The End of Fasting

 In retrospect, I probably could have planned it all a little better, but honestly, when I asked around, everyone said it was very unlikely that Hari Raya, the end of the fasting month, would be celebrated before Monday. So I didn't bother to factor the celebrations into our trip and instead booked a bed in K.K. for Saturday night. And yes, in retrospect this might be seen as tempting fate. So I guess it shouldn't have come as a surprise when the young guy in the stall at the night market mentioned that he was heading home as soon as he could shut up his stall, to prepare for the two days of feasting that would start in the morning. The problem was that we were meant to be driving south east in the morning, a 3-hour journey to a village called Nabawan. Instead, I found myself having to accept two invitations in Ranau, resulting in a 2.5-hour detour home, then a 3-hour drive south to Nabawan.

There's a lovely custom in Malaysia called the "open house." These happen around religious festivals - Christmas, Lunar New Year, and, of course, Hari Raya, the king of them all, the Muslim celebration of the end of Ramadhan. People literally open their houses on a set day, put out loads of food and a stack of chairs, and then simply welcome every single person from their extended family, their village, their kids' school, and every other possible source of vague acquaintances. Sometimes they even get an orang putih or two. Because Hari Raya isn't set until the new moon is sighted, people will invite you to their open house on either the first or second day of feasting, or perhaps a later day during the official week of holiday. This year, the moon was sighted on Saturday, so the invitation I'd received from my friend, which I'd expected to be for Monday, when I couldn't possibly attend, suddenly became Sunday, when I could. So I dutifully responded to Suryati's invitation, and when another arrived from one of my teachers, I said yes to that too. 

And thus it was that on Sunday morning, after a restless night of celebratory fireworks, Aurelia's first journey in Sabah was up into the mountain range to little Ranau. Dropping in at home for a short time, we met Lungkiam and Othman leaving for their niece's open house, so we joined them for that. After an acceptable amount of time and food, we said our goodbyes and drove onwards to Suryati's house to coo over her gorgeous newborn baby girl and laugh with teachers from my village school about finding a Malay husband. More food. More dirty jokes. Ah, a day in the life... Suryati's beautiful children and husband were dressed in brand new Hari Raya clothes in coordinating colours and I had to ask them to pose for a photograph before I left. This unfortunately meant that I had to give baby Nur Qisya back...

Then we travelled out to Lohan Village where one of my headmasters was holding court at his enormous house. More food. Sweets. Coffee.

We joined one of my teachers here who was visiting all her colleagues on one long day, together with two other teachers from the same school, and their families. All Christians, but still made so welcome by their Muslim hosts.

From the headmaster, we went to the deputy head's house, a beautiful blue wooden house on stilts. As we walked up, I saw her husband preparing to greet us, and, realising from the clothing and beard that he was a strict Muslim, had to hurriedly whisper to Aurelia, "Don't offer your hand until he offers his!" He didn't, and she didn't, and it was all fine. He welcomed us into his home with a gracious dip of his head. We ate some more food, a lovely curry this time.

And then, of course, because I'd eaten at the headmaster and the deputy head's homes, I couldn't leave before also visiting the home of the head of the afternoon school, so off we went down the road to one last house.

And it really did have to be one last house, as it was by now an hour and a half after my deadline for leaving Ranau. Well-fed-and-watered, we finally set off on the road south, arriving at the house of a very patient colleague well after dark. Her village - little Nabawan - is the last stop before Tawau, a city on the east coast. Between the two lie nearly 300 kilometres of road, most of it untarred and straight through rainforest.

Nunuk Ragang

As I've said before, Sabah is one big melting pot of ethnicities, which makes for an interesting cultural calendar. Usually I'm restricted by work from driving off to various festivities, but this weekend it was the turn of the local tribe, and in addition, the festival was being organised and promoted by none other than the lovely Dr Othman, who owns the homestay where I live. The local people are part of the Dusun tribe - or the Kadazandusun, depending on who you speak to. The Kadazan and the Dusun are often lumped together, linguistically and culturally, and the only real difference is that the former live along the rivers, and the latter in the mountains. Most of my schools are entirely Dusun - although a few Malays and Chinese live in the town, once you get a few kilometres outside, it becomes very homogeneous. 

