"Yes? You need taxi? Cheap price!" a young man darts into my path, smiling and nodding. I shake my head no.
He persists, stepping closer, though not in a threatening manner. "Maybe tomorrow?"
"No, thank you," I reply, sidestepping him.
The main roads of Ubud are like a video game whereby the contestant must sidestep taxi drivers, women holding babies, their palms outstretched for money, and persistent salespeople hawking wares that are, indeed, made in Indonesia. Like any other tourism infested "developing" province, Bali is simultaneously beautiful and downtrodden, rich and poor, vibrant and decomposing in all manner of ways. Our days in Bali reflect the complexities and contradictions, forcefully displaying the dichotomy with each and every step we take.
At around seven am, Kadek, the houseboy at Puri Cantik, arrives at our teak door with a tray of the best coffee I have ever tasted. There are no french presses here; the fragrant, freshly roasted grounds intermingle freely with the coffee saturated water, producing a thick, almost grainy consistency and a robust flavor that hardly compares to anything Starbucks could attempt to reproduce. He looms over our shoulders as we stir in our milk, and asks us if we’d like fruit.
Kadek has taken on the role of the loyal servant in the Adam Sandler flick, Mr. Deeds, as he stealthily appears at random, and frequently stands and watches us as we eat breakfast. We practice English with him and politely refuse his best efforts to fill us with coffee or tea at all hours of the day. As Kadek disappears down the marble and stone staircase to the outdoor kitchen below, Maggie arches an eyebrow and says, "very sneaky sir." I laugh and look out over the courtyard.
Dewi’s homestay is arguably the best in Ubud. It doesn’t have a swimming pool, but it has a rustic charm and personality that surpasses any tangible amenity that a hotel could have. A bubbling fountain adorned by the natural growth of Bali’s finest flowers sits sedately in the center of the courtyard, flanked by two stories of housing, mainly open air and brimming with teak and earth toned stucco and stone. The feel is decidedly well kept and strategically decorated, yet homey at the same time. In the distance, red terra cotta roof tops and rice fields freckle the land scape, bursts of color that Palau lacks filling my eyeline as I sip coffee at the decidedly hand made teak table.
After finishing a leisurely breakfast of delicately cut fresh fruit and omelettes, Maggie and I walk to the main road in Ubud. Once out of the comfort of Dewi’s homestay, where one is easily insulated from solicitation and poverty, Ubud seems to come alive in its true form.
Passing a painfully thin dog with patches of dry, scaly skin ambling along the side of the road, Maggie looks at me sadly.
"It’s so easy to exist in a bubble in these places, to stay in nice hotels and to never really look down, you know? But when you do, you see that so much of this is for us tourists, and that it’s not real," she says, gesturing to the mangy dog panting next to her.
It’s becoming a pattern...walk down the road, take a right, past the row of taxi drivers, no thank you no thank you no thank you, no, not tomorrow...past the tiny shops filled with duplicitous artworks and hastily carved picture frames, no, no thank you, I would not like a painting today, no, yes, it is very beautiful...past the boys on the corner selling tickets to see Balinese traditional dancing...no, thank you, not today, maybe another time...
We joke together that the theme song for Bali should be Rick Ross’ ode to hustlin’. Bali is beautiful in a way that other places aren’t. It’s vibrance and spirituality are palpable, interwoven through every aspect of life here. The air smells of the pungent prayer incense, and the people welcome you into their spaces in a way that is far more earnest than any shopkeeper I’ve encountered before. Although you can see the effects of tourism on their society, from the surplus garbage accumulating in the sewers to the stark contrast between the beggars on the street and the rick tourists who sidestep them on their way to get a massage, the Balinese seem genuine in their effort to welcome you to their world.
The shopkeepers also seem genuinely interested in welcoming your wallet to their world. Maggie and I quickly learn that the phrase "best price?" can take you far in Ubud, and that haggling politely is an acquired skill.
We thumb through woven batik prints and examine smooth wood bowls, holding them up to the women who run the stores, initiating the process. Typically they are flanking you from the beginning. You can feel their breath on you as they mentally take stock of every item you linger by.
"You like green? I have lots of nice green, very good price, look, look how nice," they say, holding up swatches of fabric.
"Did you make?" I ask, or "made here?"
A frown. "No, but I know the people. They are my ... cousin. Yes, cousin, and the fabric made in Java. But close. Indonesia."
I nod. "How much?"
A smile. "For you, only 100,000." The currency rate was approximately 9300 rupiah to one US Dollar. To say you were getting anything here at a bargain was a gigantic understatement.
