By Mehru Jaffer

One visitor in the 1930s dismissed the north as too urbanised and promptly drove down to the south in search of real Bali. As he waded through thick tropical forests, past screaming monkeys and waterfalls, between gorges and valleys, the languorous lap of volcanoes was finally left behind and he imagined Bali in the form of a solitary female figure, swinging towards him.

The erotic promise of the island revealed to the visitor is vividly described in The Last Paradise by author Hickman Powell. “A scarf fell carelessly from a shoulder and the bronze bowls of maiden breasts projected angular, living shadows,” writes Powell.

Since then the woman has become a metaphor for all the magic said to nestle even on leaves here and those nurturing dreams of pastoral poets have looked upon the south as a teeming, pregnant woman in whose eyes burn the afterglow of fallen empires. But many decades down the ladder of time the woman seems to have procreated to such a wretched extent that both the surf and beach are reduced by mass tourism to one big playground full of noise. The magic is still there but somewhat jaded from being forced too much into remaining magical.

Considering how the crowds have taken to slumming in the south some are beginning to look beyond the flat beach and tall palm trees at misty mountain peaks visible in the distant. The hub of present day Bali may be the south but travelling to the north is considered a more meditative experience. Besides the drive from the talcum powder beaches of Kuta to the northern coast of Lovina, strewn in contrast with black sand is just 80 km.

The journey is in fact the reverse of Miguel Covarrubias, the Mexican painter and anthropologist who first landed in north Bali in 1930 with his wife Rose. Soon after he set foot on the primitive wooden pier in Buleleng he rented a car to dash down into the mysterious mountains in search of the beauteous bounties promised by the south. They drove through Singaraja, the capital at that time past neat Dutch bungalows, gasoline stations and the house of the Dutch Resident with its imposing driveway flanked by two monstrous cement snakes.

On the way they saw miserable villages, temples with tin roofs and soon began to shiver in a cloud of fog. Often they wondered if they had been deceived about the rumoured beauty of the land and the people of Bali. It is only when the fog vanished, the air became warmer and tropical vegetation appeared that they felt cheerful again. They basked in the tropical vegetation and enjoyed the ride among tall palms and enormous banana trees to enter into beautiful villages and fantastic terraced rice-fields covered with every shade of green.

In Denpasar real Bali was finally discovered a block away from the main city square on a dirt-paved lane where no mad automobiles ran over pigs and chickens. Roads that are lined with shopping malls and discotheques today had typical mud wall compounds, the thatched gates protected by mysterious signs, a dead chicken nailed flat on the wall or a little white flag inscribed with cabalistic symbols.

These were the proper setting for the lithe brown-skinned women returning from market with baskets of fruit on their heads and for the men in loincloths sitting in groups around the baskets in which they kept their favourite fighting cocks. From behind the walls was heard the occasional tinkling sounds of practicing on a gamelan.

But the reputation of Kuta beach as real Bali is now under threat. It is argued that even the Balinese regard the sea less and consider it as the hiding place of evil spirits. It is the mountains that are revered here as abodes of gods, symbolic of everything that is lofty and sacred. It is the mountains that were chosen by the island’s earliest people to live.

Going to the mountains today means not forgetting to feed the monkeys on the way while ignoring all the art galleries and antique shops ripping off other tourists in Ubud. There is little time for boutique cafes or fancy spa treatments for the freshly ground coffee for Rp 1000 at a roadside warung is delicious enough just like a generous helping of nasi campur is.

The first stop is the 16^th century classic temple complex surrounded by pleasure gardens in the Mengwi Regency. The story goes that inspired by the moat palaces of China and fuelled by the feud with the King of Denpasar, a cousin, the King of Mengwi built Taman Ayu as a family house temple that none before it could compare.

Standing before the Candi Kunning, with its layered roof made of ijuk, the black fibre from sago plant, floating on the shimmering waters of the Bratan lake with the mountains behind is like being part of a waking dream. A Buddhist stupa in the same premises makes the temple complex one of the most revered by Bali’s Buddhist community.

The drive to Singaraja is past three lakes and lush coffee and clove plantations. Munduk is a town developed by the Dutch as a resort and the trek down to the waterfalls is invigorating. The northern coast is modest compared to the generous vastness of the steamy beaches in the south. But the town of Singaraja is interesting for all the architectural relics left behind by the Dutch. Lovina is a name given to the beach here by first President Sukarno who combined the two words of Love and Indonesia together, Rades the guide told me.

To be in the ancient town of Kintamani on the rim of the foggy crater of mount Batur, home of Vishnu, god of prosperity and patron of peasants, staring at the lake snuggled at the feet of the volcano is a mesmerising experience during the day. But to participate in a ceremony at the temple on a full moon night is to actually feel one’s presence in the midst of gods.

Deep in the ravines and on the banks of the river Pakrisan lie11^th century burial towers. The spectacular funeral shrines and meditation corners are carved into the rock with the fingernails of the mythical giant Kbo Iwa. To stroll around the Gunung Kawi or the mountain of poetry is to be filled with excitement about life as it was lived a thousand years ago.

Nearby is the sacred bath of Tampaksiring, its waters with magical and curative powers attracting many maidens to bathe here. President Sukarno chose to build his retreat on an opposite hillock overlooking the temple’s spring of holy waters. This is also one of Bali’s holiest temples. 

The Elephant Cave from the 9^th century reeks of even more ancient antiquities. The T-shaped meditation cave, home to many a hermit holds within the great hollowed rock an idol of Ganesh, the elephant god at one end and the fertility symbols of the holy trinity of Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva at the other. The royal bathing pools of the royalty of yesteryears are decorated with heavenly creatures carved in stone with the breasts of these angels spouting holy water.

The only problem of undertaking a journey such as this one is to find it most difficult to tune back to reality.

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