P.S

Happy birthday little sis, love you, miss you, wish I could kiss you. Adore you, and more you, can't believe 1. how lucky I am to have you as my sister. 2. that you're younger than me (which is a reference to your wisdom rather than stretch marks as even after 3 kids I bet mine beat yours). 3. how much I learn from you xxxx

Hindu weddings minus the whiplash

What looks like a huge metal headdress transpired in today's case at least to be made of paper. No worries on the whiplash front. The same was not true on the shame of standing outside the temple with a tampax string that may as well be in full view.

Needless to say the period turned up last night, so the fear of many gods was upon me, the shame of everyone knowing (not that I think it's a big deal you understand, I've had the damn things every month for the last twenty years now.) But Hindu's apparently do as a bit of old shedding bars you from a temple. luckily, turns out the temple is only for the family anyway so my mutual "look at me, here stands a bleeding leper" sticker remained firmly tucked into my bra.

The wedding itself was a little anti-climatic for me. The bride looked lovely, as did the groom, even with a sword stuffed down his back. As did the bride's brother and sister who had the exact same outifits as the happy couple on. Seems that was only because they were getting their teetch sawn at the same time as the happy couple. Two ceremonies for the price on one I think, given that the groom was an aussie, and paying.

Teeth sawing is obligatory if you want to be a hindu, and by default if you want to marry one. The Aussie chap seemed to be sweating much more than his wife and her siblings as a result of that particular excercise which I am told hurts like hell, as you'd expect.

Happy wedding day, was my first thought. You can apparently opt to do that in advance, which is what you'd think anyone would do so the big day wasn't a pain filled memory. Only with the wailing and the endless drone of the two men on a xylophone, and the chanting and the praying, and the fact that there was bugger all alcohol (and what was there was naturally only offered to the blokes - as good girls don't drink) certainly no singing, dancing, speeches or general merriment of any kind, plus the fact the whole affair was carried out in a tiny house crammed full with people in the searing heat; maybe the "bloody hell, let's just get the whole thing over with in one go" mentality, would prevail.


I took my camera and turned into the official photographer for the whole village, Small children were brought by parents from I believe in some cases the village next door, people who were not invited anywhere near the house crept round the back to pat me on the shoulder and point first at themselves then at the camera, entire hoardes of children posed very unsubtly over cars and then waited for me to notice, and at the moment when I went to take any picture, about thirty other people who were not meant to be in the damn thing ran like prize winning athletes, over the line and into the frame. needless to say I took around 750 photographs and have promised to send copies back to the village. Camera and phots are very rare so I enjoyed the whole thing immensely, despite the fact I can't speak a word of Balinese and they couldn't speak a word of English. By the end I even had people voluntarily helping me uncrowd teh pictures so I could get some half decent shots.

The camera was however intended to creat an album for the bride and groom, but the aforementioned small room crammed full of people, plus windows liekwise inhabited, made getting any photos of the not so happy couple (after the teeth bit at least - which, incidentally is to release bad spirits) difficult to pin down. I'm hoping pictures of 750 of their friends, aquaintances, neighbours and not any of the above will help dull the disapointment. The brotyher and sister were easier to pin down so maybe some of the back shots will act as suitable costume doubles at least.

Needless to say, seeing the Dolphins this morning in a tiny catamaran that had to be repaired with a bit of old fishing net to sail me back, was amazing.

