffft, " I said, eating a delicate forkful of the hottest food I have ever eaten in my life.
"Are you okay?" Kerri asked as tendrils of smoke swirled from my nostrils.
I wiped the tears from my eyes and nodded.
"Fine," I mumbled through my swollen lips.
All my hard work withe the Arak was undone and I was a quivering wreck by the end of the meal.
I loved it.

After we ate, I asked Putu about the prodigious amount of spice that Balinese people enjoy.
"If you made that at home, would it be that spicy?" I whimpered.
Putu laughed and shook her head no. "No! No! No!"
So, I was tougher than a Balinese person? Oh yeah, baby! I'm the champ! I...
"I used 5 chilis in yours," she continued. "At home, for family, I use 20."
I cannot imagine the money they must spend repairing the melted toilets in their homes.

After dinner, we sat up on the balcony to watch the sunset. Hundreds of bats swarmed, flitted and danced around us, darting between us and all around us. I tried to ward them off with my fire-breath, but my aim was off. I spent the evening gulping water and sweating from my Balinese dinner which, it turns out, was like the kids' meal for the locals.

Tomorrow, if I am still alive, we will be having real Balinese massages.

Today was intended to be a short day of sightseeing. We were supposed to see The Sleeping Buddha, a huge stone statue of, you probably already figured this out, a sleeping Buddha. It's located at a temple called Vihara Dharma Giri.
Try to remember that for a moment.
Bali is roughly 80% Hindu and 20% Muslim. There are a smattering of Buddhists and we were told that the particular Hinduism practiced by most Balinese people is heavily infused with Buddhist influence. The two blend together quite harmoniously.
I was eager to see the sleeping Buddha statue. After a morning of yoga, coffee, a swim, and a short meditation, Putu arrived 20 minutes early to take us to see that statue, which my GPS said was about 48 minutes away.
Putu, as usual, arrived about 20 minutes early, but we were ready for it this time. Better luck next time, buddy.

We hopped in Putu's van and headed off. We have realized that his constant muttering under his breath isn't prayer or exasperation as we had been guessing. I really paid attention today and realized that he was practicing phrases we had just used or he was practicing what he was about to say to us in English. I laughed when I realized this, as I have been doing the exact same thing on this trip - practicing phrases that I want to say properly.
We chatted for the 48 minute drive, which, surprisingly ended after 20 minutes, when Putu pulled into a parking lot and announced, "Here!"
We were, of course, here. Because that's the only place we can ever be.
The problem was, the here where we were wasn't the here where we had planned on being.
The large sign on the front of the temple said "Brahamavihara Arama", not "Vihara Dharma Giri".
"Sleeping Buddha?" I asked him.
He nodded. "Yes. Here."
I shrugged and we went in to buy tickets. I showed the girl selling the tickets the name of the Sleeping Buddha Temple on my phone. "Here?" I asked.
She shook her head. "No. Not here. This Brahamavihara Arama."
She spoke to Putu briefly in Bahasa and he turned bright red. He apologized profusely for taking us to the wrong Buddhist temple.
"Tidak apa apa!" I told him. No problem.
I love this phrase. It literally translates as "No what what" which seems to perfectly express the idea is no problem.
In fact, we were delighted by the mistake. The temple was a popular one that many visitors to the villa want to see, so it was a natural mistake for Putu to make. And we are so happy he did.
Brahamavihara Arama was a highlight of the trip for both of us. It was a gorgeous temple compound with elaborate statuary and gorgeous gardens. It was nearly deserted and we had a great time exploring and sweating.
It was brutally hot; a fact driven home when an Australian guy walked past me and pointed at my arms.
"Fuck, mate. You know it's hot when your fuckin' forearms are sweating like that."
Yes. My forearms were just as sweaty as the rest of me. It was fuckin' hot.

Everything about he place was stunning.
Except my sweaty forearms.
From there, we drove to the Sleeping Buddha, depite the fact that the first temple had their own tiny Sleeping Buddha. Did you see it in those photos? It's there.
Putu thought it would take about an hour and a half to get to the Sleeping Buddha. It actually took about 50 minutes, which was nice. Unlike the urban sprawl of south Bali, north Bali is quiet and lush and absolutely gorgeous. While there wasn't much traffic, the roads are all small and winding so you really can't get anywhere in a hurry.
Fortunately, we weren't in a hurry. We enjoyed the beautiful scenery until Putu announced that we had arrived.

Vihara Dharma Giri was a very small temple, perched atop a big cliff. There was a large meditation shrine that we were not allowed to enter, a small gazebo, and a large open terrace that held the sleeping Buddha.
At a leisurely stroll, we explored the entire place in 10 minutes.
It was beautiful and tiny.
Except for that Buddha. It was HUGE!

It was small but beautiful.
On our way out, I decided that I'd like to use the bathroom before leaving.
It was my first real Asian style bathroom and it was a new and exciting experience.

