Sanur, Indonesia
So, Bali. Backpacker paradise and land of smiles. We're here for the weekend with a photoshoot and Bruce's official interview planned for the Saturday and then interviews with the final band member Dave and long-term Maiden production manager Dickie, alongside a last photoshoot, scheduled for Sunday at the venue for the concert, a stunning park full of Hindu statues and vast cliffs.
Bruce does his interview seated in the Regency Club, an exclusive part of the hotel with its own little restaurant, situated on a lily pond and surrounded by gardens. It's a beautiful place for reflection and cross examination and I'm sure Bruce and Matt would cheerfully while away the whole day there. But even in paradise there's a schedule to be kept.
Sadly, with so many interviews completed and a few more yet to do, Matt has to return to his hotel room where he is pretty much confined, transcribing tapes and making sense of all he's witnessed. He's on self-imposed house arrest for our duration, ensuring nothing is lost and all can be revealed when the article is published.
While he does that, John and I ask Janick and Bruce to accompany us on a trip to a temple an hour's drive away to get some proper location shots of them in Bali. Zeb makes all the arrangements and soon there's quite a party of us - Todd, members of both the road crew and the flight crew, various other people from the travelling party, ourselves and the two band members.
To accommodate us all a coach pulls up with a tour guide on board and we all troop on. It feels like a big school trip, with Zeb taking a register to check everyone is on board and there's a lot of joking and giggling as we head across the island. The poor tour guide provided is a bit bemused by us all as he tells stories about where we are headed in a very sweet but at times incomprehensible accent.
He first expounds at length about his name, announcing he is called I Koman Ari, but we must call him Ari not Koman as it's a very common name on the island, meaning third-born and usually the youngest child, and if we call him Koman in public many people will turn around and answer us. I try to explain that I have a Coman in my life who is also the third child in his family, but that it's a very rare name in our part of the world. Ari doesn't quite comprehend, launching into a long exposition of infant hierarchy instead.
It seems that in Bali three children is the ideal, and everyone is named accordingly and each name confers a different level of beloved status. However the given name for a fourth child seems somewhat brutal, being translated as Unwanted, which seems quite a cross to bear for life. I ask what happens if a fifth child arrives and they just start the naming process again from the top, so the first and fifth-born have the most revered status while the lowly fourth struggles through this incarnation feeling unloved.
Ari follows this with a detailed explanation of the caste system in Balinese culture which transmogrifies into a lengthy tale from the Mahabarat, inspired by a statue of the god Bima battling a dragon that we pass on the way into Kuta, the main town in Bali. He follows this with another related story from the Ramayana which is the inspiration for a dance we will see performed at the temple when we arrive.
As Ari relates the story, beaming non-stop, we ooh and aah in all the right places as he weaves his tale of jealously, infidelity, revenge and death, although most of us don't have a clue what he's on about. He finishes by asking if we have any questions and after just the briefest of pauses John pipes up, "Are we there yet?!" to widespread, good-natured laughter.
We thank Ari and Zeb gently explains that with another 30 minutes still to go we're happy to look at the scenery and gather our thoughts rather than needing anymore tourist info so Ari puts down his microphone and we stare out the windows, with the sound of cameras snapping up and down the bus filling in for his monologue.
In amongst the lush, verdant scenery we see winding roads and paddy fields, luxury shopping malls and little shacks, grand carvings and shop after shop selling huge assortments of Buddhas and Hindu gods, teak furniture and colourful clothes. The souvenir trade from this island alone could probably keep Indonesia afloat.
In the distance a couple of people are stood waist deep in a lake casting fishing rods into the water, wearing crash helmets. We all hazard guesses as to what kind of dangerous catch these intrepid anglers must be hunting for to need such extreme precautions until Ari explains it's to protect them from the sun. Surely a bit of factor 30 is an easier option?!
As we round a corner we spot a row of little shops which provoke howls of laughter from the back of the bus. The owners of Wank Internet Cafe and Risky Laundry must surely be aware of their comedy potential, but Ari seems bemused by our sniggering reactions, seemingly believing them to be quite ordinary names.
Eventually we arrive at our destination but before we disembark Ari issues a stark warning to beware of the "very, very aggressive monkeys. They are a big problem. Please take off sunglasses. Your rings and necklaces and mobile phones. They always want something from tourists. They will bite you if you try and get it back. Do not fight the monkeys!"