So. The Kadazandusun. They're a lovely people with a rich cultural heritage. Unfortunately, because it was an entirely oral tradition, much of this heritage has been lost, and the few scraps they have left today are being frantically collated and rescued, a lot of it by my Dr Othman, who is not just an ex-MP for the district, but also a leader amongst the Dusun.

What we know: the Nunuk Ragang was a legendary and magnificent ficus tree, the centre of a civilisation that stretched across the northern half of Borneo. It appears in a number of stories across the many sub-ethnic Kadazandusun tribes, and is seen as the last time that they all formed one civilisation together, before branching off to build villages in far-flung corners of the rainforest. It was the foundation of their traditional beliefs, which were illustrated by the position of the tree at the meeting of three rivers - the point where the Kogibangan (Left) and Kawananan (Right) Rivers blended to form the Liwogu (Deep Calm) River. The belief system was based on a symbiosis between various opposites - life and death, light and darkness, seen and unseen, and of course, good and evil spirits. It also saw the importance of living in harmony with the environment, the two sides, human and environmental, both living, coming together to form a calmness of the soul. And they lived in and around a big tree. Stop me if you've heard this one before... perhaps James Cameron once paid a visit to this humble corner of the world? If so, there's one thing he forgot to include in his environmental lecture, the third of the sixteen Respectful Observances for the Dusun people: pantang kaparaian, or "respect for rice." Okay, so perhaps uniquely Asian then...

So we arrived at the site, my orang putih colleague and I, shaking hands left and right as usual, various strangers calling out to us, "Welcome to Sabah!" in smiley voices. We quickly located Dr Othman and greeted his group of distinguished colleagues (all of them known by the Malay honorific Datuk, or Sir), but he was so busy that we soon left him to it. The first part of the ceremony began soon afterward: the high priest and priestess arrived. Dressed in gorgeous traditional fabrics and headcoverings, and draped in silver jewellery, they posed for a few pictures with politicians and organisers, the centre of attention in this religious ceremony.

We left them to their paparazzi for a bit. Further on down the parade route that the priest and priestess would take were school groups and a few adults playing gongs and executing some pretty impressive dance moves.

Children dancing for the priest and priestess

A warrior stood by, laughing; when he saw me take aim with my camera he immediately struck his Serious Pose and waited for me to photograph him. I think about three pangolins probably died for his costume, which makes it my first sighting of the elusive and endangered Sunda pangolin... It was a very impressive costume, though.

One warrior, one pangolin.

I also managed to spot my first bird of paradise, which was nice.

Gong musicians taking a break to gawk at the procession

These musicians weren't the only spectators - hundreds of people had walked over from the surrounding villages and towns, and even different provinces. They watched from the top of the monument, from down on the ground with us, and from in amongst the trees, wherever they could find a space.

Traditional fabrics for some, Western blouses for others

The priest and priestess slowly moved up towards the monument. Every ten metres or so, they had to stop to listen to the gongs, or the drums, or the flutes, or to shake their bracelets. It was a very musical day (and I mean this sincerely - Sabahan people have an ear for a tune). One very talented little boy leapt around before them in leather and pangolin, bellowing and waving a machete and shield.

Inside the monument, which is a concrete mock-up of the legendary tree, the priest and priestess and their young initiates took turns singing to the tribal chief (who also happens to be the Deputy Chief Minister of all of Sabah).

Of course then we had looooooots of photos with everyone of importance - this is Dr Othman (L) with the chief (R) and the local Member of Parliament in the middle.

As we left, it being around 35 degrees, we just about managed to catch a deep blue glimpse of the distant Mount Kinabalu peeking through the clouds that usually develop over Borneo in the afternoon. It was a nice link between the two sacred places of the Kadazandusun culture - the source of life and shelter, and the place of the dead. More on that ghostly mountain coming soon... (shhh...)

