Swell (10 page)

Christmas wishes did come true. I had my pride, but it was safe to say Jason did not have to ask me twice.

INDONESIA

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Jason did not retire and, while he spent two months in Australia opening his competitive season, I worked on ideas for the book and got to know him over the phone. That gave him time to refocus on his surfing and I found it an easier way to break the ice than facing him after everything we had been through. Telephone interviews also guaranteed I had his attention because his mind had a tendency to wander if he was bored, as if it was drifting away on the tide. I had fresh determination to make Jason’s book exceptional.

Having spent years working as a writer, in my opinion there was no magic formula for writing a book. Every writer I had met used a different method of working. Writing a biography was new to me but the basics of creating a story that would grab the reader were the same, and the more I researched, the more passionate I became about the subject. I grew in confidence over this time that I could do a good job despite the efforts of my family to dampen my spirits and the resounding silence from my agent who was clearly having his doubts. I ploughed on and took my own advice that I often gave to budding authors when they asked me how to write a book: simply sit down and get on with it. Or alternatively, write a book on ‘How to write a book’. It’s a guaranteed winner.

With my groundwork done, I left for Indonesia at the beginning of March. Jason had booked the trip for me and I felt exhausted just reading the itinerary of the journey. Despite my initial buzz of enthusiasm when I took off from London, the solo flight via Singapore was tiresome. After I had watched two movies, read the in-flight magazine, completed the word search and cheated on the Sudoku, I ate a meal of congealed cheese
and plastic pasta while the heady aroma of real food wafted into cattle class through the first class curtain. One stopover and fifteen hours later, I landed in Denpasar at Ngurah Rai airport in Bali.

‘Backpacking?’ asked a young girl while we waited for our bags.

Her short blond dreadlocks stuck out of her head like dry shredded wheat.

‘No, I’m heading to Java for a surf contest,’ I announced casually.

‘Cool,’ she said with a slow, considered nod of the shredded wheat, ‘where are your boards?’

‘I’m not actually a surfer, I’m writing about the surfers,’ I said, struggling with my neon pink suitcase.

She looked disdainfully from me to the case and back again.

‘Not so cool,’ she sighed and ambled off to find somebody else to bother.

I momentarily wondered whether I was really cut out for the inherently cool international surfing circuit. One thing was certain; I was about to find out.

The first thing that hit me when I stepped outside the bustling airport was the heat. The second thing was the pungent aroma of Balinese gudang garam clove cigarettes. It was an unmistakeable smell that would forever remind me of Bali.

‘You want taxi?’ a gaggle of enthusiastic little men shouted.

They waved their car keys and shouted prices in Rupiah that sounded expensive. Surely forty-five thousand of anything had to be a lot?

I was to stay overnight in Kuta, which was a death-defying three-kilometre taxi ride from the airport in a Nissan Vanette that apparently had neither suspension nor tyres
on the wheel rims. The traffic was unlike anything I had ever experienced. Barely roadworthy cars jostled for space with scooters ridden by entire families. One scooter held a father, a toddler and a mother who was in the process of breastfeeding her baby while flying along at forty miles an hour. Four lanes merged into one then out again to six. Trucks carrying chickens and carpets raced head-on towards us. I gripped the seat belt, which had no buckle attachment and functioned as little more than an ornamental sash.

The hotel was in central Kuta and, despite being surrounded by the hustle and bustle, was surprisingly tranquil inside. The architecture was typically Indonesian with steep ornamental roofs and breathtakingly ornate woodcarvings. When I signed in at the outdoor reception desk, a gecko the size of my hand scuttled across the guest book and took refuge in the lap of a wooden Hindu God.

‘I hope you have an enjoyable stay,’ said the male receptionist with a respectful nod of the head and a smile so honest it made me feel instantly at home. ‘My name is Wayan.’

‘Thank you, Wayan. I go to G-Land in Java tomorrow so I want to make the most of my evening. Can you recommend any sights while I’m here?’

He lifted his smooth-skinned arm and wafted it in a balletic movement towards the street.

‘Take a walk down Poppies Lane, meet the people, talk to the people, breathe in the aroma of Kuta, buy our beautiful goods and you will come back smiling.’