Throughout our trip, we have been vary careful to be as respectful of local customs, culture, and traditions as much as we are able. Many places ask you to remove your shoes, which we have done.
This bathroom made a similar request and, karma be damned, I left my shoes on because... ew.
When we hopped back in Putu's van, he pointed to a warung across the street.
"Lunch?" he asked.
Kerri and I looked at the small, filthy shack where greasy glass cases were heaped with wads of something that could, conceivably, be consumed.
But not by us.
I thought desperately for a way to tactfully explain that I'd rather lick the bathroom in the Buddhist temple than eat at that warung.
"Umm...." I mumbled. "Maybe someplace more... ummm... touristy?"
Words I never thought would come out of my mouth, prompted by fear of what might go into my mouth.
""Yes," he agreed eventually. "Too much bacteria for you, maybe."
"Maybe," I said, not adding that it was also probably also too much bacteria for your average dung beetle.
We went to a small, strange seaside resort with tables overlooking the beach.
A family we had seen at the fist temple were there having lunch. Their adult daughter was cavorting with the stray dogs that were roaming around the beach and the restaurant. The food was delicious and contained just the right amount of bacteria for me.

From there, we headed back to the villa.
Wayan the gardener was there. As usual, he greeted us warmly and we chatted for a while. He asked about our plans for tomorrow and we explained that we were planning on going to a different temple on a lake.
Wayan asked if we would mind picking up his mother and delivering her to her village on the way.
"Tadik apa apa!"
No problem.
His mother had been visiting his daughter in the hospital, where she was being treated for Typhus.
He was delighted that we agreed to bring his mother home and, to celebrate, he got me on a Facetime call with his wife, his mother, and his daughter from her hospital room.
It wasn't weird at all.
"Hi. I'm.... uhhh... sorry you have Typhoid Fever."
Seriously. What could I say?
Kerri and I swam until Puto 2.0 and Komang came to make dinner.
Komang brought her daughter again. She is such a sweet little kid.
We played with her out by the pool. I drew with her and got the impression she had never held a pencil before, but I don't know. It was delightful fun with her even though we can't really talk at all.

While we were playing with her, a guy came up to the fence along the beach and started waving wildly. "Come see! Come see! Look at this from the sea!"
He held up something that might have been a giant shell of some sort.
After nearly 3 weeks here, I should have known better, but I wandered over to the fence.
The thing which could have been a shell was, in fact, a big rag that was wrapped around an assortment of cheap plastic crap from China. "From the sea!" he repeated.
"No, thank you," I said, walking away.
"Maybe tomorrow?"
"No. Suksema. Selamat souri."
Thank you. Good evening.
He protested as I walked away, but he eventually wandered off.
Dinner was a spectacular beef stir fry and chicken in a coconut milk sauce. It was incredible.
I still can't get used to being served like this. They do everything to prepare the food then hang around while we eat and then clean everything up.
We watched a cauldron of bats (isn't that a great collective noun?) spiraling next to the house as the sun went down and then enjoyed another gorgeous sunset.

Tomorrow, we transport Grandma and, hopefully, get to the correct temple.

My phone tells me that today is Father's Day. I'm spending it, quite literally, as far away from my kids as I possibly could while remaining on Earth. Not that I don't want to be with my kids - it's just that they wouldn't fit in our carry-on luggage, so...

Today was another great, lazy pool day. Before Kerri got up, I enjoyed a beautiful sunrise and saw just how busy the beach is in the early morning hours.

I went for a walk back through the rice fields toward the main road where Wayan had taken me yesterday on his motorbike. It was a lovely walk. This rice field right next to the villa was almost ready for harvesting. Here's a 15 second video. In it, you can see a small hut, called a kubu. The farmers use them as a place to rest while planting the rice. When preparing to harvest it, they spend the day in these, scaring off birds. This farmer has installed a comically elaborate system of string, poles, and sheets of thin metal. When birds land in his field, he toots a toy horn and pulls one of dozens of strings to shake a sheet of metal near the birds to frighten them off. It's wild. This is the view over the fence, just off the driveway of our villa.

And while we're at it, I got a few more photos of the villa itself. It's not too shabby.

The walk to the main road was a bit less than a mile and took me past all sorts of people and places.

I greeted everyone I met in Balinese and was richly rewarded with smiles and conversation.
I passed one guy, who was sweeping out his warung so he could begin his long day of poisoning people with bacteria-riddled food. Balinese people are genuinely curious to get to know new people. They ask a lot of questions. Typically:

1. Where are you from?
2. Is this your first time in Bali?
3. How long will you stay?
4. Are you here with  your family?

These are pretty standard "getting to know you" questions from my limited experience. This guy went off script almost immediately after that, though. I told him we were staying at Villa Lumba Lumba at the end of the beach road.

"I live on beach road!" this guy said excitedly. "House with lemon tree in front. You know it? With lemon tree on left, not right. Mine on the left! Maybe later you stop by? We have coffee and talk. Now I have to get ready for work. Meatballs! You like meatballs?"