Birthday Celebrations

Last weekend, Ranau played host to Sabah's Wesak celebration. This was quite an honour, as it hasn't been celebrated in Sabah since the 1980s; the precise date and place was determined by Chinese astrologers (in combination, says the cynical side of me, with the commercial need to have it on a weekend in a large town...) and Ranau came out best. The Chinese Buddhist temple has been undergoing a thorough spring cleaning over the past month or so, and on Saturday night it looked radiant. Temples in Sabah pale in comparison with the richly painted Korean temples, and are mere toddlers in the scheme of things - I believe this one dates back a few decades, while some of the Korean ones I visited were centuries old. But Ranau's temple has some beautiful paintings inside, and on the outside some impressive statues, and it's kept spotlessly bright and cheerful by volunteers. And I like the way that it stands at the top of a very short street that also accommodates an Anglican church and the town mosque. We watched the parade standing across the road from the mosque, and were thus constantly reminded of the balance between the national religion and others.

So. Wesak Day. Wesak Day is also known as Buddha's Birthday, and it's generally a public holiday across most of Asia, time for Buddhists to meditate on his teachings and life.

In Ranau it was time for a great big assault on the senses - incense, drums, shouting, whistles, bright neon lights all had their parts to play. The Lion Dance made another appearance too; they leapt and growled and shook at the front of each section of the procession.

In the heat of the late afternoon, the dancers took it in turns. When not dancing, they took over as musicians, still dressed in the lions' legs. The pink pom-poms on toes were particularly appealing.

The noise was astounding - Fiona and I had to shout to each other to be heard sometimes over the drums and tambourines and whistles. 

The parade began at sunset with various groups from across Sabah walking down the hill. A lot of them were elderly Chinese men with huge banners proclaiming their origins, who laughed and pointed at us and called out "Welcome to Malaysia!" Other groups were young, wearing Buddha costumes and carrying flags on bamboo poles.

The flags, intricately embroidered with dragons and flowers, were entirely in the lucky colours of reds and oranges, and they absorbed and enhanced the colours of the setting sun. 

As the darkness settled, the celebrations became more intense and religious. There were men walking down the street, seemingly in the grip of seizures, each one surrounded by three more men, holding their arms out, confining the babbling, gesticulating man. This was a more Malaysian version of Buddha's Birthday, and not one I saw in Korea. The central man calls down the spirits, the gods, into his body. They thrash around, using his bamboo whip to lash out at human beings. The three guards are preventing the gods from escaping and wreaking havoc on the town. The procession makes a full circle through the town to keep the balance and to symbolically close the loop of protection that is created by allowing the gods to have their way for a few short hours.

Some groups bore wooden boxes in the shape of temples, lit up in chains of neon lights. The boxes were rocking wildly; the young Buddha was inside, playing, and messing with his carriers. 

Sometimes he made his carriers shoot off out of the procession, careering madly around the roundabout, handily situated at the bottom of the street.

After the procession had made its way around town, we walked up to the temple and sat for a while at the courtyard fountain. Although this was a strictly Chinese Buddhist celebration, there were all sorts of onlookers - kids still in school uniform, elderly women in Malay sarongs, Catholic nuns, and most of Fiona and my students and teachers - walking from A to B took a looooong time as we stopped to chat and say hello.

Inside the temple, men and women lit joss sticks and carried them to pictures of different deities to pray before.

The next day when I drove down the mountain to K.K., I drove the whole way behind a procession of cars billowing silk from the windows and carrying piles of red wooden boxes and bamboo sticks in the back seats.

New Year Number Three

The Islamic new year was celebrated very quietly in Malaysia last November. The Western new year was celebrated in the big cities with fireworks and a few drinks. Finally, though, we've reached the most impressive new year of them all: the Lunar new year, the Chinese celebration of the move into the year of the Water Dragon. This is such an auspicious year that midwives and baby equipment suppliers are already hiking their prices for the expected rush of Dragon Babies. 