My life is one long lesson (plus lots of dolphin sideshows) and I am rediscovering my passion for learning

Julie x

feats of modern technology

Kuala Lumpar airport is amazing, I have been a few times before but still the toiulets that flush without being pushed, teh elevators that stay still and go when you step on them and the travellators that do the same never fail to amaze me. very energy efficeint. the building itself is like an overbloen Foster building, all glas and steel and spheres in every direction, the distances between the gates however is something I never fail to underestimate and therefore my own energy efficiency is always dubious.
Kuta on the other hand is still a technological mare. Power cuts, no asterisks, no spell check for semi dsylexic blog gypsies, same old.

need to dash as the Hindu wedding beckons, we\re setting off a night early so I can see Dolphins --yipee in the morning! It requires a 5am start but hey, you know me and dolphins

julie so damn lucky on the fish front xxx

Glamour Glamour Glamour

Or not as the case may be. Afflicted with my second dose of Bali belly in as many weeks, yesterday involved never being more than two minutes from the western toilets carefully staked out during the first encounter. I am all for cross cultural ingegration, all for adopting the customs of the country you are living in. But folks, the gypsy has to draw the line somewhere and squitting my insides over my feet then washing my backside with a hose pipe as the balinese custom dictates, is it for me.

I had planned to spend last night on a girls night to coincide with the full moon ceremony and involve lots of female bonding with a great group of women I have met. sadly, it was bed by eight for me. the boys at the tour shop were lovely, insisting I go everywhere on the back of one of their bikes and deciding the water in the office was too lukewarm for a sickly princess, rushing instead to get newly refrigerated versions of the same stuff. whilst they as a foursome offered to "we take care for you", being supervised whilst liquid tries to escape from both ends is never pleasant so I retreated to my hotel for much of the day and night.

the upside of all this is that I woke this morning with a stomach that almost resembled an ironing board, between the heat and germs I seem to be slimming whilst (albeit not yesterday) generally also enjoying the best of Balinese and Western cuisine.

I awoke after a 24 hour fast with the aforementioned washboard stomach screaming for fuel though. Naturally I couldnt refuse and seems the day of fasting and dashing has paid off, back to full strength.

I head to kuala Lumpar tommorrow, cheaper than singapore for visa restocking it transpires, and having decided to stay put in bali until I head home to London, I now leave a few days earlier and should be back on the 29th march. Not sure of the exact time (mum, ben and lil sis) but I collect my ticket en route to KL so will post details asap.

Dad joins me here on the 7th march for a week or so which should mean I get a whirlwind tour of the island and much needed dose of familial contact, seeing as how it feels like forever since I saw the family.

life in Bali continues to delight. I have an invite to a Hindu wedding this week from the girl I mentioned who is marrying an Aussie. as far as I can tell the day entails praying you dont have your period (if you do its a bit like yoga when they say "if youre menstruating dont do this move") as you dont get to go in the temple. That bothers me naturally with the implication of uncleanliness and mysogyny, but more just out of a very tangible fear that I will be stood with everyone knowing if I am on. the second part of the ceremony I think is about praying the ride doesnt get whiplash from the neck crushing contraption she has laden on her delicate skull. the bride in question is a mere twenty years old , her groom, 22, both lovely, so I will naturally have everything crossed for them. I am being flippant, really very excited on a number of levels, I am really enjoying learning about Hindu culture and liking what I find a lot. balance is key, even so far as ackowledging and making offerings rather than demonising bad spirits, which I think is rather cool as we all have good and bad sides, and being kind rather than attacking is much more likely to extinguish the latter. barring the temple shaming fear I think its up at the top of religions I respect.

i have volunteered my services as the official photographer so will enjoy taking loads of photos and not just looking like a voyeur in doing so, it is also a way of saying thanks for letting me come at the last minute, as I will do the bride a groom an album as a present.

Life is like a marriage, sometimes good, sometimes not so, but frequently worth working at.
My little life is like are I am aware getting more cliche by the minute, the ideas are drying up - feel free to add your own version via the peanut gallery labelled comments as one friend called it.

ben, I love and miss you too, will try and call you very soon

Julie x

Birthday princesses and men in uniform

apologies avid blog followers (read mum and lil sis!), the birthday princess in true homage to her mothers childhood ethos of you can do whatever you want its your birthday and the girls mantra of birthdays last a whole week, has been stringing it out hence the lack of blogging.