We all stare at each other in horror. You're kidding?!?!! This is a major tourist destination, a huge important temple and it's overrun with killer monkeys? WTF?!
"Do they have any diseases?" I ask. "Yes, do not let them bite you!" replies Ari, but when we raise the subject of rabies which is well established on the island, Ari just smiles and gets off the bus. A debate ensues amongst all of us as we divest ourselves of various precious belongings and I have the nightmare scenario unfolding in my head of explaining to Rod that Bruce and Janick have just been attacked by rabid monkeys.His reaction would be scarier than the monkeys themselves.
Bruce picks up a stick from the ground and brandishes it as we enter the temple grounds, looking above us into the trees. "Hmmm, I've got a strange sense of three dimensional insecurity," he announces, an explorer alert to the slightest movement.
The monkeys are everywhere, leaping up at people, grabbing belongings as they go, chasing each other around. We venture further in, keeping a wary eye out and as much distance as possible between us and the little bastards. A few of them seem sleepy and bored, the older monkeys who can't be bothered to be a nuisance in this heat, and one monkey sits there quite openly masturbating. Possibly he'd logged on to the internet cafe earlier.
The temple is lovely and spread along dramatic clifftops, but filled as it is with vicious primates and squealing tourists it's not a restful place. Named Pura Luhur Uluwatu it was built in the 11th century by Mpu Kuturan, one of the most important figures in Balinese religious history and then rebuilt 500 years later by the saint Betara Saktu Wawu Rauh. Up until 100 years ago only the princes of Denpasar were allowed to worship here. Now hundreds of locals and tourists traipse through every day, battling the kind of evil monkey army the Wicked Witch of the West would have been proud of.
John gets photos whenever he can, the seeming tranquility of Bali they're meant to display marred somewhat by the big stick Bruce clutches throughout. Finally we make it along the clifftop stairway to a monkey-free amphitheatre where as the sun sets we watch a Balinese fire-dance illustrating the story Ari told us earlier. As we sit down amongst hundreds of people we hear a girl shout out across the crowd "BRUCE!!"
Seems that we've escaped Planet of the Apes only to enter Planet of the Fans. Bruce sinks down out of sight but fortunately at that moment the dancers burst into the arena, like a Maori troop and start their chanting. This is the Kecak Fire Dance, unique because rather than using instruments the soundtrack is provided by seventy men chattering away in a bizarre rhythmical vocal percussion that rises and flows at great speed, cak-cak cak-cak style, giving the dance its name.
We sit and watch as the tale of the Hindu epic Ramayana unfolds with elaborate costumes. The hero is Rama, an incarnation of the god Vishnu, who has to rescue his wife Sita from the demon Ravana aided by the magical bird Garuda and the white monkey Anoman. It goes on and on and on. Fascinating, bizarre and very very long we're all nursing numb posterias by the time the ring of fire has been ignited and Sita freed, accompanied by some bizarre slapstick from a couple of hideous troll-clowns who make the Balinese crowd laugh loudly with some comedy fart jokes while the Western tourists wonder if it will ever end.
Finally it does. And this apparently is the abridged version! By now mosquitos are buzzing in the dusk so we start slapping on the lotion only to be interrupted by John who's just secured permission for the money shot. As the audience files out he's persuaded the dancers to appear in a photo in full finery with Bruce and Janick in front of a temple with the dying embers of the sun behind them. It's a classic and makes the assault course we've endured to get here, followed by the marathon dance display, worth all the effort.
We file onto the coach, grateful for the air-conditioning after the strength-sapping heat, and it's almost 9pm when we make it back to the hotel. Matt joins us having spent all his time transcribing away, raving about the quality of the interviews and excited by the article he's going to write. We have dinner by the pool, drinking cheap Indonesian wine that gives me a cracking hangover the next morning, probably aided by a late night wander into the local village beyond our hotel, to be fed quail eggs by random strangers in a bar and be chased down the road by stray dogs as we try and make our way back to the hotel in the pitch black darkness. Only to be confronted by a huge scary sign warning us again of rabies as the dogs are snapping at our heels.
It's very late by the time we make it to bed. Tomorrow is show day and our last of the tour. Just one more day inside this surreal bubble...