Muharram was a single sober day, New Year was a few hours of celebration. The Chinese in Malaysia have been partying for two weeks. It began on January 23rd with children chucking firecrackers in the street, loud karaoke in the Chinese cafes, outrageous shopping sprees and a sudden explosion of red - an auspicious colour. Even the traditional Malay shops - shops that cater to Muslim women - got in on the action.

The celebrations have been a little more muted than those of Hong Kong, Singapore, and China itself. My experience of lunar new year has been one of glimpses - a glimpse of a man wearing the golden legs of a lion after performing the lion dance, the sound of drums as a lion dance finishes, the discarded confetti after a lion dance has been there. Yes, the lion dance occurs a lot. It is fundamentally to scare away the evil spirits and to attract luck and fortune, and dance troupes travel the country during the new year visiting businesses and organisations. They are rewarded with ang pow - the little red envelopes containing money that rival the lion dance for sheer visibility at this time.

Last night was our little town's official celebration. I was invited with my colleague and some other long-term homestay residents by the owners of our homestay, who are delightful and warm and friendly and who have the added ingredient of being ex-politicians, and pillars of the community. A friend who came to visit this weekend also came along. I probably didn't prepare her enough, in retrospect, but then even I didn't expect to be driven through the security barrier to the steps of the hall, where we clambered out in front of an audience of lesser persons, and were greeted by our very own lion dance - and when I mean our very own, I mean they performed for just three groups - the head of the Chinese Association of Ranau and his entourage, the Member of Parliament for Ranau and his entourage, and Doctors Lungkiam and Othman and us. The plebs just walked in a side door and sat on benches or rows of chairs. We were guided to one of five tables in the centre. We were, you might say, the centre of attention. Haha. Ahem...

The evening started with a lot of speeches by the proper VIPs (they had white coverings on their chairs, to differentiate them from the RIPs (the Relatively Important People) - that's us) whose pictures were prominently displayed on the stage. Then each table received a large plate with neat and tidy piles of various shredded food, like ginger, and onions that had been dyed green - and we all stood up; the MC counted down from three, and we all grabbed our chopsticks and gleefully and communally mixed up the "salad". 

Then we got to eat it while the povo looked on. That wasn't uncomfortable at all.

The lion dance was the main draw of the evening for me. The lion is made up of two men, one in the rear, one in the head, and it is a mastery of martial acrobatics. The head is the most ornate part, with enormous eyes with blinkable eyelids that turn to eye out the audience and other lions, giving him a remarkable character and personality. The mouth opens and closes, and there's a mirror on his forehead - demons are frightened off by their own appearance. Our main lion was black, and he leapt over the stage and strategically placed tables, twitching in time to the energetic drums that waxed and waned throughout the performance, building up to crescendos and then suddenly falling away to almost complete silence.

Pretty spectacular. I think, though, that next year I will leave the glimpsing behind and head for the centre of the action in Singapore...

Mass Consumption

Ramadan finished today. At 6am the usual morning call to prayer came, but it was much longer than usual, celebrating the fact that finally today most of the nation was still asleep, and not frantically stuffing the last mouthful in before the sun rose, dreading another day without food. By 7:30, when I was having breakfast, the streets were already filling with children dressed in their finery - beautiful, bright, silken shirts and skirts, and little hats and headscarves.

The whole of Ranau seemed to be on the move. At 11am we joined them, driving to a nearby relative of our host. They were camped out on their verandah, an impressive music system blaring traditional songs, a long table bending to the pressure of a thousand different dishes - steamed coconut rice, satay chicken, beef curry, steamed beans and local spinach, stuffed quails' eggs and pumpkin in coconut cream, tiny pineapple tarts, chocolate peanuts and sweet potato cakes. Chairs were arranged around the edge of the verandah and some small bottoms were moved onto a mat to make space for us in the best seats, right by the cake table. We greeted everyone else in the traditional manner, shaking hands and then lifting the right hand to the heart, murmuring "Selamat Hari Raya" to welcome the end of fasting and wish our hosts a happy holiday. As we sat and munched, there was a continual stream of visitors from around the village - many of them were ancient elders, their skin so lined that their faces seemed to be caving in on themselves, tottering in on their own, often in well-washed, well-worn clothing. No matter how ragged, though, they were greeted with courtesy and respect by the couple whose house it was, who lifted the visitor's trembling hand to their foreheads to show the ultimate respect and then guided them to the food. 