To those of you wondering if i really did a literature degree so apalling is my grammar (see mothers with no apostrophe for example) I should explain that in addition to being infuriatingly slow, balinese internet cafes kindly put useful little things like apostrophes and quotation marks under different keys than the ones marked as such

So the birthday day was pretty much a non event. I went to teh airport to change my ticket and get some legal immigration advice on extending my current 30 day visa. Hum, first was fine, legal advice involved a man in uniform telling me to meet him outside the airport, not talk to anyone and pay him $200 in return for a new visa (read tear out the old and paste a new one over it).

It was pretty pissed off having explained clearly to him I wanted a legal solution not a dodgy one. The upshot - I am off to singapore for a few days to rerturn legitimately for around the same money. What really annoys me is that whilst the westerners can happily fork out a few quid here and there to the guys in uniform, the Indonesians can ill afford it and get treated the same. Take the police for example, they are forever holding roadblocks to get passers by on a series of jumped up charges, all of which miracilously vanish for a bung. I got caught with one of the guys from the tour office today but luckily they found nothing to fine him for. half an hour later as we were returning the buggers were counting their takings and sharing it out between the 4 of them. It is harly suprising there is so little faith in Indonesias fledgling democracy, it seems everyone in a position of authority and what should be trust takes full advantage of it to line their own pockets.

Anyway, post immigration I decided some birthdaying was in order and I took the boys for japanese food ( a first for them) then off to a pub to watch some live music followed by a bit of clubbing. I went mad, cocktails, beer, great food, more jugs of balinese Arat ( a spirit that is suprisingly drinkable to someone used to used to national drinks siuch as that nasty stuff you get in Greece whos name escapes me) Oozo? the whole night including taxis, set me back a paltry thirty quid for five of us. bargain! There was much hilarity with the boys first chopstick encounter, me falling off podiums, and then a collective male collapse around 2am when I suddenly had five beseeching and definately swaying faces asking if it could be the birthday finale now, though not using the word finale cos their English is not good enough.

Life in Bali continues to amaze me, there's so much (where the hell did that apostrophe come from and how can I get another one?) we take for granted in the West. Being able to get a passport for example, one of the guys has a sister who is marrying an Aussie guy and yet because she hasnt finished school (not enough money to pay for it) she cant get a passport. One area where actually you would think a backhander would be helpful, but no, doesnt work apparently. How bad is that, no money for education, no passport? It seems the whole system here is designed to really kick those who have it toughest.

On a more positive note I am loving the indonesian food, and the number of toptastic people I am meeting is speading faster than a fungal toenail. there's ( See sometimes it pops up, the apostrophe, maddening!)Mac the Spanish jewellry and clothes designer who eats fire in her spare time, Agu the pregnant woman in my hotel who has been disowned by her family for getting pregnant and marrying a man below her caste, whos just lovely albeit naturally very pained about the fact she has to snatch ten minutes with her nephew in the school playground then ask him not to tell mummy. There's happy a woman worth her name who sells fruit on the beach. Wimpi, the man with the best theraputic massages in the world, who is definately not as him name implies given he does up to 15 of them a day. Theres Mr Jerry, a lovely man who cooks the best balinese food on the planet, with his lovely wife and two gorgoeus kids, he used to have a leather jacket shop but with two small kids and 2 months without a sale he decided drastic action was needed and as both him and his wife can cook, they opened a restuarant and display their jackets in cuboards at the top of the walls just in case the old business picks up. When I first went there they had very few customers having just opened, now words spread and the place is frequently heaving( in Balineses terms that means more than four cusrtomers at once).

Life is like surfing, sometimes you fall off and smack your head, but the rides worth it.