I smiled and said that I loved meatballs, fearing that he may take a fetid, rancid meatball from yesterday out of his pocket and offer it to me. Mercifully, he did not. I didn't see any sign of meat or refrigeration anywhere in the small space he was sweeping out. I would gleefully and peacefully starve to death before risking street food here, despite how genuinely nice the people are. They have iron gastronomic constitutions that my underdeveloped western digestion can only admire in shocked awe.

Walking back toward the villa, I saw my new friend Putu again. This isn't Putu the cook or Putu the driver. This is Putu, the random guy from the beach I met yesterday. Just so we're clear on the Putu situation. When he saw me walking and thought I was heading to the market, he offered me a ride on his scooter. It was kind, but I've had my one 2-wheeled adventure in Bali. I don't think Balinese people have a concept of "just going for a walk". They don't seem to walk for the sake of walking. Probably for very smart reasons of not wanting to be killed by traffic or sweating to death in the 275% humidity here.

When I got back to the villa, having narrowly escaped meatball poisoning, Wayan was there with the guy who was going to fix the WiFi. Wayan told me that his daughter is in the hospital with Typhus. I felt awful that he was here on his day off with a sick daughter, but he was all smiles and gracious kindness.

They fixed the WiFi and Kerri and I had potato chips and Bali Bangers in the pool for lunch because were are adults, dammit.

After lunch, we went for a walk on the beach so Kerri could look for sea glass. I'm sorry to report that it was spectacularly easy to find glass. And plastic. And cloth. And every sort of litter you can imagine. Wayan's daughter with Typhoid was in the forefront of my mind as we picked our way over the trash-covered sand. I made a game out of it. A game I called "Come to Bali with Nothing."
Here's how you play: You come to Bali with nothing. You have to survive exclusively on things you find washed up on the beach. Can you survive?

And then... WE WON THE GAME!!

Maybe this guy was going to get his motorbike warung and set up a shop selling Sandy Dead Fish or some other local delicacy. We could have a gourmet seafood dinner and survive in style for many many years on the trash we found on the beach each day. It was honestly heartbreaking.

As we continued our walk, another duck herder walked by, leading his quacking cargo. I have no idea where they come from or where they go, but that mystery makes the experience even more enjoyable for me. After the duck herder, we met Putu.
Again.
This is the same Putu from before; not any of the other ones.
It turns out he's a gardener at one of the other villas. Our villa is obscenely huge, but compared to the 5 or 6 others along the beach, it's a modest shack. We chatted with Putu for a few cheery moments before heading back to the villa for a dinner of leftovers dumped over cheap ramen noodles. It wasn't as fancy as the Sandy Dead Fish we could have had if Kerri wasn't always going on about basic food hygiene, but it was fine.
After dinner, we went to the upstairs deck and watched one of the most beautiful sunsets I've ever seen. The sun was nearly crimson as it sank behind steely gray clouds, backlit by the glowing orange sky.

Tomorrow, we're visiting The Sleeping Buddha.

Last night, I had a hard time sleeping. Bali, unsurprisingly, is very hot. The house we are currently renting is very big. And it takes a lot of time to cool a hunk of house like this down. Fortunately, today is a nothing day.
This is the location we saved for the end of our trip so we could relax a bit more and chill out after 2 weeks of sight-seeing. This house is near Lovina, on the north shore of Bali and it's absolutely spectacular. It's excessive. I know. It's absurdly big, but is, in fact, the smallest of a row of about 6 villas along the beach.
The villa has 2 cooks, a gardener, a driver, and a night security guard. We were assured that the area was safe and the guard was there "just in case of emergency". I believe it. There hasn't been a moment in Bali where either of us has felt unsafe in any way.
And we have the entire place to ourselves for less than the price of a room at a cheap motel at home.
Let's take a photo tour of the place, shall we?

The house and grounds are spectacular, but some of the interior decorating choices are a bit... ummm... unexpected.