Meanwhile, a computer was set up and a couple of karaoke microphones appeared. But when the eldest son took the microphone, it was clear that this was no ordinary cringy karaoke. He sang a traditional Hari Raya song in a deep and soulful voice, and then handed over to his little sister and her cousin - slightly unnerving to watch two slight girls in their modest Muslim clothing singing "her lips, her lips, I could kiss them all day if she'd let me; Her laugh, her laugh, she hates it but I think it's so sexy..." I'm fairly certain they weren't the audience Bruno Mars had in mind, but the pronunciation was almost perfect, and if it's a way into English for them, who am I to judge? The whole family eventually had a go, and many of them outsang the English-speaking singers - if only all karaoke singers were so good...

I read that food purchases rise dramatically during Ramadan, presumably because people are shopping on empty stomachs, and everything looks good, but the biggest and most dramatic rise is just before Hari Raya. I guess it's like Christmas - even down to the fairy lights that decorate houses, and the food hampers sold in supermarkets. Everybody wants to gorge, and impress their guests, and have a good time, and that has an impact on the shopping trolleys...

Breaking Fast

Today was the first day of Ramadan, which is a little like Lent on steroids. Muslims give up all food and drink (and, like Lent, other things, such as TV or cigarettes) during the day, and only break their fast after sunset - and if they help a less fortunate person to break their fast, then they get double the rewards; charity and humanitarianism is a big part of Ramadan. 

What this means for me is that I have to be a lot more sensitive than I usually am and don't, for instance, say things like "I'd die for a bottle of water right now" to my fasting Language Officer half way through our first day of school visits. Life in Malaysia goes on as normal, despite a third of the population suffering hunger pangs, and becoming dehydrated in the humid heat, although I'm told that the night market will be much busier, feeding the devout after sundown prayers.

This morning I accompanied my colleague and Rapedah (our Language Officer - sort of the go-to person for the District Education Office for the project) to my colleague's set of five schools. They varied a lot, from a beautiful little school on the edge of a hill, which taught mostly Muslim children in little wooden classrooms, to a colonial-style concrete block with wide verandahs, where landscaping was a part of the curriculum. We also visited a resource-rich Chinese school - these schools teach in Mandarin, teaching Bahasa Malay as a secondary language, but as children simply attend their nearest schools, only 10% of students were actually Chinese at this particular school. It's a government requirement, however, that one in five of the schools involved in our project are Chinese schools, which is odd, as Chinese schools only form about 5% of government schools in the country. I won't be teaching at one, as there isn't one in my area. It was interesting to see the schools, although they don't give me much indication of my own schools - mine will be far smaller (in one case, just 75 students in the whole school) and will have next-to-nothing in terms of resources. They won't speak either Chinese or Malay at home, but Dusun, a local tribal language which I will need to pick up at least a few words of to get by, but they will learn three languages in school, making them... what... quadri-lingual? :) Amazing!

St Anthony's Day

Saint Anthony, Professor of Miracles, Hammer of Heretics, patron of the poor and oppressed, Finder of Lost Things, saint of the barren and the pregnant. One of the most venerated saints in Christendom. And luckily for me, he was born in Lisbon - because Portugal has this wonderful tradition of allowing cities and towns to have a day off in recognition of local saints, and as Anthony is Lisbon's saint, and Cascais is in Greater Lisbon, I get a long weekend off. It's also Cascais' 647th anniversary of town-ship-ness and the celebrations for the two events have been keeping me awake all week long!

The focus of the party in Lisbon is Alfama, the ancient neighbourhood that clings to the side of pne of Lisbon's seven hills, a careful watch kept over it by the Moorish Saint George's Castle (I know - sounds more English than Portuguese, doesn't it? It was so named after a 14th century king married an English princess and is one more legacy of the longest standing alliance in the world.)

So. Alfama.

