Indonesia: Enchanting Isles of Bali & Flores

On my first morning in Bali, I see a slender feminine fig­ure, dressed in a bright ba­tik sarong. She lays a basket brimming with frangipani blossoms, a few grains of rice and a coin in a carved niche by the entrance to her home. The small palm-leaf basket, or the canang sari as it’s called, also contains a gambier, a betel nut and lime to repre­sent the Holy Trinity of Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva, respectively; a few seconds of intricate hand gestures before she lights an incense stick and glides away. The Balinese make canang sari offerings on a daily basis, very often multiple times in a day. It’s not uncommon to see canang sari on street intersections, in front of homes and shops.

For many, Bali is all about kaleidoscop­ic sunsets, verdant rice terraces, monster waves and a rollicking nightlife, especial­ly the strip along Kuta beach where beer-swilling gap-year backpackers rule. Bali is all this and a lot more. Religion is not just an integral part of Balinese life; it is life itself. Bali is the only Hindu enclave in the predominantly Muslim Indone­sian archipelago of over 17,000 islands and she wears this identity prominently and proudly. Beginning from the airport in Denpasar, there are statues, draped with black and white checked material, at every street corner.

It’s often said that there are more temples per square kilometre in Bali than anywhere else in the world, and it could well be true. “Every home has a temple and then there are family and village temples. Each village has three temples dedicated to the holy trinity,” explains my guide Made. There’s a good reason why Bali is called the Island of a Thousand Temples.

Rock-cut temples set against exotic backdrops, embedded with soft green mosses with carved Garuda statues and ornamental gates and the sounds of gamelan ensembles wafting through multiple courtyards—Balinese temples have little in common with Indian temples. Their legends and epics, on the other hand, Vishnu’s mount Garuda, Ra­mayana’s Rama and Ravana and Bhimav and Arjuna from Mahabharata are what most Indians have grown up listening to.

On an island where every view is post­card-perfect, Bali’s temples are her most iconic landmarks—the dramatic sunset and silhouettes of Uluwatu and Tanah Lot, the mist covered peaks of Mount Agung at Besakih the ‘mother temple’, the Pura Taman Ayun that translates to Garden Temple in the Water, the myste­rious ruins of Goa Gajah or the beauti­fully carved Batuan Temple complex that’s over 1,000 years old. The sunset at Uluwatu is just as spectacular as the guidebooks promise. Perched at the end of a cliff, nearly 70 metres over the crash­ing waves of the Indian Ocean, Uluwatu is overrun by tourists at all hours but more so around sunset. Even as the sun begins its daily descent, I’m ushered into an open-air arena, with the temple and the sea as the perfect backdrop to watch the hypnotic kecak dance.

Goa Gajah Temple, Ubud

Dinodia

About 40 men, dressed only in black-and-white checked sarongs, each with a red hibiscus planted behind their ears, sit in a circle oblivious to the steep banks of spectators that surround them. As the turquoise sky shot with intense shades of pink and copper made way for a bruised purple afterglow, their soft hum of the polyrhythmic chant: cak, cak, cak, reached a crescendo. It’s the familiar story of Sita being kidnapped by Ravana and rescued by Rama who was helped by Hanumana and Garuda. I was riveted, in part by the exquisite costumes of the main characters but mostly by the chant­ing men. Throughout the hour-long per­formance, the men sit, sway and move as one, forming a wall of sound.

The kecak, or the monkey dance as the West has come to know of it, came into its present form in the 1930s when Ger­man painter Walter Spies, one of Bali’s earliest expats, encouraged a Balinese dancer to adapt the ancient chanting to a tourist performance. I remember being mesmerised by the brief kecak scene in Tarsem Singh’s escapist fantasy The Fall about a decade ago and it was no differ­ent when I saw it live recently. The spell was broken only after good triumphed over evil and the houselights came on to facilitate selfies with Ravana and Rama.