This morning, Komang, a second cook, came to make us a complimentary welcome breakfast. Komang, like Putu last night, is delightful. Her English is very limited (but still better than my Balinese or Bahasa), so we manage with signs, gestures, and interpretive dance. It's fun.
She made us toast, a fried egg, scrambled eggs, and an assortment of fresh fruit. It wasn't the Balinese breakfast of my dreams, but it was a good start to the day.
There was a big Bluetooth speaker in the house that wasn't charged. I couldn't find a charging cable. When I mentioned this to Komang, she got the gardener, named Wayan, of course.
He is a small guy with a huge smile. He's incredibly gregarious and kind. He hopped on his motorbike and zipped off to a store to buy a new charging cable for the speaker. It was not necessary, but the people in Bali are disarmingly, beautifully nice.
I went for a short walk on the beach after breakfast and greeted a local walking by. As usual, he stopped and we chatted for a bit. His name... can you guess?
Putu. We've obviously hit a hot local Putu market at this house.
He told me he was happy to practice his English  and we had a lovely chat as the waves washed endless loads of trash onto the sand around our feet.
Kerri and I hopped in the pool and floated around until Komang came back to make us lunch. When we asked about arranging meals for tomorrow, she looked horrified.
"No staff," she said. "Sunday is day off."
We had been told that there would be a substitute evening guard, but we didn't consider that the entire staff took the day off.
"Okay," we said. "No problem."
Komang was upset about the mix-up and offered to come in and cook for us on her day off.
"No way!"we told her. "Thank you, but no. We can cook."
There was a convenience store about a mile away and I decided to walk there and try my hand at more ramen noodle goodness.
The problem was that we had arrived after dark, in the rain, and I didn't really have a good sense of how to get there. We have also made this entire trip without cell service on our phones. We have relied on wifi, which has been fine, but wouldn't serve me well if I needed to use my GPS. I took a screenshot of the most accurate map I could find and prepared to head off into the world to buy noodles.

As I was walking toward the gate, Wayan arrived on his motorbike. He works in the morning, then goes home for a couple hours, and comes back in the afternoon.
"Where going?" he asked.
Wayan's English is also pretty sketchy.
"Store," I said. "Food for tomorrow."
"Store?" he asked. He used his fingers to indicate walking. "Walk?"
I nodded enthusiastically. "Walk. Big adventure!"
He shook his head. "Far."
He patted the seat of his motorbike. "Ride."
I have seen the scooters and motorbikes all over Bali weaving in and out of the traffic with reckless abandon.
"Do you have a helmet for me?" I asked, as he strapped his back on.
"No."
So I found myself clutching the back of his motorbike, squeezing my knees around his waist like we were professional wrestlers yelling, "Slow! Please!"
He popped out on the main street and I watched the convenience store I was heading to zip past as we drove down the road.
"Whelp," I thought, "This is where he takes me to a warehouse and the sell me for parts. I wish my last breakfast had been better."
But, of course, he didn't.
We weren't in the warehouse district.
He took me to a local grocery store that was much more geared toward locals. I got what we needed for the next day (Ramen noodles and an onion and a carrot, in case you're interested), zipped it in my backpack and hopped back on the motorbike.
On the ride back, Wayan did his best to point out different kinds of trees and tell me a bit about the area, but I was focused on not falling off the bike and was, as a result, less than attentive to the lesson.

Kerri and I spent the day bobbing in the pool and drinking Bali Bangers. As we floated, a lady came up to the wall of the yard, a dozen yards from the pool.
"Hello? Hello? Where you from?"
The people are very, very friendly.
"America."
"Oh! I love America. You want to buy very nice sarong?"
Lord, the vendors have followed us here. Next, she'll be whipping out a 36" carved wooden penis and waving it at us, begging us to buy it.
"No, thank you."
"I have sun dress. You want dress?"
"I assume she's talking to you," I told Kerri.
"This is all yours, buddy," Kerri said, sipping her drink and floating away.
"What your name?"
"Marty."
"You want a hat, Marrrrrrtyy?"
I pointed to the hat on my head. "All set. Thank you. Good bye."
"Maybe tomorrow?"
We learned the hard way that if you say yes, maybe tomorrow, they will, in fact return.
"No."
As she was shoving her wares back in the giant bundle she carried, another lady came up and stood next to her. Our new visitor had a giant garbage bag on her head. She started pulling things out to sell us.
"No thank you," I called.
"Oh my god! No? Oh my god. You come to Bali and no help me? Oh my god!"
I was sort of in awe. It was the first rude person I'd met in Bali.
"Goodbye," I called. As the two women walked away, a man came up and began trying to sell us more souvenirs.
I sort of thought we'd be free of that here.
I didn't respond to him and he soon wandered away.
Later, Komang came back to make dinner. She brought her daughter, Terri, with her. Terri was a delightful, smiling 5 year old who shook our hands in greeting and then danced and laughed all afternoon. She was smitten with Kerri (who wouldn't be?) and they played while Komang cooked.
After dinner, we swam, lounged in the gazebo, and watched a man walk down the beach herding a flock of maybe 100 ducks along the beach.
Why?
I have no idea, but my face hurt from smiling watching him shoo them along with a long pole.
As we settled in for the night, the wifi went out.
It woun't have been a huge problem if we had cell service, but that wifi was our only connection with anything outside the villa. Robin, the night guard, called Dyna, the house manager for me and she assured us it would be fixed tomorrow.
We shall see...