As tired as I was after the journey, I had to take a bus and boat to Java to join Jason and Chuck at nine o’clock the next morning so I wanted to make the most of my
very short stay in Bali and be adventurous. I decided to take Wayan’s advice and head out into Kuta. It was stiflingly hot and humid so I dressed in light clothes that also protected me from mosquitoes. I chose an embroidered cream cotton tunic and loose linen trousers in powder blue and pale blue sandals. Topped with a soft-brimmed straw hat, I was satisfied I looked like a character from
Out Of Africa
.

After half an hour battling my way through the hot streets of Kuta, the only thing out of Africa I resembled was a sweaty hippo. The roads were either muddy or dusty and the traffic whizzed manically in every direction whenever I dared step off the metre-high kerbs designed to cope with floods during the wet season. Exhaust fumes enveloped my new trousers in a smog of toxic smoke until I appeared to be travelling on my very own cloud. Pavements suddenly ended in swimming pool sized puddles of mud and I watched in dismay when one distracted Australian tourist disappeared from view into an uncovered drain.

While I battled my way nervously along the narrow streets with one hand over my mouth and the other on my wallet, diminutive Balinese women with leathery skin followed me like rats trailing the Pied Piper.

‘You want massage?’ they said in singsong voices.

‘You want hair extension?’

‘I give you nice nails pretty lady.’

‘Plait your hair?’

I rushed past them apologising profusely.

‘No thank you, I am too ticklish for massages.’

‘No thank you, I like my hair as it is.’

‘No thank you, I find long nails impossible for typing.’

‘No thank you, I’m sorry but I really feel cornroll plaits from the hairline should only be allowed on black sprinters with incredible bone structure.’

A moon faced white girl who had just had her stringy hair yanked back into innumerable eye-watering plaits decorated with multi-coloured beads was my case in point. If I were her holiday companion I would be having her deported.

Finally exhausted and intimidated, I gave my pursuers the slip and hid in a dark corner of a restaurant on the main street, Jalan Legian.

‘Hello lady, I am Wayan. This your first time Bali?’ said the waiter.

He handed me a menu full of faded photographs of the dishes on offer.

I nodded silently, turning the menu over and over in my hands. I felt weary and dejected. I was not the unflustered international traveller I had intended to be. I was lonely and unnerved and I had only been in Bali less than four hours. I was convinced by the end of an evening alone in Kuta I would have been conned, robbed, and even worse, had my hair pulled into tiny plaits that would require a complete head shave to remove. I took a deep breath to calm myself. The restaurant smelled of gadang garams and satay sauce. Tracey Chapman played sombrely on the stereo. I exhaled slowly.

‘You want snack?’

I nodded again.

‘I think you like banana jaffle with peanut butter. Very good comfort food for sad lady. Also coconut lassi. Bring a smile to pretty face.’

I looked up at the second Wayan of the day, who smiled back at me with an almost childlike innocence.

‘You will like Bali,’ he said confidently. ‘We are good people.’

‘Are you all called Wayan?’

He laughed.

‘No we have four names, Wayan for first born, Made, Nyoman and Ketut.’

‘Gosh,’ I said, relaxing back into the throne-like carved chair that I had only just noticed, ‘and the girls?’

‘Same,’ Wayan said. ‘Then for fifth born we start again, Wayan Balik, mean Wayan again.’

‘That’s fascinating. So you all have the same names? How do you distinguish yourselves?’

‘By what we do and who we are inside.’

He tapped his pen against his sternum.

‘My friends call me Beckham,’ he winked before scurrying off to fetch my food.

The jaffle was a buttery toasted sandwich crammed with hot peanut butter and sweet bananas. I washed it down with a coconut and yoghurt drink.

‘You were right, Wayan, that was perfect comfort food. I feel better already.’

‘I am glad. Now go meet the Balinese people, they will be good to you. We love tourist. The bomb they keep tourist away for long time, but we do not deserve this. We must have tourist to live.’

‘I understand. Well, thank you for being so welcoming.’

‘What your name?’

‘Bailey.’

‘And what you do in Bali?’

‘Actually I’m only here for this evening. I go to Java tomorrow to G-Land to write a book.’

