At the front of the family compound, a long slot away from the main lane, was, of course, the family temple. Behind it was a traditional kitchen in which the lady of the house did the cooking on a wood fire, with oven space the size of a toaster oven and one burner for a kettle and a sort of wok shaped utility pan. Meals for the day -- steamed rice, vegetables, and perhaps some meat -- are cooked in the morning and stored in dishes in a cabinet. Like Pacific islanders, Balinese do not expect hot food. We sat on our hostesses bed (she likes to sleep where its warm) and she made us a cup of Balinese coffee that she claimed they grew themselves in the back garden (it was excellent) and served us delicious sweet rice cakes.
Across from the traditional kitchen was the formal beruga used for ceremonies, but then behind it were several more modern structures that were, she said, her sister's house (this included a more modern kitchen!) Out back was a garden, some coffee trees, and a pig sty with three tidy pigs.
Although it was a lovely and interesting stop, the modern buildings suggested that it was no longer very typical of how real Balinese lived. We asked Putu is there were villages still like this off the beaten track, which may be why, at the end of the day, he decided to take up to his home!
I'd expressed an interest in trying a Durian, that notorious SE Asian fruit of the prickly hide and obnoxious smell. People say you either love it or hate it, yet for sure it was in season because we saw piles of them all along the roadside. Putu said his son particularly liked Durian, so he stopped by the road to buy three. But then he was a a loss to where to carry it. It seems they are odiferous even before cutting into, and I made the mistake of teasing him about the smell, so he stoped and tried to rig a way to carry them hanging from the front bumper. This earned us a lot of hilarity from people we passed on the road...pedestrians, motor bikers, other drivers. We gave up and brought them inside.
Putu's family live in a seaside community not far from where we arrived on the ferry. The rains having failed for the past five years, his father has abandoned agriculture and resorted to collecting and sorting black stones, desired by hotels for decoration, from black sands of the beach. From the street the impression is of some sort of familiar suburbia, but reality is very different. Putu's house, shared not just with his wife, three children and parents, but also with another family, is more "traditional" than the one we saw in the traditional village. The whole long building of "rooms" is open on one side and the "kitchen" was also focused on the very same wood stove we'd seen in the morning...although there were some propane burners around too. Putu proudly pointed out his family temple (although he shares that with the other family, too) and the relatively new carved topper he'd been able recently to add to a shrine.
The wife and the three children were presented - aged 8, 5, and 1 -- and the two Durian were hacked into and shared around. The pulp comes out in pods from chambers, and you sort of tear it from the "button" or seeds. I do not know if I can describe the flavor; it is for sure unique in my experience. I think to say it is sort of like a sweet blue cheese brie, is the closest I can get. We did not dislike it....but the follow on burps were odd!
The day going late, Putu pushed to get us back to Ubud by 6pm following the route he takes everyday up, shifting up and down through traffic like a Nascar driver. When we compliment him on his driving, he sighs and explains that his workhorse Toyota (the best) is a good and bad thing. It is old enough he can afford it, but not new enough to really gain him proper entrance into the taxi/tour business. The Japanese, he says, take one look at the older car, and take their business to something newer. As we land cruised back to Ubud through the bustle of late afternoon villages after such a day, you can't help but reflect on all the lives going on in such a different style all around the world. Interestingly, he leaves the car parked in Ubud at night and makes the commute on a more fuel efficient scooter.
A postscript to hierarchy and a Balinese reality check: This morning Eddie, who initially hooked us up with Putu, seemed a bit miffed. Someone had already beat him to delivering our breakfast, but when we thanked him for introducing us to Putu, I said something like "He works hard" intending it as much as a compliment to Eddie for referring us as for Putu. You could almost see Eddie's feathers ruffle. "Not so hard," he said longingly, " he has a car
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