The Island of a Thousand Temples.

I know that there are many far and diverse parts of the world that I have never visited; the sweeping savanna of sub-Saharan Africa, the dense and endless jungles of South America, there is even much of Europe that I still want to discover. But I think I can safely say that there is nowhere like Southeast Asia. This is the fourth country I have visited in this part of the world and, so far, I have yet to be anywhere approaching disappointed. Beautiful countryside, beautiful buildings, beautiful people. These countries are at once frenetic and hectic while simultaneously being serene and restful. I feel safe waking around here, sometimes even more so than I do at home. And as with anywhere, there is always so much to see.

I stand in the queue waiting to get my visa, the security guard tells us that the queue is three hours long and that if we want to get seen quicker we need to pay him. I estimate the queue to be about forty-five minutes and kindly decline. I am mildly concerned that I will make it to the end only to be cast out of the country on the next possible plane. Tourist visas here last for thirty days, and in some places you are required to show proof of an outbound flight within that time period. I have an outbound fight, but in fifty nine days time. I have heard that there are ways, possibly underhand, of extending said visa to sixty days, and if that fails I plan on hopping over to Singapore for a day or two when this visa expires and getting another thirty days upon my return. I just need to get into the country first.

There is a brief panic about an abandoned bag in the queue, but it turns out it belongs to an elderly couple who don't want to carry it as they snake back and forth across the room when they could just shove it under the barrier into the next section each time they pass. I vaguely consider what I would do if I get turned away. Probably try again in a few days time armed with a flight to Singapore, but who knows.
The immigration officer barely looks at me as he fixes the visa in my passport. I step into Bali, Indonesia, and find a man holding a sign with my name on it.

We drive for an hour or so through the night, the streets of Denpasar glowing as only streets in Asia do; lit by the headlights of countless scooters, lined with statues and temples in proudly illuminated grandeur. We turn away from any form of major road and make our way down into less well kept dirt tracks, here everything is dark, save for the odd light marking exposed houses. We pull in and I step through a gate to find a small gathering of people chatting and laughing, relaxing with a couple of beers after a hard days work.
Tasha, the owner, welcomes me and introduces me to everyone: a couple of her friends, a fellow volunteer, and a few Indonesians from Java who live here and work for Tasha. We sit and chat and have a wonderful dinner from a stall just down the road. Then I am taken to where I'll be sleeping, in a lovely bamboo hut on another piece of land a short drive away (Tasha is in the middle of a move) and I swiftly fall asleep, exhausted.

Zahara Urban Farm is a bizarre and fascinating place, and just now is quite different to how I would imagine it is normally. It is in no way a farm, but that doesn't really matter. What it is, I think, is a place where Tasha teaches sustainable living and, primarily, cob building. Cob is a material that has used by humankind since pre-historic times and it can be found spread across the whole world; from the UK (primarily the south-west: Cornwall, Devon, Wales) to Africa, the Middle East, the U.S and New Zealand. Traditional English cob is made from clay heavy soil, sand, straw and water. It is strong, cheap, fireproof and highly resistant to seismic activity, the buildings are easy to keep warm in the winter and easy to keep cool in the summer, and it is currently undergoing a resurgence in the natural building and sustainability movement.
Z.U.F. is also the permanent home of Tasha, her daughter, and the five Javanese she employs, and currently the entire project is being moved from one location to another due to the land owner's refusal to renew the lease; they want the land back, I don't know why. This process involves moving everything from the old land to the new, and I mean everything. The houses, right down to the foundations, are being dismantled and rebuilt; trees are being uprooted and re-planted; sacks are filled with soil, sticks or stones and piled onto a truck. Nothing is wasted.

I awake the next morning to a tiger above my head and Ganesha by my side. I get up and have a look around. On the new land there is already a large two storied bamboo house where the family and the workers will sleep temporarily, and a small bamboo hut with two beds where I sleep. The rest of the land is filled with piles upon piles of building materials. I find a tiny hut packed with boxes of kitchen-ware. Around the land are rice paddies, green and fertile.
I head over to the old land and spend that day shoveling broken tiles off the ground into sacks, they are going to be used to create a mosaic floor in the new house. The main building here, a sturdy and attractive two story house, has yet to be taken down. I can't really see how that's going to happen, let alone the other buildings still dotting around.
That afternoon I am taken to get an Indonesian sim card, and witness many questionable products at the shop as I do so, then I practise driving Tasha's scooter on the dirt roads around her house and the many houses and warehouses surrounding it. Slightly nervous at first and with traumatic memories of my first time on one in Vietnam I decide not to get my own quite yet.