The Balinese are just as serious about their food. The tiny island offers a smor­gasbord that will satisfy every palate and fit every budget. There are honest-to-goodness warungs (tiny road side cafés) all over the island that serve local food like babi guling (suckling pig) or Bali’s take on satay that’s called sate lembat. Ubud is where you head if you are look­ing for organic, vegan, gluten-free or macrobiotic food served in tropical gar­dens overlooking emerald green paddy fields or lily ponds. Acai berry smoothies, pancakes and quinoa pasta are menu staples in Ubud’s organic hipster cafés. Seminyak is where you head for trendy fusion food, al fresco meals with killer views or sunset drinks at beach lounges. Seafood dinners on the beach in Jim­baran are touristy but the soft crash of waves soundtracking a candle-lit meal of fresh seafood, grilled over coconut husk, is one of the simpler pleasures of Bali.

Bali is booming with tourists. It was once a haven for rock-and-roll stars, artists and world-weary sophisticates but these days the overdeveloped road between Denpasar and Ubud is mired in gridlock. The resort enclaves of Semin­yak, Ubud and Kuta are so overcrowded that developers are reaching for the unexploited corners of North Bali. And, yet, Bali is still enchanting and it is pos­sible to find ‘authentic Bali’ beyond the painted masks and T-shirt vendors.

From Bali, I flew an hour-and-a-half to Labuan Bajo, a scruffy little fishing town. I flew over terrain that looks like a Jackson Pollock painting: all aquamarine water dotted and flecked with tiny splashes of green and tufts of white clouds. Labuan Bajo is the gateway to Flores, a rugged island in the Nusa Tenggara province peppered with active volcanoes, tribal villages, incredible dive sites and the Komodo National Park. Flores is what Bali used to be two decades ago—pristine instagram-worthy vistas and authentic experiences.

The national park is spread over 25 volcanic islands of which the three big­gest are Komodo, Rinca and Padar. This Unesco World Heritage Site is home to over 5,000 legendary Komodo dragons—the largest lizard species in the world. My guide Martin utilised the two-hour boat ride from the bustling harbour in Labuan Bajo to Komodo to educate the group about different aspects of the giant reptiles. “They can grow up to 10 feet long and weigh about 90kg. They eat up to 80 per cent of their body weight in one sitting and that can last them about a month,” explained Martin.

As we sailed across waters an inde­scribable shade of deep blue that exist only far, far away from shore, it was hard not to succumb to a sort of tropical tor­por, but I was roused by the prospect of seeing dragons; except both Martin and the guide at the national park repeatedly reminded me there’s no guarantee with wild animals.

Less than 10 minutes after I started a mid-level hike (that lasts about 90 minutes) through the savannah-like landscape punctuated by towering lon­tar palms, I mentally checked off an item from my bucket list—see a real dragon. At the watering hole, shaded by tamarind trees, I spotted two Komodo dragons. Excited whispers among the visitors gave way to a hushed silence.

A Komodo dragon lording it in Flores

Alamy / Indiapicture

Even as the male dragon was oblivi­ous to his audience, the slightly smaller female dragon ambled under the boiling Indonesian sun, forked tongue darting, and her black obsidian eyes unread­able. My lasting memory of Flores is the unlikely juxtaposition of the gargantuan reptiles with orange butterflies flitting on the sun-dappled forest floor.

The two-hour trek took us to the high­est point of Komodo island, where a mas­sive male dragon dozed in the bushes after a large meal of water buffalo. Just as I was walking towards the jetty, happy to have spotted the elusive animals, a little dragon shot across my path sending the guide into a tizzy. “He is very young…probably just three years old. Young dragons mostly stay in trees because adults kill them. This one must have been hunting for insects,” he explained, even as the dragon’s tail disappeared in the bushes.

On the other side of Komodo island is the exquisite pink beach that gets its striking hue from tiny fragments of red coral combined with dazzling silica.

I spent the rest of the day snorkelling. The seas around Flores offer one of the world’s richest marine environments. If legend is to be believed, the island was named so by 16th-century Portuguese colonists who were mesmerised by the sheer beauty of the corals in the sur­rounding waters.

It is possible to spend an entire holiday exploring Flores’ marine life but there is a lot to do on terra firma. Head inland to Milo village and watch caci, the traditional fight dance of the Mang­garai people; drink ginger coffee or eat the fresh catch of the day at any one of the restaurants around the main street. Flores is on the verge of becoming Indo­nesia’s next holiday hotspot—go before the hordes get there.

Caci whip fighting in Flores

Alamy / Indiapicture

THE INFORMATION