Wayan gasped and pressed his hands together.

‘Writer lady, you very lucky for me,’ he said with a bow. ‘You very clever, famous writer lady.’

‘Well actually I’m not famous.’

‘I am honoured, Miss Bailey. You write book about surfer in G-Land?’

‘Yes. About a surfer called Jason Cross?’ I said, expecting nothing.

Wayan shrieked with delight, which brought the entire kitchen staff (Made, Ketut, Made, Wayan and Ketut) running into the restaurant. Each one of them shook my hand and bowed. I could not help but laugh.

‘We big fans of Jason Cross. Writer lady, we very proud, you must have food as gift.’

I held up my hands.

‘No, Wayan, I must pay you, please.’

‘No no, please just come back with your big book one day. I hope we see you again, English writer lady. You very nice.’

I thanked Wayan for making me instantly feel at home in Bali and when he wasn’t looking I left a twenty thousand Rupiah tip. I then went out onto Legian with a new-found spring in my step. It was, I realised, so often the people who made a place, which was why leaving home had been nothing short of a delight.

By the time I returned to the hotel, I had met twelve more Wayans, eight Mades (pronounced Marday) and four Ketuts. I had bought a Bulgari watch from a man called Elvis and Gucci sunglasses from George Clooney. My nails had been manicured and painted with intricate blue and ivory orchids and I had relaxed with a massage expertly performed by a female Wayan who was known to her friends as Beyonce. I had gorged on a meal of chicken satay with rice, fresh papaya and coconut cocktails for the equivalent of three pounds and I had exchanged my sandals for a pair of leather ones allegedly from Prada. I was loath to condone counterfeit goods but they were so lovely and in need of the business, I was powerless to resist. I still drew a firm line not to be crossed at hair plaiting.

Stopping at the hotel entrance on the delightfully named Poppies Lane II, I was rummaging in my bag (Christian Dior) for my room key when I spotted a tiny bookshop on the other side of the street. Dodging a scooter driven by a child whose legs barely reached below the seat, I skipped across and peered in the door.

‘You want book?’ said the woman inside with a wide, genuine smile.

‘Yes, I think I do,’ I smiled back.

‘English yes? We have many many.’

Made led me to the English ‘department’ of the ten foot square shop and showed me the shelves crammed with well travelled second hand books that had more dog ears than a dog pound.

‘Thank you, Made.’

I proceeded to lose myself in the search for a book to take to G-Land. There were indeed many titles from England, Australia, America and Canada. Their pages were well
thumbed and, as I flicked through them, I wondered about all the history squashed into one bookcase. Where had these books been and who with? How many people had read each one and what had the reader given as a review to encourage the next person to pick up that book? While I rummaged I felt the stir of my childhood adoration of books that had inspired me to dream of becoming a writer.

I clasped my hand to my mouth when my eyes fell on one of the books on a lower shelf nestling between a John Grisham and a Jackie Collins. It was like seeing one of my own children. Unmistakeably mine.

I reached out a shaky hand and pulled my first novel from the shelf. A rush of pride and disbelief overwhelmed me. This was my first day in Bali but part of me had been there long before. Doubtless brought in the hand luggage of someone who had read it and then, judging by the creases in the cover like wrinkles in a tumble-dried duvet, had passed it on to friends and fellow travellers. It was just one copy in a dusty second hand bookshop in Bali but it was the proudest, most heart-warming moment of my literary career so far. For a brief moment I felt like a bestselling novelist.

‘I love Bali,’ I pronounced to Wayan the hotel receptionist with a smile to match his.

‘Good then you are ready for G-Land,’ he said.

I wondered what he meant.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

My journey to G-Land began early the next morning with a twelve-hour bus ride from Kuta to the north of the island. The bus appeared to have been hurriedly put together from old baked bean tins and some sticky-backed plastic. The PVC seat stuck to the backs of my legs and a layer of grime added inches to the floor. The further we travelled from Kuta, the more uneven the road surfaces became and I had to peer out of the dusty window to check we weren’t driving on a bouncy castle. The driver was a very pleasant Balinese man in his fifties who had just completed the twelve-hour inbound route but could see no reason to stop for a break before we set off.