But as a guide book aptly pointed out, and I paraphrase here, despite the rush that many consumers accustomed to locked in prices may get from the haggling process that is inbuilt in Bali shopping, it’s important to keep in perspective precisely how much you are bargaining over. One dollar may not be much to you, and you may overpay slightly if you don’t haggle too much, but it may also mean a better meal for someone who needs it much more than you do.
As one waitress informed me, "it is very good to be a tourist in Bali, but to live in Bali is much harder."
They are hustling, every day, every hour, inviting and warm, the consummate salespeople at all times. But they are hustling for a reason.
"You can bargain for anything here," says Wayan, our driver, who has worked with my friend Brooksie for years. He lives in Ubud with his beautiful family, and takes tourists in his SUV to explore the countryside, acting as chauffeur and tour guide all in one. And he looooooves Bob Marley. On repeat. The SUV glides along the left side of the road, past small villages with ornately decorated family temples within each compound, regardless of the household’s caste or income. Small children in neatly pressed white and blue school uniforms wobble on bikes beside us, while in the background workers hack their machetes in the rice fields, shaded only by the wide brim of their triangular hats. Bali is exactly same as everywhere else and yet completely different. In one moment, you can sip espresso at a café that could be anywhere, globally influenced and completely homogenized by tourism and trade. In minutes, you can be transported to a landscape of meticulously tended rice paddies, each rectangle tiered into the next, some sprouting and others submerged, colorful kites poking from the continuum of green to frighten away bird thieves.
We are all part of the process, with each transaction, each ticket, each meal. It’s inescapable, intrinsic to the idea of travel. We are consumers to be sold to, guests to be hosted, contributors on large and small scales to the evolution of an economy, whether we stay at the Hard Rock Bali or a simple homestay. As scooters and minicars whiz by, Wayan deftly navigates his way through the streets of Bali, transporting us to Jimbaron for the best seafood ever, or to Uluwatu to explore the ancient temple with the sea crashing at its knees. As I gaze out of the car window, I feel a little strange being chauffeured throughout Bali. Maggie seems to read my mind.
"I feel like such a tourist," she remarks, staring out at a couple on a moped with their newborn sandwiched between them, giggling and frighteningly helmetless.
I think for a moment about what that means. Through my limited travel experiences and brief stints of living abroad, I have come to notice that my generation is hell-bent on accumulating as many passport stamps as humanly possible, and that such stamps can often fuel ones ego, as if to prove one’s worldliness. I’ve also come to realize that there is an incredibly negative stigma attached to the word "tourist," as the word seems to conjure up images of pasty Americans wearing tube socks, university sweatshirts and backpacks, romping beneath the Eiffel Tower demanding french fries and croissants. In an effort to shirk the label of "tourist", many of my generational counterparts, myself included, have made efforts to travel below the radar, nonchalantly exploring new cities and trying to blend. Newsflash: no one blends. Regardless of your budget, travel plan, or intimate knowledge of the surroundings via Lonely Planet, every last one of us is a tourist.
Although it often drives me nuts to be sitting on the beach in Palau, reading a book and not thinking about work and to look up to see a full on Taiwanese cover shoot occurring next to me (*cultural footnote: I can, unfortunately, anecdotally verify that stereotype about the cameras at all times), there is something genuinely wonderful about the way that certain people embrace travel and exploration. And despite anyone’s best efforts to blend in, or get a "real" experience in a new place, it’s all amazingly new, and different, and you will sincerely regret not visiting some of the generic sites, or taking a picture of you and your best friend at that really cool restaurant you went to that night.
"We are tourists," I say.
"Yeah we are," Maggie responds, still gaping at the unsafe baby situation. (The mother is now awkwardly making the baby wave to us, which is unnerving because she is even less balanced in her perch on the tiny bike and traffic is beginning to move.)
For the rest of the trip, we do not hesitate to take in the "touristy" sites, photograph every scene we consider beautiful or worthy of capturing on film, or eating at every restaurant Brooksie has suggested. Traveling above the radar has distinct advantages; it inspires you to let go of inhibitions about being that cheesy tourist and truly enjoy your vacation. After all, that’s why you’re there.
"Seriously, Maggie! Give me a banana. NOW!" From the corner of my eye, I could see tiny paws curling around the rim of my sunglasses. The monkey shifted its weight from one of my shoulders to the next as it climbed further onto my head, struggling to wrench my glasses off of my face. It was at the same time panic inducing and insanely funny, and I choked on my own laughter while I desperately gripped my sunglasses, gently wrestling with the fifteen pound primate attached to my head.
