Durban Poison by Ben Trovato

Author:Ben Trovato
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781928420835
Publisher: Melinda Ferguson Books

A BALLIE GOES TO BALI – PART III

My time is up on the Island of the Dogs. Gods. There are half a million of one and about the same of the other. The dogs and gods seem equally benign. The dogs lie in the middle of the road. When you hoot, they lift their heads briefly, then go back to sleep. The message is clear. “Just drive around me.”

Two days ago I was attacked by a tiger. A small tiger. Okay, a cat. It was more of a warning than an attack. Don’t touch me unless you have food in your hand. Fair enough. I have known women like that.

This has been a wonderful break. From what, I can’t really say. I write a weekly column. You’d think I need a proper job, not a break. But you’d be wrong. Wrong like Barong. In case you think I’m drunk and simply making up nonsensical rhymes, I’m not. Not yet, anyway. Barong is two parts lion and one part Pekingese. He is leader of the forces of good and the sworn enemy of the naked, child-eating demon queen Rangda. I’m on Rangda’s side.

At around midday today the sea and air temperatures nuzzled up to one another in a steamy 27-degree clinch. I can’t understand why so many white South Africans are trying to sneak into England, a country so cold that in January everyone’s nipples fall off. Bali is far nicer. And you can get by on so much less. One sarong, two tattoos and a scooter. Free fish in the sea and coconuts in the trees. No violent crime because nobody wants to come back as a chicken satay. No shouting with angry face. Ever. An expat running a guesthouse out in the bush near an extinct volcano told me a tourist once raised her voice at the staff because something or other wasn’t quite to her liking. They burst into tears and ran home.

I am on Nusa Lembongan, an island 30 minutes by super-special fast boat from the port of Sanur. I use the word port loosely. On this sultry wanton night of nights, I sit quite alone 154 steps above sea level in an eyrie in the skyrie. Bali steps, not normal steps. You virtually need pitons and croutons to scale them. Tiny people, giant steps.

Eleven hours ago the loinfruit and Captain Congo hired a scooter, saying they were going for lunch. It’s now midnight. As a parent, I suppose I ought to be concerned. But I can hear waves crashing on the coral reefs far below and the cloying fragrance of frangipani reminds me of lost loves. Across the Badung Strait lights glitter on the fringes of Bali’s east coast. I have cold Bintangs in the fridge. It’s fiendishly hard to be worried about anything. Anything other than, while I sleep, having my face chewed off by the enormous gecko in the roof that makes a noise like a murderously lovesick waterfowl.

Earlier this evening I went to a local warung.

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