Julie x

transport, taxi, tours

Anyone who has visited Bali before will be familiar the calls of "transport / taxi" that greet you on every corner. there's always a man with a bike willing to take you someowhere. I have been spending a lot of my time in a variation on a theme, the office of teh man who took me to Ubus. he started the business five years ago with his uncle and after his uncle bailed saying "its too hard", went solo. At first like many others with just a bike and some basic english. Now he has a business with 3 men, albeit only one is salaried and thats not him. the others are apprentices, he pays their rent and buys their food. the sleep four men to a room, in fact 4 men to a bed. They eat for 80 cents, 30p a day. Yet despite what seems on the surface a pretty harsh existance, I have never been anywhere with so much laughter. the boys all go back years and one by one have been brought from their Villages by ngurah as his business can support another. They are lovely, I am helping with their English, have the salaried one saying "ygood morning, how are you?| rather than "yes, good morning". Of the apprentices one is a real asset having cleaned a house for two years and pursuaded his employers to send him to learn Japanese rather than pay him, the other is very new, yet to make a mark. I have feminised their office, swapped bad euro pop for the smoother sounds of Jack Johnson, and got them to clean the floor on a more regular basis. every tiem a car gets returned the place resembled a grand prix pit stop, all hands on deck, one cleaning the inside, another the outside, the new boy dusting the mats, the boss under the bonnet. the aim. to have it re-rentable asap. they travel for an hour and ahalf to borrow another car or bike from a friend as required, for a grand total of two aussie dollars, one pund sixty, but I am learning, it's not about the money, it is about making sure the customers never go elsewhere.

I am loving their company, they are down to earth, funny and have a freindship as strong as my own with my special women. they are always sharing their food, their water, cigarettes, beer with anyone passing who cares to stop, and they look out for each other in a way I see very rarely with men.

life is so much richer for freinds, and laughter is plentiful among those who have little to laugh about I am finding.
Love you all, miss you madly
Julie x

Bikes, Price Hikes and Peddlars

I am learning. If you get a black plastic bag it's a sign to other traders that you have been ripped off. If you learn people's names and keep your promises, you're less likely to get a black plastic bag. Everyone knows everyone, and wants to go know your business on a regular basis. "where you going?" "where you staying?", "where you from?" "How much you pay?" are all questions designed to work out your client value and your business.

traders cycle from nearly towns, often with pushbikes laden with boxes, strapped either side of the back wheel to make a living. It's not uncommon to see four children being collected from school on a scooter with an adult driving. It's not uncommon to see a whole family sat on one bike. It's not uncommon for bikes to mount the pavement or drive the wrong way down a one way street to save time in a place where making a living is no mean feat.

The traders are brilliant at recalling the tourist names, cries of "Julie Julie" greet me every time I venture more than five yards from my hotel.

It's a dirty, crazy place, the streets are narrow yet large cars are the norm as the police assume they are tourist vehicles and don't stop them for a back hander. Money gets things done, court cases avoided, visas extended, every corner has a man wanting a back hander for something.

Yet it's not all about money. Come the big hindu ceremonies every trader no matter how bad his business will shut, fast, not smoke, not drink and return to their home to celebrate whatever the event. Sometimes people suprise you, you say a price and they say, too much, you can have for less, or if you've made friends with someone it's not uncommon for them to offer to feed you, share beer or cigarettes, or offer their services for free.
I guess like everywhere it takes all sorts.
It's mad, it's crowded, it's so humid you sweat every time you leave air conditioning, it's buzzing and jostling and full of the strangest sights, but I am falling in love with Bali.

Julie

Gutted but hey

That I had been keeping a journal, notebook, novelette in my back that got nicked so I am having to start over.

But Hey, I only need to look around me to see that's not such a big problem.
I have fast become firm friends with the streets kids here, in particular a little girl called Cuman who's maybe seven, yet wise way beyond her years, and her tiny friend, Ilia if she's four I'll be suprised. We go for drinks or icecreams most days and just sit on a walll and chat for a bit. They're beautiful, speak better English than many of teh adults due to teh fact it's the languauge they beg in.
It's not unusal to see children working long days here, selling fruit from a basket on their head, or bracelets or pencils. someytimes it's money for school, sometimes It's just I guess that the family need all the income they can get.

pretty much everyone here has one of four names, not amnongst themselves but to make it easy for the tourists. the Balinese get their number in the family before their name, Wayan or Putu meaning first born, madde or Kadak for second, Numan or Komang for third and Ketut for fourth, if there's more than four kids in the family they start again so number five is Wayan again. I met a woman yesterday who is one of twelve kids, couldn't help feeling for her mother.