Today, we said goodbye to the endless stream of different German guys smoking and coughing in their underpants on the balconies around us. No. They weren't coughing into their underpants. You know what I meant. Don't be silly.
We were heading north!
The trip from Nusa Dua, where we have spent the last week, to Lovina, where we will spend our last week in Bali is 60-70 miles. Without stops, it would be safe to plan on 4-5 hours to make that trip because of traffic and the fact that most roads in Bali look, from above, like a piece of cooked spaghetti tossed on a carpet.
The driver who picked us up to bring us to our Airbnb was named Putu. We had asked for an 11:00 pick up and he told us he had left his home at 6:00 to make sure he arrived in time. Putu was the oldest driver we've had (maybe 55?). Like all the other drivers, he was very nice and had limited English, though certainly enough so that we could have a fun, if occasionally baffling, conversation.
He is also, by far, the most aggressive driver we've had in Bali, passing and honking at other drivers with gleeful abandon. Unlike American lunatics, the drivers in Bali pass and honk with no animosity. They are just filling available spaces and, somehow, it works.
Our first stop was a water temple that was only a slight detour from our route. As we wound our way north through the center of the island, I watched with growing alarm as the fuel gauge dropped from the quarter tank he had when he picked us up, to conspicuously below the dreaded E. I mentioned it in a smooth, casual way, as if he maybe just hadn't noticed that we were coasting on fumes.
"Do you need to stop for petrol?"
"Later."
Once we got north of Ubud, the traffic lessened considerably, as did the opportunities to buy petrol. We drove a serpentine path through thick, lush jungles, along the tops of high ridges overlooking deep, green valleys, and, as with everywhere else in Bali, each hairpin turn revealed another thrilling surprise in the road.
Maybe there's a small child splashing in a puddle.
Maybe there is a flock of wild dogs languidly stretched out across the street.
Maybe there's a huge dump truck full of black sand barreling toward you on the wrong side of the road.
Maybe it's a topless old lady with a huge bundle of banana leaves on her head.
Yes. We saw all of those many, many times. The only one I managed to photograph was the huge pile of stones dropped in the road just after a sharp corner. The topless old ladies are surprisingly hard to photograph.
Or so I've been told.
The pile of rocks was certainly for some future repair project involving rickety bamboo scaffolding and workers in flip flops juggling flaming chainsaws or something.

We dodged everything Bali threw in our path and, with -4 gallons of gas in the tank, pulled into the parking lot for Gunung Kawi Sebatu Temple, which was amazing.
The temple; not the parking lot. Don't be silly.
The temple (and the parking lot) were set deeply in a lush, verdant jungle valley. It was beautiful and, once again, almost devoid of tourists, which was lovely. We had time to stroll around and really appreciate the gorgeously ornate architecture.

I'm still uncertain of what makes some temples popular tourist destinations. The ones that seem the most crowded are, invariably, ones I enjoy less than the crowded ones. Not because of the crowds (okay, yes, because of the crowds, but mostly I find that the quiet ones are just prettier).
The Balinese people are very devout in their religion, but they are very welcoming to visitors as well. They do make money from tourists, which they share with the village where the temple is located. Putu explained that the villages, as a whole, collect and save the money they earn from tourist destinations and then use it to help villagers.
"Your house burned down? Okay. Here's a bunch of the village's money. Rebuild and pay us back whenever you can; if you can."
They truly live the concept of it taking a village and it's beautiful.
They also welcome visitors because they are proud of the temples and happy to share them with people. All they ask is that you be respectful and you will be very welcomed. Again, it's such a contrast to much of the attitudes about space and privacy that we commonly experience in America, it's really delightful.
As was the rest of the temple. So here are more photos for you to enjoy.

I love how ornately detailed everything is, right down to the stones that form the walking paths. I wanted to photograph the largest of the sacred pools, but there were people using it and it's considered rude to photograph people purifying themselves.

This temple also had a koi pond with some of the biggest koi I have ever seen. They were easily 36 inches long. It was like a pool full of golden whales.

All those koi made me hungry so we found our new Putu and headed up the street to a very swanky resort for lunch. I got tuna with sambal mattah and a drink made from lemongrass, ginger, and lemon. It was easily the best restaurant meal we've had so far. Kerri got very brave and tried a burrito.
Balinese people have a shaky concept of Mexican food, but she enjoyed it because it was 100% fish-free and did not actively hurt her face with insane levels of chili that Balinese people are so very fond of.
After lunch, we hopped back into Putu's van and continued to test the limits of how far it could drive along mountainous roads with no fuel at all.
"Don't you want to stop for some petrol?" I asked again, trying hard to keep the panicky quaver out of my voice.
"Later, later," he murmured.
"Okay," I said, "You're the boss."
He will also be the one walking to buy an Absolut bottle of petrol if we run out of gas.
We passed through a lot of farm land where they were growing coffee, peppers, melons, oranges, and bananas.
This is probably the best video I got of what it is actually like to sit in the passenger seat and drive in Bali. Life is lived very close to the road here and I know the first little bit is a bit dizzying, but the video is like 2 minutes long. If you stick with it and don't barf on your screen, the views are incredible.