My bed.

Dismantling the old land.

The new land.

The latest iCherry. Seems legit.

The next day, after spending all morning moving rocks from one place to another, I give the bike another go and drive to the new land and back. The roads here, although completely mental, are nothing compared to the roads in Vietnam. Roads in Asia in general are crazy and hilarious. Entire families ride around on a single scooter, followed by people with so much luggage on theirs that they take up half the road. Men and wmen carry around crates, fridges and cows (dead or sedated) to name but a few, and it works. It's the cars that cause the problems. And every country has its place on the scale of madness, with Vietnam undoubtedly at the peak. Indonesia, or at least Bali, is quite high up, and yet it feels like going for a relaxing stroll in comparison.
I decide to go for it and get a scooter for my time here, I will spend less and see more, and walking around on these pavement-less streets is the real way to get in an accident. And beyond that, it's fun. That's one great thing about Tasha, if you need something she knows how to get it. Kai gets delivered right to the door within half an hour and we instantly hit it off.

Two French girls who are just staying for a night arrive and we take a drive down to the beach. The waves are large and powerful as they crash against the dark sand. We stroll along the shore and stop for some, exceedingly large, coconuts. The coconut water is fresh and refreshing while the slippery interior that I greedily spoon out is simply divine.
Tiny crabs build complexes around the small dark holes that mark the entrances to their underground caverns. Some build ever expanding rings, some great fans, they appear almost to be temples, or labyrinths, dedicated to some ancient being long beyond our recall.
The sun sets and the world is repeated in the shining sand that stretches before us. Every so often a great wave comes washing far across the beach, well beyond the reaches of its feeble counterparts, and leaves a surface that is as smooth as polished silver and as reflective as the clearest mirror. From the dark line of the sea a burst of gold spreads up and down, fading into fiery orange, bright peach and soft apricot. Clouds are drawn with pastel against a deepening blue sky, and repeated against the deepening blue sand. Then the sun gloriously descends beneath the horizon, revelling in the might of its own performance; the clouds turn dark, encasing a smouldering band of embers from above and below. The light fades and the embers catch fire. Colours bloom though the sky once more, it is like the sunrise at Uluru in reverse, the flame that hovers just above the horizon grows and spreads until the sky is one great spectrum. And then the encroaching dark slowly begins to squeeze the light away, and darkness descends.

Those tan lines though.

The next day my only task is to look after a puppy that we rescued from the side of the road, while Tasha takes her model daughter to a photo-shoot. I take the dog to the beach in a box on the back of my scooter feeling like a proper local, and she plays in the sand while I wonder why all work isn't this fun. That evening three American girls arrive and we instantly hit it off, though it may just be because I am carrying the world'd tiniest dog. They are travelling north to Ubud, home of yoga, for a few days and in a few days and I decide I'll follow them. One of Tasha's friends owns some bungalows by the beach on the East Coast and I manage to arrange a place there helping out in the garden in a weeks time.
We spend another day moving piles of rocks and piles of wood and piles of tiles, it is hard and hot, but at the end we feel well worked and can clearly see the progress we have made. We discover an unbelievable bakery just down the road and treat ourselves to their all you can eat breakfast. Every morning. Honestly, if you could taste these pastries.

In the evenings we sit around with beer and discussion while sorting or unpacking boxes. Tasha, it quickly becomes apparent, is mental. She is kind, friendly, helpful, fun, and completely crazy. And she has had one of the strangest upbringings I've ever heard. Born in New York, her mother was a designer who became famous for putting leopard print on clothes and moved in circles with the likes of Jimi Hendrix. Then her mother sold her brand for thirty million dollars and moved to Bali where she has spent the last thirty years or so spending it all. Tasha herself has spent a lot of her life working as a designer too, but since becoming interested in sustainable building has invested all her time and money in this project, spending a couple of months each year working in the clubs of the great cities of the world to fund it.

