From Surabaya to Bali: Enchanting Tropical Isle

There’s a slight breeze in Legian, Bali, a borough near the shores of Kuta Beach. It’s been raining all night, the streets flooded with the murk of grime and dirt leftover from the myriad tourists and raging little motorbikes which stuff the streets on any given day. The air is still thick with humidity, but the sun’s out in full force, much as it has been in the last few days, with the exception of a few hours here and there of cloud cover. The interspersed light makes for stunning photography through the green mountain forests of Bali, one of the most beautiful, charming, and enchanting islands in the world.

We arrived here Friday morning after a 6:30AM flight out of Surabaya. The evening before we dined at Fiona’s house, an expansive abode with marble floors and (amusing, to us at least) glamour photos of Fiona at young ages scattered around the house. Her mother and father greeted us warmly and laid out a fantastic Indonesian dinner upon our arrival. We dined on chicken satay, thick with a savory peanut sauce. A stew of oxtail was perfumed with various herbs and the rich marrow of the bones. Combined with sticky rice cubes cooked in coconut milk and wrapped in banana leaves, it made for the perfect comfort food. We threw in a few heaps of coal-black cow lung, which soaked up the broth from the soup and added a smokey, meaty bite to each spoonful. A thick sambal, a typical Indonesia chili paste, rounded out the flavors with a spicy kick. It reminded me of Korean ssam jang, a spicy miso chili sauce.







After dinner came a parade of exotic tropical fruits. On our way to Fiona’s home, we stopped by a grocer to pick up a fresh durian, which Javier had still not tried in perfect form. I’d had my share of durian, but most of it was no doubt irradiated against potential fruit flies on its journey from Southeast Asia to the States. Before we indulged in the “king” of fruits, we started with the “queen”: mangosteen. Mangosteen is a cute orb that’s topped with a bowtie and shaded with dark, sandy hues. Opening the thick peel, which is colored inside like a faint red velvet cake, reveals the pearly white flesh, as alluring as its lusty flavor. The first bite is tart, almost like a lychee, but the suave flesh entrances the palate with a sweet finish and a luscious texture. It’s truly ladylike in its complexity and delight.






Next comes a mixed platter of green mangoes and slices oranges, the mangoes imbued with a tangy bite and stringy texture. Then, the large pieces of the durian, which have been taken out of the thick spiky shell. The smell neither dominates nor disturbs the senses with its purported stench, but rather intoxicates with its bewitching moan of aromas. The flesh is custardy and thick, like an overripe mango or banana that’s been neglected for weeks. The flavor carries a stupendous mélange of flavors that radiate the palate and tickle the brain’s nerves like no other fruit in the world does. Javier is speechless, except for the occasion “oomph” from the incredible flavor. We hear there are even better varieties of durian offered in Jakarta, which we’ll be visiting a week’s time. But until then, both he and I are fairly certain that this moment is one we’ll never forget.





Fast forward to Friday morning. We’re driving through the busy streets of Denpasar, Bali, en route to the heart of the island. Motorbikes whizz past us, some with entire families of four on them. The smaller child usually sits in front of the father, holding on pleasantly despite the obvious danger. The larger child might sit in between the mother and father, safely squashed in. Other times there are dainty older women who, rather than straddling the seat, sit like maidens on a fine horse, with both legs on one side. Other drivers weave in and out of lanes like maniacs, playing “chicken” with opposite side of the road just to get ahead by another car. There’s a theatre involved with the interplay of vehicles, pedestrians, motorbikes, and buses on the roads of Indonesia. I make certain that I have my seatbeat tightly fastened.





We make immediate for the hills of Bali, which sport gracious sides of verdant palm forests. There might be enough green on this island equal to the entire county of Los Angeles, or perhaps more. Rice paddies and corn fields line the narrow roads, where our driver braves opposing cars with the occasional skip-de-loo. Soon, I’m less concerned with the driving and more enamored by the beauty that surrounds. We make a stop at a vista overlooking a volcano that erupted only a few years before. The expanse is breathtaking, but I have little time to enjoy it before vendors from all sides hawk trinkets, bracelets, and elaborate hand-carved chess sets. I keep trying to wave them off but finally yield to a lady who sold me some wooden pearl bracelets. We snap photos and move on.



Our driver stops us at a quiet spot where we can rest peacefully with cups of Kopi Luwak, the notorious and expensive coffee made from the feces of civet, a cat-like creature known to roam and dine of the choicest coffee berries. The rest-stop features various spices of varying degree, from large bundles of vanilla pods to massive nutmeg ready to ground. We sip on the Kopi Luwak, whose pre-ground form leaves little in complexity. It’s over roasted but still delicious in a bass-tone sort of way. The version I had at Funnel Mill Coffee in Santa Monica was superior though that cup goes for $75, whereas the one here is no more than a few bucks. We also sip on Balinese hot cocoa, not too sweet, and textured in the rich cacao of the area. We pick up some fruits such as passion (or passion fruit) and this odd snake-skin looking fruit that has a crunchy, bright texture. The name eludes me.



Before we know it, we’re stopped in front of a familiar hut in the town of Ubud. They should almost have a huge sign that says “Anthony Bourdain once ate here and proclaimed this as the greatest pork he’s ever eaten.” The statement is apparent in many of diner’s eyes, who are left in a rather tacit hex upon eating the well-known Balinese suckling pig, also known as “babi gulung.” I’d dreamed of eating here ever since viewing that episode Bourdain’s show, “No Reservations.” The dream was now a reality. We picked off some choice seats on the bungalow and waited for the dishes, drinking cold glasses of the standard-issue beer in Indonesia, Bintang. The cool, simple, malty pilsiner pairs with just about any local food, let alone this heralded swine dish.





It’s a humble presentation, a heap of perfect steamed white rice topped with slices of the white pork flesh that’s been treated with a special seasoning of herbs and spices. A green bean salad, a chunk of blood sausage, and a curious fried mash are the supporting actors. Oh and let’s not forget the crackling skin, thick as cardstock paper and crispier than dried wood. My weak jaws can’t handle the brittle skin, but the flavor and fat more than makes up for the unyielding texture. It’s something you want to knaw on for half the day because it bursts with a smokey, fatty flavor. The meat itself sings with pleasure, moist and juicy, aided (not overtaken) by the seasonings. I can see that my fellow diners, Javier, Fiona, and her brother Steven, are rather the same as the throngs preceding us.





The crispy mash is rich in fat and provides a starchy counterpoint to the dish while the blood sausages popped in my mouth with rich, iron-like overtones and a heavy spice. This dish shines not so much on the excellence of the pork’s flavor, or the stellar accoutrements, but essentially for the setting: a large straw hut overlooking a temple across the street and “sauced” with the mesmerizing melodies of a Balinese xylophone somewhere in the distance (actually it might’ve been a recording playing from the convenience store next door). It’s also a mere 25,000 Rp., about $2.50, a sensational bargain despite the requisite journey.



A must-see in the area is the Monkey Sanctuary, an area where crafty, gangly monkeys roam with alarming proximity to the visiting humans. Some play with abandon over a dirty pond while others chase after the delicious little bananas and cucumber slices offered by the tourists. The faces of the monkeys look incredibly human, displaying emotion through their eyes. I pity their thick fur on these hot, muggy days. I love their relative candor and bored look at the sight of all these tourists. It’s like they’re jaded and kind of over the fact that they’re being played on. They’re quite fine with me coming up and taking close-up photos of them. Either way, I enjoy seeing them despite their nonchalance at my presence.





We’ve still many activities and days of fun ahead of us. We head off in our rented car, off to another destination, where succulent pork ribs and grilled lamb await.