It's ancient, really really ancient, and is largely composed of tiny narrow staircases instead of streets. The buildings teeter above, clothed in laundry hung out to dry, and, today, colourful bunting and basil plants; the basil being a symbol of fidelity, couples traditionally give each other little potted plants on St Anthony's Day. The fragrance is everywhere.

Another symbol of Dia do Santo Antonio is the sardine. Why? Because at this time of year, it's in season, it's local, it's plentiful and cheap. Something I love about Portugal: 90% of the fruit and vegetables in the shops are grown in Portugal and are only sold in season, and foreign stuff is clearly marked. Makes it easy to go green. :)

I order a beer at the Miradouro da Graça, one of the best viewpoints in the city - a shaded, cobbled praça in front of a grand stone church, overlooking the castle and downtown Lisbon. Everyone is in a good mood,their voices lubricated and strengthened by cold beer and freshly grilled sardines, and, thanks to the Portuguese love of children, it's a big (drunken) family day out. Actually, I'm starting to understand why so many Portuguese settled in Zimbabwe after their colonies became independent in the 1970s...

History

On Monday we decide to spend the day snorkelling (except for Cait, wisely nursing her sunburn). We meet the manager's uncle and his friend on the rocky beach in front of the hotel and climb into his fishing boats, two to a boat.

It's clear they know the sea well, waiting for the perfect moment to launch through the waves with a minimum of fuss. We head out on the water to a nearby reef. On the way, we pause; Leigh and my boatman pulls on his hand line that's attached to the back of the boat and up comes a beautiful grey fish - dinner, the man grins at us. A whole hour is spent happily watching the luminous fish glide by. There are shoals of yellow and black fish about the size of my fist, and the boatman gives us bread to feed them with - Robyn's shining moment is throwing a cloud of crumbs in front of me and watching the fish in their frenzy swim straight into my goggles with a bump.



Robyn and I take lots of photos with our waterproof cameras, but it's rather hit and miss; my technique is to wave the camera in the general direction of a fish and press hard on the button. I've no idea if I'm taking photos of blue sea, or fantastic vistas, or even taking them at all, as there's no audible click... It's quite exciting for a change to not go home and immediately inspect the photos on the digital camera - we have to wait for these to be developed properly.

After a while, we return to the hotel beach, motoring past a great view of Gunung Agung, the highest and most revered mountain in Bali - you can only just see it in the photo, though, which comes from the underwater camera.



At 1pm, we're picked up by a friend of Guntur's - quite the family business, this hotel - in a kombi for an afternoon of culture. Up a narrow road leading inland, a little village sits enclosed by a wall and thickly forested mountains. Tenganan is a little place that time skipped past without a second glance.


Its inhabitants are descendents of the original Bali Aga people. Only two Aga villages remain, both in this part of Bali, and both very restrictive in culture and habit. Tenganan has opened itself up to visitors recently but numbers are still kept low, and tourists must be accompanied by a guide from the village - they only ask for a very small donation though. Marriage outside the clan is not allowed. Cars and motorbikes are banned, although residents have restricted use of scooters. They're sort of a mild version of the Balinese Amish, resisting technological change - although it's said that these days, the traditional houses do often hide TVs and playstations... oh the demands of the youth. The women are famous for their cloths, which are truly beautiful ikat weaves, created on hand looms.

There are only two parallel streets, linked by narrow lanes which are lined with high walls broken by ornate doorways. Through them it's possible to see little warrens - courtyards filled with trees and flowers, doors leading to rooms.

 
The focal point is the temple, which is built beside a huge banyan tree - this apparently is, or was, a central part of Aga villages, and it houses a small shrine. The nooks and crannies up the trunk are all decorated with palm frond offerings and pieces of cloth - I think it's the most beautiful banyan tree I've ever seen.

We've arrived on a good day; the village is celebrating an ancient victory over a neighbouring tribe with a colourful and loud festival. We walk up to the temple just as the elders parade through the crowds soaking up the vocal adoration. A man standing at the edge with his 2-year-old son guides us towards the elders and I lift my hands together and bow my head to them. They laugh with delight and come to shake all of our hands instead!