We drove through small villages and eventually found ourselves in a dense tourist area with incredible views of Mt. Batur, another volcano on the island. The tourist areas are easy to identify. in addition to the obvious tourists, the shacks that might be selling babi gueling or gado gado are replaced by upscale restaurants with names like Montana and Cowboy Burger, both of which, I am sad to report, are totally real.
I'm sorry, world.
We made our way up the crowded, Westernized street and passed a gas station. I silently hoped that Putu would pull in.
He didn't.
He drove on before suddenly pulling into a parking lot a few hundred yards up the road.
"Petrol," he announced.
I breathed a sigh of relief. He turned around and headed back toward the gas station, and drove right past it.
"But first, picture!" he said brightly.
He pulled into a parking lot of a restaurant with a huge balcony overlooking Mt. Batur.
"Go in and take photo," he said. "Don't get caught."
I did.
And I didn't.

Putu did, finally, splurge on a few liters of gas. Now, with less than a quarter of a tank, we resumed our ride toward the norther coast, still more than two hours away.

It was a mostly beautiful ride. The landscape was amazing. It's sad to see the conditions that so many of the locals live in, though.
When we finally arrived in Lovina, we stopped at a local supermarket called Pepito's that was clearly designed for the tourists. It had a lot of western and Japanese food, including Happitos!
Yay!
They will pair marvelously with the fruit and juice and rum I also bought.
The villa we're staying in is called Villa Lumba Lumba. As with BoSofie, we turned off the main road and the road got smaller and smaller as we wound through rice fields and eventually ended up at the villa, which was spectacular.
We were greeted by another Putu, this one a delightful young lady with a huge smile and a loud laugh. She was one of the two cooks at the villa and was eager to show us around.
It did not disappoint.Putu made us a complimentary welcome dinner of Nasi Goreng and Chicken Satay, which was amazing.When we were done eating, she cleaned up and headed out for the night.We dropped into bed to rest up for a big day of lounging by the pool tomorrow.

We have been trying for several days to go to the turtle conservancy. It just hasn't worked out. Until today, baby.
Kadek picked us up at the resort and we headed out to see some turtles and, if our luck held out, maybe to adopt one.
I'm thinking that we can bring it home and train it to make us delicious Arak-based cocktails. Maybe it can deliver them to us and then go make more. I was very excited about this possibility and eager to ask about the training process when our tour began.
We arrived at the conservancy and were paired up with a lovely young volunteer from Argentina who told us more facts about turtles than we had ever even considered were factually possible.

Fact #1. Turtles cannot mix Arak-based cocktails.

Fact #2. No, sir. Turtles cannot make rum-based beverages, either.

Honestly, I tuned out a bit after learning that and had to rely on Kerri to fill me in on the rest of the facts. I spent my time being sullen and far, far less enthusiastic about adopting a turtle than I had been.

Fact #3. Turtles kind of suck.

Kerri tells me that this is actually not a fact, but an opinion. She is wrong. If a turtle can't make me a cocktail; it sucks.

Fact #4. A turtle's sex is determined by the temperature of the sand that the egg sits in while it is incubating. Higher temperatures make female turtles.

Fact #5. The climate crisis is raising the temperature of the sand on beaches all over the world.

Fact #6. Almost all turtles hatching in the wild are female.

Fact #7. All female turtles means no more baby turtles.

At the conservancy, they have incubators set to lower temperatures to try to assure that some of the turtles are born male. After they are born, the turtles are placed in a small box with sand in it. The turtles walk across the sand because:

Fact #8. When turtles walk across the sand, it scrapes off their placenta.

Fact #9. Ew.

Once again, Kerri is wrong. "Ew" is not an opinion. Scraping Placenta, while an excellent name for a Deathcore band, is, objectively, "Ew".

We enjoyed our tour and then were offered a chance to adopt a turtle.
"Pffft," I scoffed. "No Arak-based cocktails? Not even a simple rum-based drink? Hard pass. Turtles suck."
As I was scoffing, Kerri was filling out paperwork and adopting a turtle.

They give you a half of a coconut shell and you scoop out the turtle that you want to adopt. Kerri picked out the livliest, feistiest little guy and scooped him into the coconut bowl. All the other ones are, I assume, fed to sharks for the amusement of tourists.

We named out turtle Lil' Kadek, after our driver, Kadek. I carried him out to Kadek, who was making new friends with the other drivers. I introduced him and told him that we named our turtle Lil' Kadek after him.
Honestly, he just seemed confused by the entire thing, but he rolled with it.

We thought that was the end of it, that we paid to get a certificate naming our turtle Lil' Kadek and that the conservancy got a few bucks. But no! There was more. So much more!

"After you choose a turtle, the shuttle will take you to the marina where you will get on a boat and release the turtle into the ocean," the lady behind the desk explained when I asked her what I was supposed to do with this bowl of cold turtle soup I was walking around with.

Oh. Hell. Yes.

And, if you're wondering if there is video evidence of Lil' Kadek's release, there is.