Another Balinese custom revoilves around the offerings to teh Gods. Bali is primarilily Hindu although it also has a small muslim population. Outside every shop are small trays made from cocunut leaves fuilled with flowers. An offering to the gods. Inside every shop, yet more of the same, usually strategically placedc on desks and sometimes in mini temples. at the end of most roads, a larger temple where the shop owners for those roads place yet another pot. on average each shop owner will have around 8 pots. Before every meal the pot gets food, before evfery shower the pot gets water, before evcery drink, even alcohol, the pot gets first dibs. This is apparently a way of saying thank you in advance to the gods for the things people have.
I like it. In fact the more I learn about the Hindu religion the more I like it. It's all about balance, sometimes people ebven give gifts to bad spirits, as a way of saying if you are good to the bad parts of yourself the chances are they good side will grow. that seems to resonate with my thinking over the past twelve months or so, where I have been trying to be kinder to the bits of myself I am not so fond of.

There's so much to learn, to inhale about this place, I love it, but it's a tough place.


Julie x

ps

My mobile got nicked by a mugger on a motorbike so i am out of phone service - you can get me by email though

apologies, the gypsy got distracted

get some friends and whammo, blogging gets more difficult! Apologies folks for my shabby blogging of late. I have got a job, of sorts, well, more a project really. I have fast become friends with the guys from the tour company I went to Ubud with. That's their ploy I have learnt, make friends with the customers, hope for referrals. I have learnt that not only do the 4 boys from the office share a bed (and no, not like that!), and work, but that on a good day they earn the quivalent of $8 or three quid, and decided I would help them with their business by following Dad's example. many of you will know Dad runs the odd tour, and is fact taking a coach load of people to Paris for valentine's day. Inspired by tales of his trip I decided to organise a Bali equivalent, sunset in balinese boats, dinner on the beach, tour of the night markets (optional) and jazz. I sell, the boys escort. Only six tourists needed to fill their bus.
Many of you will also know I pride myself on my sales technique, having been top sales girl in ad sales, best bird in gym memberships and person who brought the most tourists into a bar in Greece in one night.
No worries I think, half a day tops to sell, we've had a deal on everything so it's cheap as chips, well reserached and lovely. Only no. 4 days now, no takers, I've tried everything, hotel bars, the beach, people walking past the office, catching people who have had one too many. bugger all.
today is my last day to sell so I am hoping something comes up or it will be a lot of wasted energy and dent for my pride, but I am learning bali is a bloody hard place to drum up trade partly due to the competition, mainly due to the fact the tourists are all hassled out.

Once this mini project is over, hopefully successfully, I'll be a focused blogger once more I promise!

Also made freinds with some of the street kids so am spending half my time buying ice creams! Lovely kids though, brilliant english, even from the 4 year old! There's a couple of girls in particular who just break my heart, so beautiful, so lovely, so little chance.

I am planning to stay here a little longer, now I have a group of friends the desire to pick up my rucksack and be alone again is subsiding. Will keep you posted on plans

Much Love
Joo x

When I am President of the World

every town shall have a pool of beautiful bike riders on hand to rescue the local folk from their inner demons.

Needless to say the day on the back of a powerful machine was heaps of fun, although a tad hot in the heat with a helmet. My guide took me to the most holy of Bali's hindu temples, an amazingly spiritual place. It's the most holy as it has a cave full of bats which apparently are high up the Hindu pecking order. Hinduism is now officially my favourite religion as it has holy women on a par with holy men, and you get to come back, albeit maybe not as a dolphin.

