“Our people are experts at destroying nature, while the government is helpless and uncaring.”
It was my second time to visit Bali, the Indonesian island which literary giant Alejandro Roces once visited before hordes of tourists came rushing in, and awed by its natural beauty, he said, “after seeing Bali, I can die.”
The first time I went there, I stayed at Nusa Dua, which impressed me with its wide and pristine shoreline of grey sand beaches and nice one-storey shopping malls where you could find native handicrafts and all kinds of oils and scents to bring back home.
It was lovely but it wasn’t lively, with five star hotels that made it exclusive, unlike Kuta where I was told, the Aussies play and booze.
This time around, I rented a villa in a farm in Ubud, a highland part of the 5.78 million hectare island astride the Sunda and Lombok straits, which together with Malacca are the narrow bodies of water upon which vital cargoes from Europe and Africa to the Far East.
I decided to rent the villa, which was a bungalow with two large bedrooms, a kitchenette and dinette, plus a small, private swimming pool, instead of a condo unit in Baguio because it was cheaper, a real bargain. Besides, ensconced in a farm villa far from the madding crowd, it was the perfect place to do “forced” writing on a book about my political memoirs.
What impressed me most about the island, particularly Ubud, is how they have preserved their culture, a Balinese version of Hinduism, quite different and less restrictive than their Muslim brothers in Java and the rest of Indonesia. Every house had a small temple in their yard dedicated to their ancestors and the gods they revered like Shiva, Vishnu and Brahma. And their sacred places, whether ancient or relatively new and re-built, dot the area every so many meters.
Which is why Europeans and North Americans, Japanese and Chinese tourists flock to Bali in numbers that would dwarf those who visit our “Love”-less Philippines. The Balinese have a culture they revere and preserve; we have only our version of the West with a few churches that are a far cry from the splendor of European churches. What tourist would gawk at the Manila Cathedral or San Agustin, or even far-away Paoay and Miag-ao, when they have the Dom in Koln and Notre Dame in Paris even if most have forgotten to attend Sunday mass?
You will not find Hermes or Vuitton shops in Ubud and in their place are small boutiques where artisans sell their linen and cotton creations and their tastefully designed handicrafts. The coffee culture is so native, with Kopi Luwak and their arabica served in small friendly cafes in one of which I had the best tarte tatin I tasted outside of France or the kitchen of Jamby Madrigal.
The rivers are pristine and the forests are well-preserved with no high rises and few concrete monstrosities unlike those that have made the once idyllic Baguio an urban mess since SM replaced the Pines Hotel.
We travelled by motorbikes for 6 dollars a day to rice terraces that were just a fraction of our once-magnificent Banaue rice terraces. In contrast, tin-covered shacks dotting Banaue destroy pictures unless one treks to Mayoyao or Hapao. Our people are experts at destroying nature, while the government is helpless and uncaring.
After finishing two-thirds of a planned book and before returning to Manila via Denpasar where apparently the Bamban mayor once landed on her odyssey to escape the inquisitions in Congress, I spent a few days in Seminyak by the beach.
Its sands certainly cannot compare to the cool white sands of Boracay, not even those of Anda in Bohol or Santa Monica in Siargao, but what amazes this Filipino traveler is that despite the multitudes, there are no stalls, resorts and hotels stealing the beach from shoreline and nature. Instead, you see a 50 meter wide expanse of gray sand between the waterline and the resorts, where they dutifully remove beach bags and parasols for customers after night becomes day.
In our fabled Boracay, you would be lucky to see even 25 meters of beach except in Stations Zero and part of Station One.
Gazing at the sky day and night while sipping San Miguel Light (yes, though their Bintang isn’t bad either), one is amazed at the number of direct flights from all over the world that land at Denpasar airport.
There are many lessons we can learn from Bali that Bora and Banaue, even Baguio can perhaps slowly undertake.