The Americans leave but the work goes on. It never stops here just now because the deadline is so tight. Tasha rarely goes to bed before two in the morning, and four is more common, and she'll be up again by eight or nine the next day. I prefer to work during the days and have my evenings free, so I spend a couple of days helping the guys dismantle the top floor of the house before I leave to follow the Americans to Ubud. Mostly I pull nails from beams while they clamber around on an ever thinning frame. Despite being monotonous there are moments of fun mainly involving making friends with people whom you can't communicate with verbally, and being made to take endless selfies with them.
On my last morning I attend 'International No Diet Day' at the bakery; an all you can eat spread of cakes and pastries. I eat so much I can barely make myself clamber onto my bike, but clamber I must. I bid farewell to Tasha, swap some music with Zahara (the name of the daughter as well as the farm), and promise to return. Now that I think about it I have to return as my passport is currently at Tasha's travel agent getting amended with a sixty day visa. I handed it to him the day before, at night, on the edge of a dark road. It was all very legit.
With that cheerful thought Kai and I hit the road, bound for Ubud.

Unfortunately I don't have time to visit this club. Right next door: 'Dix'

Boonga.

 Standard (delicious) lunch.

Standard (delicious) breakfast, plate one.

The journey is a mixture of busy city and relaxed country. Nothing is too stressful, people actually pay attention to the rules when you're on the big roads and the small roads are quiet enough that it doesn't matter. I take a slightly less direct route that leads me though wide fields, bright green and dotted with hunched workers in wide brimmed wicker hats.
I arrive in Ubud, feeling triumphant, and reward myself to a beer in the nearest cafe. Just as I am wondering how I am meant to contact my friends two of them walk past and I yell at them excitedly. I end up getting a room in their hostel, just down from their own.
I say hostel. Here a very common way of getting accommodation is in a thing called a 'homestay'. It's effectively a bed and breakfast, though much more enjoyable. Thin stone pathways wind back from the street, bedecked in greenery and ornamental stonework then open out to small gardens surrounded by intricate and ornate wooden doors. My particular door has a large stone porch that looks more fir for a temple than a bedroom, and before it a passion-fruit vine grows, laden with heavy fruit the colour of plums. I am told I can help myself to any that are ripe. I do.
That evening we go out for tea then head to bed early. I get up in the morning to watch the sunrise from the roof. Considering I have already described more of these things than anyone needs to read about I will, this time, refrain, save to say that it was very impressive and that the sun rose from behind Mt Agung; an active volcano and the highest point on Bali.

On the way into our home.

Through my window.

After returning to bed for a nap we all head to a forest on the outskirts of Ubud that contains many a monkey and, of course, a temple. We have heard many many stories about these monkeys and their ferocity, their thievery and their tenacity. We take as little as possible and clutch onto these few possessions with a death grip.
The monkeys seem alright and  none of them so much as look at me. They are everywhere though, and you are never quite sure if they are sneaking around behind you to get out of the way or to launch a surprise attack.
The forest is of course beautiful. I pass between two elephants and descend a long stone staircase to a temple surrounding a giant fig tree. I haven't seen one of these since my East Coast Australia travels in October and I had forgotten just how impressive they could be. Although no doubt not as large or magnificent as the Cathedral Fig or the Curtain Fig from those travels the location of this tree adds something that neither of them had.
The temple looks almost as if it had been built to honour the towering giant in its midst. Ancient pools and alters overlook a deep canyon and a swift flowing stream, a bridge arcs up and over to the heights beyond, but all is dwarfed by the fig in the centre. Great sweeping tendrils hang in the air over the whole scene, and the sky is lost in an endless criss cross of roots and vines. Great curtains trail just above my head, greedily stretching to the ground where they will undo rock and stone, and turn a temple to dust. It is a lost world, an abandoned relic of an old war between man and nature.
From there we proceed to the 'main' temple; less wild, less impressive, more monkeys. I gaze through a closed gate and across an empty courtyard and wonder what hidden secrets can be found behind the enticing red gateway at the far side. The tips of concealed shrines poke from above the carven wall.
We have an unfortunate experience where a lone monkey waves menacingly at one of my friends and we make a swift exit.

