takes an artist of real genius to create a cavalcade, to create a story of many generations. It takes a great risk to create such a cavalcade. Many fear such a challenge. But I, I am reading a novel now—it was made into a movie, I think—by just such an artist.” I held my breath. “His name”—he paused—“is Sidney Sheldon.”
AND AS EACH of the three tourist havens had grown more bloated, each of them in time had spawned a kind of shadow self, an annex-town that had materialized by its side to cater to the overflow. As Kuta became overcrowded, the surplus had spilledover into Legian, one mile to the north. By the time I strolled through the once quiet village, there was little to be seen except a fledgling Kuta. Norm’s, Don and Donna, Diane, Ed’s and Ned’s (“An Aussie Type of Pub”). The Bali Waltzing Matilda, Koala Blue, Surfer’s Paradise. Next to Bali Aussie was the New Bali (serving “Aussie and Chinese food”). For its grand opening, the place promised cockfights and all-you-can-eat orgies.
So too, as every last inch of Sanur had been claimed by a receiving line of thirty hotels strung along the coast, the government had decided to create a new high-rise resort a little farther south, called Nusa Dua. In 1985, at least eleven new hotels were being built in the man-made settlement, and by now there were 4,525 guest rooms in Nusa Dua, offering what one travel brochure called “an oceanfront setting in an exclusive atmosphere.” Nearly all of them were stocked with convention facilities and conventional facilities—squash courts, health clubs, equipment for wind surfing and, of course, theaters for the presentation of local culture. For a touch of imported romance, there were even horse-drawn buggies on hand.
And as Ubud had become every traveler’s favorite place for avoiding every other traveler, more and more people, so it seemed, had decided to hang out in other funky towns such as Jogjakarta, in neighboring Java. Like Ubud, Jogja was still soft and accommodating enough to entice the kind of traveling party rarely seen in Southeast Asia: serious-looking Dutch or German couples reading translated editions of George Eliot, ethereal girls in peasant skirts traveling by themselves with flowers in their hair, whole families that had taken to the road. Murni’s, a landmark in Ubud, served up “Authentic American Upper Elk Valley Hamburgers,” “chili con carne a la Albuquerque” and “the best chocolate chip cookies east of San Francisco.” It also sold postcards, vases, exquisite books. But Lovina, a typical joint in Jogja, went one step further: it had 400 items on its menu (the
spécialité de la maison
was,
bien sûr
, guacamole), as well as filtered coffee; it provided free maps, English-language newspapers and a small library of European paperbacks that could be bought or traded; it posted notices on which Australian girls reported missing boyfriends; and, on its wall, it gave pride of place to a sign that exhorted: “Kefir Rehabilitates Your Health! Please, Drink Kefir every day and you will be healthy!”
At five in the morning, as light flowed into my Jogja
losmen
, a German girl sat at the breakfast table poring over Jung’s
Memories, Dreams, Reflections.
III
Yet even as each of the resorts had stretched and stretched to accommodate the crowds, still the tourists kept swarming in, scattering north and south and east and converging like mosquitoes on one unvisited corner after another. And even though many a visitor treated Bali with the regretful solicitude one might extend to a lovely girl on the brink of adolescence—at once purified by her presence and somewhat terrified by her future—each year found new towns in eastern Bali popping up like insect bites. In 1984, the new haven of solitude was Lovina, the thinking man’s Kuta-Legian on the northern coast; in 1985, it was Candi Dasa, to the east, another place previously unmarked on the map, which had doubled the number
AND AS EACH of the three tourist havens had grown more bloated, each of them in time had spawned a kind of shadow self, an annex-town that had materialized by its side to cater to the overflow. As Kuta became overcrowded, the surplus had spilledover into Legian, one mile to the north. By the time I strolled through the once quiet village, there was little to be seen except a fledgling Kuta. Norm’s, Don and Donna, Diane, Ed’s and Ned’s (“An Aussie Type of Pub”). The Bali Waltzing Matilda, Koala Blue, Surfer’s Paradise. Next to Bali Aussie was the New Bali (serving “Aussie and Chinese food”). For its grand opening, the place promised cockfights and all-you-can-eat orgies.
So too, as every last inch of Sanur had been claimed by a receiving line of thirty hotels strung along the coast, the government had decided to create a new high-rise resort a little farther south, called Nusa Dua. In 1985, at least eleven new hotels were being built in the man-made settlement, and by now there were 4,525 guest rooms in Nusa Dua, offering what one travel brochure called “an oceanfront setting in an exclusive atmosphere.” Nearly all of them were stocked with convention facilities and conventional facilities—squash courts, health clubs, equipment for wind surfing and, of course, theaters for the presentation of local culture. For a touch of imported romance, there were even horse-drawn buggies on hand.
And as Ubud had become every traveler’s favorite place for avoiding every other traveler, more and more people, so it seemed, had decided to hang out in other funky towns such as Jogjakarta, in neighboring Java. Like Ubud, Jogja was still soft and accommodating enough to entice the kind of traveling party rarely seen in Southeast Asia: serious-looking Dutch or German couples reading translated editions of George Eliot, ethereal girls in peasant skirts traveling by themselves with flowers in their hair, whole families that had taken to the road. Murni’s, a landmark in Ubud, served up “Authentic American Upper Elk Valley Hamburgers,” “chili con carne a la Albuquerque” and “the best chocolate chip cookies east of San Francisco.” It also sold postcards, vases, exquisite books. But Lovina, a typical joint in Jogja, went one step further: it had 400 items on its menu (the
spécialité de la maison
was,
bien sûr
, guacamole), as well as filtered coffee; it provided free maps, English-language newspapers and a small library of European paperbacks that could be bought or traded; it posted notices on which Australian girls reported missing boyfriends; and, on its wall, it gave pride of place to a sign that exhorted: “Kefir Rehabilitates Your Health! Please, Drink Kefir every day and you will be healthy!”
At five in the morning, as light flowed into my Jogja
losmen
, a German girl sat at the breakfast table poring over Jung’s
Memories, Dreams, Reflections.
III
Yet even as each of the resorts had stretched and stretched to accommodate the crowds, still the tourists kept swarming in, scattering north and south and east and converging like mosquitoes on one unvisited corner after another. And even though many a visitor treated Bali with the regretful solicitude one might extend to a lovely girl on the brink of adolescence—at once purified by her presence and somewhat terrified by her future—each year found new towns in eastern Bali popping up like insect bites. In 1984, the new haven of solitude was Lovina, the thinking man’s Kuta-Legian on the northern coast; in 1985, it was Candi Dasa, to the east, another place previously unmarked on the map, which had doubled the number
Similar Books