We then headed to the elphant caves where the Balinese hid from the Japanese during their most recent invasion. Followed by more temples, this time with a spring of eternal life which naturally I washed in, then an evening of Balinese jazz which is a lot like ordinary jazz, only louder, less in tune and with a very strong accent I dicovered.

The following day I spent some time mooching round galleries and found a fabulous gallery opened by an English woman to encourage women and girls to paint. They had a whole room of stuff dedicated to the tsunami but unfortunately the pictures were horriffic so I settled for a donation and a drawing by a 13 year old girl instead. I discovered that Education is not free in Indonesia so basically the poor kids frequently fail to get any. The gallery was fabulous, half the money from the sale of the childrens paintings go to the kids family to help pay for school, half to the school to provide art material. Each child is then sponsored by an adult the money from which pays for an art teacher.
It's not unusual to be offered to buy something from children requesting "money for school". Naturally that gets me every time. As do the street kids begging, beautiful children, some as yound as 4 or five, roaming the streets asking for money. I am aware this is probably unethical tourism and to give encourages the adults to use the children to beg so I have recently changed tack and buy ice creams and hamburgers now instead of reaching for my purse.

Life is very hard here. As a tourist it's an eternal playground but as a native it's a bloody tough life trying to earn a days keep.
My friend Nur is lovely, albeit a little clingy having decided he loves me. He is polite about the fact that this is not reciprocated but is beginning a little to resemble a shadow. I am treading very carefully in order to safeguard his feelings and build a genuine freindship but do have to fight for five minutes on my own so may need to have a word in the next few days. That's hard, he's an orphan and seems pretty lonely so I am trying to find ways to create a little space for myself without hurting his feelings.

That's life from here, sorry I've been a slack blogger, internet is Ubud was a non existant concept but as I am now back in Kuta wthat should improve.

Much Love

Julie

Gigilos, escorts and friends

I'd booked myself an escort to the arty part of Bali today. Not that kind of escort - although it's true that Bali has many gigilos. The Balines Princess offered to treat me to one - but as you know that's not my style so I politely declined. Why anyone would pay for sex here astounds me - I've had more offers of "boyfriend" in the past week than in the rest of my life put together. To the caring friend who kindly suggested I bugger feminism and get myself a cheap gold wedding band - I say, great idea babe but really not necessary here. maybe for Thailand. In contrast to your average beered up bloke in Sydney or London who gets all aggro when his ego gets dented, the men here swallow my "no thank you darling" with exceedingly good grace and humour. If pushed I explain that having just come out of a five year relationship I am having a year to myself, and despite the occassional "A year, that's crazy" people seem to understand.
I'm meandering, my escort
Also comes at the recommendation of the Balinese Princess although I'm told giogilo-ing is not his style either. It's safe and easier to take a guide if you wish to deviate from the tourist centres and Ngurah (pronounced Goorah) was given glowing refernces, gentlemenly, centred, totally trustworthy. All week I have been declining offers of transport with the words that seem to have become a mantra, whether talking about massages, manicures, shopping or anything else, " I already promise someone else". That's cos on average I give a promise once an hour when someone has a particularly strong sadness or desperation about them. It's good excercise as I then spend the rest of the day retracing my steps to find whoever it was in whatever back alley I made a promise to last time I was out of cash.
Stick to the point woman
So Ngurah. After two days of searching I finally locate the right, the real "Ngurah". The number of men claiming to have his name but falling far short of the tall, young, sexy description was quite astounding. He is as promised. I tell him "I no want boyfriend, no want jiggy jig, just want transport" He looks at me like I am a loon, teases a little and we make a plan to meet at eight thirty this morning. I tell him I want him to ensure I get no hassle from other men. Basically given that he's hotter than an active volcano I am quite happy to have people think he's my boyfriend. The same however cannot be said of his older, shorter, larger and balder brother who turned up this morning with Ngurah because Ngurah has to stay in the office.
Naturally, given that I do not have the same trustworthy refernces and he's hardly as pleasing eye candy I rescheduled my trip to temples, volcanos and tradional Balinese village to tomorrow which is Ngurah's day off. I'll end the day in Ubud, the cultural centre of Bali which is another tourist area boasting Bali's finest art galleries )including one for female artists which is naturally on my itinerary) and home to the best of Balinese dancing. Here I'll be staying with the daughter of a lovely lady I met on the plane from Jakarta, and having dispatched Ngurah back to Bali will hang out there for a few days before coming back to Kuta for some final shopping - last orders in now please.