The water where we released Lil' Kadek was about 15' deep and crystal clear. The boat driver showed us where they were farming coral to help repopulate reefs that have been devastated by climate change and pollution. We passed a lot of small shacks floating on 55 gallon drums. They were fishing rafts where locals smoked, fished, and generally hung out in the shade, like fishermen all over the universe. We also passed huge ships that looked eerily like pirate ships. It turns out that they are actually floating Airbnbs, which was pretty cool.

Our next planned visits were to Taman Ujung and Tirta Gangga, two temples that we were eager to explore. The farther we got from Denpassar, the less traffic there was  and the prettier the scenery became. Okay. I know. It's not pretty yet, but it will get pretty. I promise.

As we drove to the first temple, we passed a building that had an airplane mounted on top.
"Restaurant," Kadek murmured. "You want to eat lunch in an airplane?"
He was clearly very excited by the opportunity.
"Absolutely!" we said.
And that's how we found ourselves eating Sambal Matah pizza near an airplane. Not exactly in it.

My pizza  gave me a lot of insight about how not to make a Sambal Mattah pizza and we will never speak of it again, please. After lunch, we headed off for the temples. The drive up the east coast of Bali was really beautiful. If you've ever wondered what it looks like to sit in the passenger seat and drive for 1 minute and 57 seconds in Bali, have I got a treat for you.

The 40 minute drive to Taman Ujung took about 90 minutes, but it was a gorgeous drive through rice fields, jungles, mountains, and monkey clusters which, I realize, sounds like another great band name, or, possibly, a candy bar.
"New Monkey Clusters! Now with 26% more monkey in every bite!"
Maybe not.
There was an oddly specific area where there were a LOT of monkeys along the side of the road. So many, in fact, that a new temple had been built in the area. It was, sadly, not called Monkey Cluster Temple. It was still under construction, but I imagine that in a year or so, it will be swarming with tourists all losing their hats, glasses, and phones to monkeys.

The road was also lined with dozens and dozens of women, all sitting about 20 yards apart from one another, all selling fish from big plastic buckets.

Who would buy fish from women selling it out of buckets, you may wonder.

We also saw people selling 1 liter bottles that looked exactly like the petrol bottles for sale all over the island, but the liquid inside was a hazy yellow color.
"What is that?" I asked Kadek.
He explained that it is a drink called Tuwak. It's homemade moonshine distilled from coconuts.
"You do not drink that, okay?" he warned. "Very dangerous for you."
I'm glad he was so concerned for our safety, but the warning was completely unnecessary. The idea of buying coconut moonshine from a fishmonger on the side of the road hadn't actually crossed my mind.
Until then...

As we talked with Kadek about our plans for the day, which may now include Tuwak, he said that Tirta Gangga would probably be very crowded. We were done with very crowded, so we opted to visit Taman Ujung and call it a day.
"Is Taman Ujung very pretty?" I asked Kadek.
He thought for a moment.
"Nahhhh."
I suspect he thought I was asking if it would be crowded because Taman Ujung was absolutely stunning.
And, as a wonderful bonus, almost completely free from any other tourists.
Photo dump of Taman Ujung:

I'm not going to include explanations. Just enjoy the beauty of the place. Or don't.
After exploring and enjoying Taman Ujung, we headed back to the resort for our last night in Nusa Dua.
Tomorrow, we head to Lovina on the northern coast of Bali for our last week here.
Everyone tells us that it's very quiet there.
We're really looking forward to it.
Maybe there will be Tuwak for sale along the way...

Today Kadek was scheduled to pick us up at 9, so we were sure to be ready when he actually arrived at 8:30. He had planned out a route for the several things we wanted to do today, ostensibly to avoid traffic which, in Bali, is akin to trying to avoid getting wet while swimming.
Or first stop was "The Big Statue", so named because it is, indeed, a BIG statue. It's actually the most noticeable landmark when you land at the airport, though it's actually many miles away from the airport. I mean, it's massive.
We arrived at GWK Cultural Park (where the statue is located) very early and, mercifully, ahead of any crowds. This would prove to be in direct contradistinction to the end of our day, which we shared with 73.6 million other people on monkey-infested cliff overlooking the ocean.
The Cultural Park is a surreal place. The bedrock of the entire area has been carved away so I suspect that from the sky, the area looks like a giant checkerboard. You walk through man-made alleys with 50' sheer stone cliffs on every side of you.
It's stunning.

The big statue lives up to its name. I mean, that thing is huge. It's a massive statue of Lord Vishnu riding on a huge eagle. Kadek explained that several people had died during its construction because "construction isn't very safe in Bali", which should get some sort of understatement of the millennium award. I've seen people welding in flip flops with no eye protection, running huge stone cutting saws dressed the same way, and hanging precariously off cartoonishly unstable scaffolding, high above the ground. To hear that people had died during the construction of this statue is sad, but inevitable.

