Challenges

I started the day quite early, in the Tiffany-blue environs of Sisterfields, the most Australian of the cafes in Seminyak. It’s basically like being at home, with the prices cut in half. I had a Scandinavian breakfast (softboiled eggs, rye sourdough, whipped cream cheese, lemon and herbs), which was served with true Scandinavian minimalism.

After a leisurely breakfast I went back to the hotel to drop off my computer, then I went for a wander. I ended up at the Alila beach bar, another one of the bars on my list. This swanky oceanfront bar is part of the Hyatt hotel, at which I am not a guest, but as usual in Bali if your skin in the right colour you’re welcome everywhere. The security guards at the front gate have mirrors on the ends of poles to check under every taxi and van, but I get a polite bow and a murmured “Good morning” as I swan past. No one ever suspects whitey. Probably because whitey likes cocktails and isn’t about to blow up a good source of them.

The Alila bar is expensive – basically Perth prices – but the location is exceptional and my lemon spritz was refreshing in the midday heat. I spent an hour there, nursing my cocktail, and just watching the waves roll in, listening to chill pop, and letting my mind go more or less blank.

This, I contemplated, must be how well-adjusted thoughtless people feel most of the time, without the anxiety and the disaster planning and the picking endlessly at problems and concerns.

However there’s one minor, nagging worry that’s stayed with me over the last 24 hours; my physiological reaction to the Tropics. It has an odd effect on me. Whether it’s my sad southern English genes, better suited to coping with gloomy chill than sunny humidity, or just my upbringing on the arctic-blasted southwestern coast of Australia, I nevertheless find the climate in Bali challenging, in the sense that it’s almost as if it wants to challenge me to a duel. I’ll be absolutely fine one minute, very much enjoying the balmy day, then something intangible will turn, and the next minute I’m fearing that I’m going to be overwhelmed and pass out.

Oddly enough, it was less than 30 degrees, and I wasn’t even sweating. But even so, there was a sense that the weather is just waiting for an excuse to take me down.

At least I have a general idea of what steps to take to pivot away from disaster. From my sheltered position on the Alila’s deck, I could see tourists, probably British, lying in the direct sun, with absolutely no clue as to what the sun does to human skin on this side of the equator.

I wandered back to the hotel, via an opportunity for passionfruit cheesecake gelato, and spent the afternoon napping, reading and swimming in the pool, wisely, may I add, not all at the same time.

In the evening I went to the next bar on my list; the Above rooftop bar at the Four Points Sheraton. When I arrived, it seemed strangely empty for a rooftop bar with panoramic views out over the ocean. But then I did arrive half an hour after the sunset, which is when these sorts of places are busy.

Even so… I started noticing little things. The wooden frame on the menu was broken, and the card within was worn. The battery lamp on my table stopped working after less than five minutes. Some of the potted trees were lit but little spotlights, but others weren’t. Then when my food and drink arrived, the fried softshell crab was grey and unappetising, while my cocktail was a gin, starfruit, rosemary and lemon concoction that had obviously undergone an acrimonious divorce from the gin bottle.

Cory and Cody sought to assuage my disappointment by offering up snacks.

At least it was nice to sit out in the early evening air and take in the view. All up and down the coast, there were kites, more than half a kilometre overhead, with some sort of electrical supply that kept them glowing with red, green or blue lights. I counted more than twenty of them, just barely visible. They were very clearly ornamental, judging from their fanciful shapes, but why? The Balinese don’t seem to worry much about questions of “why” when it comes to design. And it was very restful, watching the distant lights sway and swoop in the breeze.

For one final insult from Above, as I left, I discovered that the lift call button wasn’t working – the only way I got out of there was when some other people rode the lift up to my floor.

Since I was already up in northern Seminyak, I decided to walk over to 40 Thieves, another of the bars on my list. It’s themed as a speakeasy, and accordingly, isn’t signposted or even remotely possible to find unless you know what to look for. The only way I eventually got in was that I remembered something I’d read about it being above a ramen place, and since there was only one ramen place in the general vicinity, I asked in there and was directed up some back stairs into a long hallway lined with wood paneling and framed black and white photographs of people who were probably important, which ended in an ominous arched wooden door studded with brass. I pushed it open and found… no one. Apart from a handful of bartenders wearing yellow and black gingham shirts. The bar had only just opened for the evening, and I was their first customer.

Clearly the bartenders were bored, because they set on me like conversationally starved hyenas. Eventually I was surrounded by four of them, including the manager who had pulled up a barstool next to me, and we discussed the delights of alcohol for the next hour. Apparently the bar doesn’t start filling up until after 10pm, and also it’s Tuesday, and also it’s karaoke night, which is not necessarily a drawcard. But it was fun chatting about booze, the pandemic and hip nightspots while I sipped on an Earl Grey Old Fashioned and sampled a couple of shots of random spirits about which the bartenders were particularly enthusiastic.

Cory and Cody made friends with the bar’s mascot, and compared notes on the trials of being someone else’s Instagram candy.

Introvert that I am, I wouldn’t have minded slipping away to just enjoy the ambiance of the bar, which is decorated in a style best described a Pop Geek Library Chic. The walls are lined with glass-fronted cabinets crammed full of paperback books, dotted with curios and vintage whatnots, and topped with dead portable TVs, with projectors cleverly focused on them to give the illusion that they were tuned to some weird dreamlike channels, showing dancing roast chickens or imaginary travelogues.

I made a mental note to go back there late one evening, when there are other customers to keep the bartenders busy.