From there we head to a place called Goa Gajah; more temples, more forest. The highlight of this place (besides having to wear a sarong which is far too much fun!) is what is known as the 'Elephant Cave'. The outside of this cave is extravagantly carved to look like the gaping maw of a great demon with a mane made up of countless creatures and figures. Before it is a bathing temple, only uncovered abut sixty years ago, and within it is a short dark corridor ending in a dimly lit shrine. Alone and within its depths I feel like I am intruding, I don't stay long.
We spend a few hours exploring the forest trails through temples, along cliffs and under trees. At one point we come to a beautiful river flowing between great boulders towards and past us. The path continues across a bridge made from three lengths of bamboo that have been lashed together and placed over the churning waters exactly where the river flows fastest. We decline the crossing and turn around.
At one point we are directed out of the forest by a local who wanted to guide us to a nearby temple that she claims is the biggest in the area. We assure her we don't need a guide so she points us in the right direction and we head off, scrambling up a hill. She seems fairly convinced that we will get lost and tells us than when we return not having found it, she will happily guide us there. We soon come to a village and, before turning the direction instructed, ask a man passing on the scooter. He points in the opposite direction from what we were told, we follow his advice and about three minutes later find the temple, a lush courtyard of green edged by high orange walls and even higher towers and gateways. Groups of priests in white robes stand around chatting and we quickly slip in and out, not wanting to intrude.

Look at that leaf!!

!!

The next day I explore Ubud itself. It is a town of art galleries and book shops. And amazing restaurants. We discover a place called the Melting Wok, run by an exceedingly nice French lady, and every day of our stay at least one of us finds a way in, sometimes more than once. The mains are local and fantastic, the desserts and French and fantastic. You can always trust the French to cook good food, even, apparently, if it isn't French food.
From the rooftop Ubud is a field of green and orange, tiled roofs poking up between trees, and in the background are the ever present volcanoes.

While two of the Americans try to plan their life the third one, Sarah, and I head off on Kai for further sightseeing. She injured her foot, possibly breaking a toe, the day I arrived and can barely walk. We drive north until I see a sign for some rice terraces and pull in. To one side the land drops away then swiftly rises again in manicured tiers. Twisting bands of emerald and jade wind around the hills. We descend into them and climb the far side. Small golden fields are surrounded by darker mossy grasses and then the deep olive of the trees. I run out of words for shades of green, and I promised myself I wouldn't use the word 'verdant' in this post.

Meat cleaver anyone?

We continue to a temple, perhaps the most peaceful I have been to yet. It is a complex of turquoise pools and shaded gardens. Chickens scratch and cluck at the ground and there is barely a tourist in sight. The clear water of the sacred pond is so blue I can barely resist throwing myself in to join the hordes of fish lazily drifting just below its surface.

From there we head to our final temple of the day. Once again I take the scenic route. We pass some locals who yell something at us as we pass, 'go carefully' or perhaps 'go slowly', we continue on. The road we come to is simultaneously the steepest and the most pot-holed road I have ever seen in my life. Half way up, engine at full throttle, it becomes apparent that poor Kai is at the end of his tether and has no hope of carrying us both up. Sarah dives off the back and yells at me to leave her and get out while I still can. Without the extra weight we struggle to the crest of the hill. Sarah limps her way along behind me.
This last temple I am pretty sure was just built to keep the truckloads of Japanese tourists away from all the other, real, temples. It is busy and bland. There is a rather attractive sacred spring, but you can't even approach it without a local in traditional dress trying to coerce you into joining the lengthy line of tourists waiting to take a dip, for a fee of course. It's odd, everywhere else I have been, if a place is considered sacred then tourists aren't allowed inside it at all.

Just before 'the ascent' all is calm and peaceful.

How I managed a photo with no one (obviously) in it I have no idea.

That evening we have a final meal in the Melting Wok and leave to a retinue of waiters who all want to wish us farewell individually. We work our way down the line, feeling like the queen, do the French double kiss with the owner at the end then head out into the night with much waving and well-wishing.
In the morning the three of them head to Lombok, the island to the east of Bali. We plan on meeting up again in Denpasar in a couple of weeks for their final night in Indonesia, if I am nearby. And then it is time for me too to leave. My next port of call is this delightful sounding guest-house by the sea, backdropped by mountains.

I don't know how long I will stay there, it depends on how much I enjoy it. But there are many things I want to do on Bali and Lombok and further afield, and sometimes two months really doesn't feel like that long. But I am taking things at a relaxed pace, and for once I have no plans set in stone. I can go where I like, whenever I want. With Kai I have endless freedom. And I like it.