I'm cyurrently stayiong in a place called Merka Jaya in Kuta where I've been since I arrived. It is cheap (eight dollars, three pounds a night), has beautiful gardens with hammocks and kittens and lush tropical plants. I have a simple bunglaow, two beds, a bath (cold, but the humity is so stinking contemplating anything else would be ludicrous), a fan that doesn't rotate but gives off plenty of air and a wardrobe with two hangers that scream under the weight of anything more than a bikini.

It's safe according to the Balinese princess. And I have grown to trust the staff and feel relaxed there. Until last night, when at 1am someone tried to get into my room. When I called out he replied it was "just security checking the door". Well given that that hadn't happened before and I had diesmbarked the innocent trusting tourist boat after two muggings in other cities, I was not falling for it.
I hardly slept convinced someone had sen through my patchy descriptions of my home town of Auckland, discovered I was English and was coming to avenge the perceived evils of my nation on my lone body. I slept fully clothed, with the fan off so I could hear any noise, with my contact lenses in so I could identify the bastrard if I made it out alive, with my phone ready to dail the lovcal police at the mereset sound, with the light on and a can of mosquito repellant and a pair of nail scissors under my pillow. Naturally given the heat and my mental state slept is not a wholly accurate description. Sweated and fretted is more truthful. Turns out it was in fact security who do do the rounds every night to check the guests have locked their doors, and it was just that I was up later than usual last night having made a friend and chatted until the point I'm normally snoring. There's a note on my door warning we about it, but I never got past the breakfast times!
The friend by the way is lovely, a Balinese boy, very sweet, very honest, very appealing to my maternal instincts.
I have so much still to tell, about the flowers shop keepers leave outside their doors as a gift to teh gods to bring them good luck, abouyt what a sucker I am for the sad faces and lines I have heard over and over "no business today", "just for luck lady", "just lookie madam", I've scooters with whole families on to depict, anidotes galore, but they'll have to wait. I'm already aware that those surfing from the office run the risk of getting rumbled so long are mo entries, so, simply noting that
Life is a bike ride over varied terrain
I'll love and leave you
Julie x

Message for my lilttle sister

i need your shoes size darling - in double digits e.g 38, Can you also send me Izzy's in the same format if possible

Cheers darling

joo x

Tits up (and no this is not a nudie sunbathing story).

I wanted to write this blog with the stories in reverse order, (hence the tits up reference for those of you imaging it's another, oops "boob out" tale) however I promised some light hearted banter and thought up the sarong story last night before this morning's far less lighthearted expedition, so I decided to lull you in gently and describe events in the way they unfolded.

I headed off to dinner last night in one of my new sarongs, the experience was not pleasant one. It should have been, the sarong in question is dusty pink and looked marvellous, especially when teamed with my new glittery handbag of the same shade and modest Jemina Khan in her Imrah days style top. Loathe as I am to deter the retail therapists placing their sarong orders, I do feel obliged to determine if my experience of sarong wearing is universal.

My first encounter with said item of clothing was touring down under with my mate Fiona many moons ago. So many moons in fact we could have both been described as kids, she now has two and as you all know I have recently graduated to womanhood.