After they've gone, we walk with our newly-adopted guide and his very active little boy around the temple, and he shows us the school band - the pre-teen members practise for hours after school every single day to continue the knowledge of traditional instruments for their village - no small task for such little shoulders. We follow him to his home where he's set up a small workshop for handwoven baskets and ikat cloths, and his wife greets us at the door with bananas and dodol (Balinese rice cakes wrapped in dried banana leaves). While the others shop, I sit outside on the street beside their poor cockerel, who with great indignity has been dyed pink and stuffed into a bamboo cage, and who makes his outrage known with irate squawks.


I just sit and watch the people go past, chatting to schoolchildren, and to our driver. It's amazing how fluent most people we've met are in English, especially as they only learn it as a minor school subject, and from Balinese teachers. Not that native speakers are necessarily better teachers, as I've learnt at English Village! Because it's a festival today, the women are wearing their finest lace - although rules on clothing are strict at any time, our driver says. These two women talk in halting English to me about Tenganan, then laugh hysterically when I ask if I could take a photo of them! When they see I'm serious, they decide to pose against their scooters...



I watch an elderly man come stooping out of his home to lay out an offering of plaited palm leaves and food. He pours oil over everything and pauses for a few seconds at the threshold, praying, before disappearing back inside. These prayer offerings are everywhere in Bali and as we walk down streets we have to be careful not to accidentally step on one, bringing bad luck not only to ourselves but to the household too.

Liam joins me after his purchases are made, and the little boy of the house, who's been watching us from a distance since we met him in the temple, decides this pale boy is tame enough to approach. He's been given some naartjies and bananas by his mum and after seeing how well the bird responds to feeding, thinks Liam might like it too!


His little fist goes right inside Liam's mouth before relinquishing the food!

It's a lovely, friendly village, but we have more to see, and so, after our food and retail therapy, we make our farewells. Nyoman, our guide, gives us each a bookmark he's just carved with our Balinese names (definitely a step up from the standard commercial keyrings preprinted with any name the manufacturer can think of!)


I ask to take a photo of Nyoman and he obliges, but only if Liam will pose too, and with the cockerel! Liam's surprisingly good-natured about being so close to a cranky bird, luckily, although he manages to avoid actually holding it.

We drive on, up into the mountains, to Tirtta Ganga ("Holy Water") - once pleasure gardens for a king, now an ornamental pond and some springwater swimming pools for tourists and local families. There's a tall fountain at the centre - you know it's royal from the use of nine "roofs"...

The square pool in front of it is home to lots of statues of mischievous Hindu gods, some just children, and a long path winds between them on octagonal stones. The stepping stones add interest to the world for the hugest koi I've ever seen in real life!

 
It's really beautiful and slightly neglected and none the worse for a few tourists. We swim all alone in the upper pool while happy shrieks ring out from the crowded pool below - mostly children just out from the day's school.


I say "we" - I really mean "they" - I don't do water as cold as this! I sit at the edge dangling my feet in the shallows, eating rambutan and a delicious granadilla-type fruit we've bought from a street stall at the entrance to the gardens.



In the late afternoon we go on to Amlapura Palace - very Dutch colonial style, and very neglected, with royal rooms used as storage, and families living in the outer quarters! It's small enough for only a brief look, and then we drive to Ujung Floating Palace. Our driver deposits us at the top of a hill from which a waterfall tumbles down over enormous animal sculptures. We walk down past rice paddies to the palace, which is the smallest palace I've ever seen; just four small bedrooms and a reception area sitting at the centre of an extensive lotus pond. The King's room is only about 3m2!



As I walk over the bridge, a woman starts to talk to me in slow but understandable English. She's so excited when she sees I understand her! I remember being just the same after my first, halting conversation in Portuguese... When I tell her I need to run and catch up with my friends, she whips out a camera and asks if her daughter can take a photo of us together - a rather Korean moment! :)

That night, we're in bed by 8:30pm, because the following morning, our alarms are set for 1am...