Kuta, Indonesia

Kuta is yet another big city with insane traffic. My hostel was located on what rates as barely more than an alley and the directions were confusing. I found the street after a fashion and a man told me 300 meters as if I knew the length of a meter. I walked and walked past the jumble of little shops, mostly catering to local needs while motorbikes whizzed by in some kind of mad rush. There were many little food stands and warungs, many laundries, repair businesses, some sewing shops and beauty parlors. I found number 21 where the inn was full and the manager told me there are many 21s, 300 meters more. So I trudged on, sweating and tired, until I finally found the right #21. This Kuta neighborhood was really a fascinating little warren. The shops are tiny, having a makeshift look, all different. The building styles, roof designs and fronts vary from one another, a haphazard-looking mix and I really find that to be fascinating. At the end I found a huge building, maybe a throwback from Dutch rule, turned there, and eventually found my way into a fairly modern business district jammed with vehicles, very noisy, as Kuta tends to be. I like what I see off the beaten path, down the little alleys where chickens wander the roadways, laundry hangs to dry and schoolkids in their appropriate uniforms play their way home.

My street

In my alleyway were several shops of men making shoes and boots on antiquated sewing machines.

A shot of a more modern version of Kuta.

In front of a large building with carved panels probably leftover from the Dutch rule, a man with a little food stand was making a fruit drink for someone so I got in line. I don't know what it was but it had a juice, chunks of canten cubes, similar to jello, pieces of pineapple and strawberries, wit canned milk drizzled on top, ice cubes thrown in, give it a good stir, and the price is 5,000 rupiah, about fifty cents. I also bought some little banana sweets that were almost like ladyfingers but drowned in syrup, sprinkled with coconut and cost 3,000 rupiahs. I sat on the steps of a small neighborhood mosque and devoured it while watching a young boy launch his kite.

Dinner was at the warung across the street from my hostel. Their menu was posted in pictures on the front but too faded to distinguish. Nobody spoke English and I not a work of Indonesian, and I wanted meat. I kept asking, pork, chicken, beef, and I got blank looks. Then I tried cow, pig, chicken but still blank looks. Next thing you know, I'm oinking, mooing and, when I did my great chicken imitation, I hit paydirt. I was served the scrawniest little chicken leg and thigh I've ever seen with a few chunks of cabbage and cucumber along with round green sticks I couldn't identify but ate anyway. The next evening, in Java, I found myself getting quacked at by the owner of a warung who was trying to tell me they had duck. Touche.

 

A statue I passed on the way to the airport.