Inside the base of the statue is a museum with about 2 dozen glass cases containing sculptures of the Hindu pantheon. They were made by a variety of artists with varying and eclectic artistic sensibilities and levels of ability. Kadek gave us a really fascinating overview of what each statue represented. I won't even try to relate it here, primarily because I was totally distracted by a small group of employees who were valiantly trying to remove some sort of rodent from the base under one of the sculptures. Please just enjoy the visuals.

While recovering from the sculptures, we explored the exquisite grounds of the cultural park, which included mock-ups of The Big Statue as well as several other fun statues and beautiful temples. And, of course, Instagram people.

After exiting through the gift shop, we headed off to Tanah Lot Temple, which we were very excited to see. We stopped for lunch at a quiet restaurant set in rice fields. I had Gado Gado, which is tempeh, tofu, vegetables, and peanut sauce.

We also got to enjoy the elaborate intricacies of the Balinese electrical grid on our drive. It's really quite incredible.

Tanah Lot Temple was absolutely amazing. It is a series of many temples, all set along the dramatic cliffs of the Indian Ocean. We wandered through narrow pathways lined with vendors selling wooden penises and watched the waves crash gloriously on the cliffs. In one memorable moment, we also saw the waves crash on a group of old ladies posing for an Instagrammy photo in front of the barriers that clearly warned of high water and dangerous tides. A spectacular wave thundered in and sent them scattering and shrieking. it was wonderfully amusing.
For me.
Not them.
In fact they didn't seem very amused at all.

For as crowded as the entrance to the temple complex was, most of it was really lovely and not crowded at all. It was a huge area that was delightful to explore. When we were done, we met Kadek, who was making new friends in the parking lot. We headed off to our final stop for the day, Uluwatu Temple, where we will fight off monkeys and watch a Kachak fire dance. We were supposed to go to the turtle conservancy, but opted to postpone that because of the traffic. I know I keep harping about it, but it is just amazing.

Pura Uluwatu is a seaside temple known for gorgeous sunsets, fiercely aggressive monkeys, and the Kechak fire dance that they perform there in an open-air amphitheater. It was 26 miles from Tanah Lot to Uluwatu and the drive took over 2 hours. We were exhausted when we arrived, we hadn't had dinner, and sadly, I have no idea how to properly prepare monkey.
We finally found a parking spot and Kadek graciously ran ahead to buy us tickets for the dance while we bought tickets for the temple itself. He found us again and handed us tickets. "Your show starts at 7," he explained. "You should get in line by 6:30."
Wise words, Kadek. Wise words.
The temple at sunset, as promised, was spectacular.
Here are some photos, including my behind-the-scenes "carefully cropped" and "actual view" photo comparisons.

Everything - absolutely everything you read about Uluwatu temple warns you about the aggressive monkeys. They will steal phones, hats, food, and glasses off your face. The entire evening was punctuated by shrieks and screams of people who did not heed the warnings, engaged with the monkeys, and got their stuff stolen. It was delightful.
At about 6:30 we got into line for the dance. Soon, we were smooshed in with hundreds and hundreds of people, all gently pressing inexorably forward toward the gates. That were closed. We stood there, a solid, sweating, throbbing mass of humanity for over 30 minutes. Occasionally, shrill shrieks and screams would alert us to monkey activity in the area and we would watch as people tried in vain to get back their personal belongings.
Monkeys, you may be surprised to learn, do not respond to pleading in any language. I suspect they have a thriving black market operating where they sell stolen hats, glasses, and electronics.

Soon, but not soon enough, the gates opened and, as the Australians might say, people lost their fuckin' minds. There was a general stampeding rush into the amphitheater as if there were a pack of wild monkeys chasing people and stealing their phones. Kerri and I avoided any serious bodily injury and managed to score some great seats on the floor level right next to the stage.
And that's how I wound up dancing with a Barong a short time later.
The entire dance was amazing.
It started with a group of men coming out and chanting  "Chek! Chek! Chek!" in layered polyrythms. That's how the dance gets its name.

It was really amazing. If you don't believe me check out how fascinated the lady next to me was:

The dance was really fun. The audience was not. I have to bitch a bit here. As a guy that basically presents to people for a living, I've seen a startling decline in audience behavior over the past few years, but the people here were awful.
Many of them had loud conversations throughout the entire performance. And at the end, many, many people started getting up before it was actually over, I assume, to avoid a line getting out.
The only way out, though, was across the stage. Where the performers were still performing. I actually saw one guy go up to a dancer, WHO WAS STILL DANCING AND SINGING, and throw his arm around him so his wife could take a photo. It was jaw-droppingly rude.
I know. I know. It was a beautiful place and the performance was incredible and I should focus on that, but wow, people. Just be cool.
When it actually ended, we found Kadek and, perhaps because so many people left early, we got out of the parking lot with no trouble.
The 12 mile ride back to the resort took over an hour because of traffic, but we got there safely and, after a healthy dinner of sweet crackers and Biscoff spread, we dropped into bed, exhausted.
Tomorrow, we will finally get to see those turtles.
I hope.