Fiona wore her navy blue sarong in a variety of styles, well two, short and long. She's purchased it in these parts I believe en route to Oz. It was apart from one skirt (she travelled like a true backpacker, none of this three cleavage baring dresses, just in case malarky) her only item of clothing that could conceivable fall into the smart casual bracket. She looked fab in it and all holiday I longed, pined to have one like it. Naturally I resisted as dressing like your mates, particularly when they're half the size is you, is never a good look. It's also I reckon testament to a lack of creativity and unlikely to do wonders for your friendship.

Years later I however succumbed. For the past ten years I have been an avid sarong wearer. Why? I wondered last night. No matter what size I am my experience is the same. there is always just a centimetre of tassle able to tie up round my waist. (When I'm inhaling and sucking everything in and before I have eaten). I always therefore end up castrating my stomach and spending the whole time I am wearing the damn thing unable to breathe properly. Not only this but after the inevitable feed I always find the knot has got too tight and the only way to provide any relief to my innards is to literally cut myself out of the thing. I thought given that I am sweating myself slim in Bali last night would be an exception, but oh no. Now you may at this time pause to say don't tie, just tuck it in. A good solution were it not for my previous scaring bum out with no knickers on chasing my sarong through a car park, or, with knickers chasing the sarong blown down the tunnel by the tube train's wind generation in Holburn station situations, which have, strangely, left me somewhat cautious of this approach.

Maybe it's cos we are getting fatter in the West but the places sarongs get made the women are still slips of things. Maybe it's a cost cutting excercise designed to reduce the amount of fabric used. Whatever the reason I think we should put an end to it and start a women of the west demand sarongs that let you breathe campaign. Any offers to design the petition?

Any such flippant thoughts were blown away by a walk along the beach this morning. Last night had seen tropical storms of the sort that mean you need to hoist said sarong up round your thighs, so deep were the puddles. The storm it seems had brought in more than just rain. The usualy white beach that's said to be Bali's finest and spreads from through the primary tourist spots was littered, and not with ordinary rubbish. I know you all know what's coming, but feel obliged to point out that Bali is just about as far South from Banda Aceh as you can get in Indonesia. Nevertheless the beach was coated with tsunami debris. Light bulbs and lighters, a washing up rack, suntan lotion, cough mixture, a deckchair intact minus the seat, three snorkle tubes minus the mouthpieces, flip flops, of varying sizes but with a huge number that could only fit children. Most haunting for me for some reason a spiderman one complete with said superhero and the marking "spiderman sports". literally tens of baby feeding spoons. Condoms, half a frisbee, sachets of shampoo, specifically I noticed head and shoulders and sunsilk, felt tip pens, permanent markers and biros, tree trunks, in some cases wider than my waist and with roots attached, whole fish, still largely intact if decomposing, crisp packets and one of those candy packets you get in France, a metre long comprising about twelve indidual candy holding sachets, still intact, a McDonalds cup, toothbrushes and insect repellant. Largely a mixture of memorabilia from what should have been a normal day at the beach. It was heartbreaking. The locals wanted to avoid discussing it but the lady who provided this mroning's massage came for a walk along the sand with me and like me kept focusing on the paraphenalia unavoidably associated with children.

By the time I walked back some hours later the debris had been assembled into piles with driftwood and natural debris nearly masking the evidence of humanity beneath it. Presumably so the tourists and surfers wouldn't be upset.
The sea too was affected, whilst the majority of the waves were still navy blue tipped with frothing white waves, in places, and I was told this marked the tidal rips, the white waves were rust discoloured, a fisherman said by the rubbish.

I am glad in way that nature is helping to remind people what's going on, but found it really hard to not just pretend I hadn't sen it and head up the beach. All morning my inner voice has been telling me head to the affected regions. It's not the first time it's said that. I have decided to avoid Aceh as I am sure mum would definately be on the first plane out if I said I was going there, and given all the cash she's pledged to ethical shopping I know she can't afford that, but I think I will try and see if there's anything I can do in Thailand for a couple of weeks. Maybe take some pictures or write some stories for the newspapers or aid agencies back home to help keep it in people's minds.

Julie