Sick to Death of Bali

February 20, 2008

Photo:Flickr/Tabea-Marie

The air was dense and sweltering as I lay on a sweat-soaked sheet gazing forlornly through the mesh of a mosquito net, attempting to glimpse what lay beyond, just outside the door of my rented bungalow in Bali’s art capital, Ubud. Delirious, writhing in pain, and folded neatly into a fetal position, I was furious that such beauty could lie only a few feet away.

The sun was beginning to set behind the thick exotic foliage that lined the perimeter of the tiny rice field just beyond the tile porch. Even mosquitoes seemed to pirouette on the light evening breeze and as the sun knelt down, bats joined in their aerial acrobatics show, filling the sky in a uniform and graceful fashion like macabre starlings. But for me it was merely a reminder that an entire day was wasted in the city that I had long dreamed of; wasted to a nasty stomach infection.

I had been careless. Despite having done my homework prior to leaving, forewarned not to drink the water or ice and avoid indulging in any local fruits or vegetables that were uncooked, I had caved to the plethora of culinary delights that Indonesia has to offer. I was eager to jump into life as a native, too embarrassed to refuse the es merah (lemon-aid with ice) or to say no to a friend who was trying to be helpful when I stated that I was vegetarian by offering gado-gado (a salad doused in spicy peanut sauce). Of course when some one offers you a chance to try the spiky foul smelling durian fruit for the first time (and probably the last time if you’re wise), curiosity is bound to take the reigns.

There was a certain fear of being perceived as the snobby tourist at play here. I had genuine friends to impress with my worldliness and also the family of my boyfriend which I was terrified of offending. I wanted to lap up their hospitality, submerse myself fully in their culture, and emerge from Indonesia as the heroic westerner with an iron stomach! I had only the length of my tourist visa, which in Indonesia extends to a paltry 30 days, in which to savor this country. Unfortunately, in my quest to make every moment count, I had inadvertently set myself back several days.

Although it’s hard to say what exactly contributed to my downfall, habit proves a cruel mistress as well. While I had remembered to brush my teeth with bottled or boiled water, I had absent-mindedly rinsed off my toothbrush in the tap water.

Then there was the arak. Arak is a rice wine made in Bali that produces a unique high. Bartenders serve large pitchers of the local favorite for next to nothing. In addition to being filled to the brim with arak, the pitchers are also contain ice. I had heard myths about arak the whole time I was in Jakarta and I wasn’t about to miss my chance to enjoy it. I rationalized that the alcohol would definitely kill whatever lingered in the ice.

Well, what I had failed to realize is that most of my friends were not strangers to western visitors taking extra precautions. However, what I saw during my visit were now hardened expats and exchange students who had slowly grown accustomed to the very things that would have once left them moaning in agony for days. I had asked the nurse who had given my immunizations whether one becomes immune to the ice and eating the local produce with time, to which she had responded positively. I guess I was jealous, seeing other westerners able to partake of the real deal so freely.

I continued to play the writhing martyr for the rest of the evening, having missed my window of opportunity to head to a clinic. I’m an American. I am accustomed to excruciating health care bills and putting off going to the doctor as long as possible in an effort to avoid financial ruin. The next day, feeling mildly better, I made my way first thing to a recommended clinic. Klinik Dharma Usada was a bare bones, white washed compound that left me admittedly skeptical to the level of care that I would receive. But the doctor spoke more English than most Balinese do and they ran the standard tests that one might receive at home.

At last my doctor prescribed some pills. I begged to be told what they were, only to be persuaded to ‘just take them’. This is something I would encounter more than once in my travels to Indonesia, a general expectation that one doesn’t need to be informed of what they’re putting in their body. Well, they haven’t met the likes of me, ever skeptical of anything pharmaceutical. But I was desperate and I solemnly obeyed.

My fears of a colossal bill were assuaged by the cashier who, upon presenting me with the paperwork detailing the care that I was given, charged me a total of 500,00RP. At the time, this amounted to just under 50 dollars. The relief alone was enough to make me feel better.

Within a matter of hours I was able to rejoin life again and my faith in Indonesian medicine had grown by leaps and bounds. I became a devout worshiper of my medical practitioner by lunch time when I was at last able to consume a meal. But from then on, I had vowed to be careful. Sitting there in 90 degree weather, I dined on hot soup and hot tea.

While I may have missed out on some gastronomical wonders of the ring of fire, I was able to enjoy the rest of my journey. Given more time, I might have mastered digestion of the local cuisine, but I’ll trade a million plates of gado-gado for a chance to delight in the magnificent carved Buddhist temples and the volcanoes that whose gaping mouths glowed spectacular orange at night and be accosted by macaques at the monkey forest. Certainly durian, despite its putrid rotten egg allure, is never worth forgoing a row across cerulean lakes in search of a long abandoned graveyard or the ever-present aural wonder of the gamelan that provides the mystical soundtrack to life there on Bali.

About the author:eveghost is a musician and freelance writer currently living in Los Angeles, California. Pairing her experience as former vocalist for death rock group Scarlet’s Remains with a passion for travel, she created the blog The Punk Rock Traveler as an alternative travel blog for activists, vegans, punks, and others seeking avant-guard travel experiences. Her favorite places on the planet (so far) are Bali, Berlin, and the French Alps. www.punkrocktraveler.blogspot.com www.myspace.com/eveghost