~~~
Ask any young Singaporean who has not been to Bali whether he knows Bali, and he would probably say yes. For the mecca of fresh grads and post-ORD NS men exists in countless Facebook pages, and few secrets whisper from its riotous beaches that feature more bikinis and broadshorts than waves.
In our own little island you see, conservatism has clothed many a beach goer, pushing those with a taste for adventure, and bare skin, to seek redress (excuse the pun) in Bali’s kitschy tourist capital, Kuta.
But beyond the heathen paradises of the south, natural secrets await the intrepid explorer. The black beach of Lovina, in the north, is one. To sink your toes into its strangely tinged sand, you must first endure a winding mountain road – less tourists venture here.
But this quiet seaside town with a lovely name harbours an awful practice.
Remy and I had just rewarded ourselves for conquering the coiled route with a sumptuous dinner of roasted duck, Lovina’s culinary call-to-fame. With a stomachfull of sweet, succulent bird, we ambled back to the car along a dim lit street.
While the bright lights of night-time Kuta bedazzle with booming clubs, the low-key versions in this town hid danger – just ahead of us squatted a group of three locals by a car. Tattered shirts and skulking body language advertised their breed.
My spider sense went crazy.
"Should we turn around?" I whispered nervously to Remy.
But by then we were 10 paces away. The eldest among them raised his dangerously lanky frame and flashed his tanned, weathered hand to stop us.
"Hello, sir... you want dolphin tour?"
The almost bashful teenager flashed a shy smile and extended his neck towards us in classic Bali deference. I smirked at my wonky spider sense in genuine relief, and also as how we were now in control.
Or so we thought.
Sensing our hesitation, he laid his trap: "Dolphin friendly animal. We have boat, bring you. They swim next to your boat! Are you Cina?
“Er...”
“Japon?”
“No...”
“Korea?”
“Singapore”, I offered.
I dislike revealing my country of origin whenever I travel: the askers inevitably go ‘Oh!’ with a look of great familiarity on their faces, but reveal their fakeness by offering only ‘Very clean place, very good!’, and then stopping there.
“Oh!”, went our new friend. “Very clean place, very good!
“...”
“I go before, long ago. Good country – for you sir, only 120,000 rupiah.”
Yes, it was all the guide books promised: eco tourism, locals who could pinpoint your nationality on their first try, and low low prices -- Lonely Planet said we could get a tour for half that price.
We had followed the hallowed guide book's advice to come here precisely for these reasons. So we slouched on his hopeful asking price in authetntic Ununiquely Singaporean fashion. As expected, his falling-by-the-minute rates signed us up for the next day's adventure.
Side note: I think Singaporeans on holiday delight too much in bargaining for a few cents, when they easily throw $6.90 for a cup of slushy coffee back home. “It’s the experience you’re paying for”, the connoisseurs resist, but aren’t you getting exactly that on holiday? Anyway, we bargained it down by about S$5 per head – I felt more embarrassment than success, but at least I took pride from flying well the my country's flag.
The dawn cackle of chickens woke us up the next morning – a refreshing change from the damned Nokia handphone tunes that jolt us to go to work.
Getting out of our exquisite bungalow resort floating in the middle of a misty padi field was a sensual treat, and we skipped to the black beach – so tinged from the hue of eroded lava from ancient volcanoes.
A homogenous blue-grey horizon melted sea into sky: if you had turned me upside down, I wouldn’t have been able to tell each other apart. Black sand and the interchangeable elements combined to lend a surreal air, which helped assuage the drowsily overcast morning that promised us none of the renowned Lovina sunrises the guidebooks touted.
Making it all much simpler, our teenaged operator promised “Weather okay. No rain. This morning we have many dolphin."
Once out at sea, wind whipping our faces and obligatory cigarette in hand (Remy loved a smoke in every significant location we visited), our spirits lifted.
"Ah, dolphin in front!", gestured our boat operator. He dug the motor into the waves and we roared forward.
I scanned the horizon for the famous fins, but then rubbed my eyes in disbelief. In the distance, there were at least a hundred powerboats like ours, dashing about madly.
We soon caught up, and I suddenly understood: the famous Lovina dolphins were not exactly "friendly animals", nor were there "many".
The resident pack of about 8 animals was instead caught in a terrible cat and mouse game.
Once they surfaced for air, ten boats swivelled in pursuit. Yes, they swam beside the boats -– so tight and frenzied was the ringfence they had nowhere else to go.
On and on the cruel dance went. For half an hour, dolphins disappeared, boats waited. Dolphins reappeared, boats rushed there and chased.
The adage 'leave nothing but footprints, take nothing but photos’ resonated with acerbic irony, for while the boat-borne tourists couldn’t even leave footprints, each photo flash slashed the dolphins’ freedom like so many hideous harpoons.
Sick from the perverse eco tour, I put my camera away, and asked our boat operator about the dolphin population over the years.
“Last time, more. Now, less dolphin,” he admitted. “But maybe next time they coming back”.
We waited for the next ten minutes -- no dolphins. Thankfully.
As the sun finally broke through the clouds, the morning’s hunt fittingly ended, granting Lovina’s famous residents a ray of rest. I felt sure sure they would never come back, given the tourism dollar they so ironically pull.
As we chugged back alongside our fellow hunting pack, I felt no solidarity, only the startling thought that my spider sense was right after all.
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