Fishing trip with Pepe

I have always loved fishing. As a child my grandpa would take me down to the pier and "allow" me to skewer a unsuspecting worm bought at the local bait store or dug up from the garden on a hook tied at the end of a 3 meter line. A red and white round floater and a bamboo stick would complete my sophisticated fishing gear but at the time I was on cloud nine and had the best fishing tackle in the world. Perch and bass would be our catches, about 15cm long and these would be tossed in flour, fried by my grandma, served with coleslaw and cottage cheese and I was happy..... those were the days!
So it's with great unease that I agree to go out on a fishing trip and mount what I think is little more than a empty plastic jello cup with an engine and no toilet (sorry but for us fishing girls out there it's a big deal being sadly unequipped for communing intimately with nature). As usual I am the only girl and with Max and his dad and a 4 strong crew I feel like ...a fish out of water ha ha, well actually I feel awkward. So hungry, thirsty (no toilet= no drinking) and miserable (at 4:30 am I dare you to be happy ) we leave the safety of the Bali shores and head out into the Ocean. Pepe, our French Captain from Marseille, shows us the equipment and I start feeling a bit panicky. The gigs (it took me a while but then I understood that the 25cm lead sticks with eyes painted on them were actually lures....) are heavier and bigger than the fish I ever caught and the belts look alarmingly like chastity belts from medieval times and I feel the sweat starting to drip down my arms and a little voice whispering - can we go home now? - .
Too late, the shores are long gone and this is when I remember the name of the Balinese god of the Ocean whose name my loyal Putu had written down on a scrap of paper so that I would not forget it. Symbaya Baruna, Symbaya Baruna, this is the mantra that will accompany me for the following 6 hours when I think I will probably die at sea from sea sickness or from being pulled into the watery depths by a sea monster...and all I wanted was a bass for the barbie!!!!
The stars are still out at this time of day but we can see the sun rise on the horizon and black, pregnant clouds ready to burst. No wind and it's quiet but out of the bay the swell starts to mount and long, slow waves pick us up and slam us down with sickening regularity. I start to feel green and my stomach heaves, Max does not look much better, staring lifelessly at the horizon. His dad looks even worse and he will suffer for the whole trip. We stop after what seems like an eternity and the captain teaches us how to use his equipment. We will use reinforced fibre glass rods, thick lines that can take up to a 300Kg pull, shiny, steel reels, the pretty squid-like gigs and hooks big enough to hang a half beef carcass on.
The line must drop 80m and touch the bottom before being pulled up little by little with jerky movements upwards in order to fool a passing tuna or mahi-mahi to think he is looking at a fish in distress. How a lead, colored stick could fool a fish....fools me but this seems the way to go. Pulling a heavy line from the bottom of the sea takes it out on you and my arm starts to hurt after only 10 minutes so Max and I decide to alternate our efforts and take turns holding the diabolic contraption. Luck would have it that during my watch a violent tug pulls me out of my sea sickness induced reverie and I realize in an instant I caught something big. I shout for help and in a second Max and the Captain are around me, the crew disappearing in view probably of the colorful expletives soaring from my mouth. Before I know what is happening I feel Pepe playing around with my midsection while glancing nervously at my husband. The chastity belt is hooked on to me and the fight starts to pull my sea monster 80m up. The fish tugs and relents and this is when one must wind up the line, then he tugs again and relents for a second and a second is all you have to bring him closer, to tire him, but your arms scream in pain, your heart pounds and I moan and swear both in English and in French in honor of our Captain. All that is around you vanishes and while I had initially told Max I would pass him the line if I felt I had caught something, in that moment I don't, it's mine to catch, it's my fight and after the longest 5 minutes ever a 4Kg tuna appears on the surface. With one last effort I pull him up to the side of the boat and Pepe lowers a net and it is in. Pictures are taken and congratulations are in order but I sit in a corner of the boat empty and lifeless, my arms shaking with the effort, and adrenaline pumping wondering how I managed to do this. The fishing trip is finished for me, I did what I set out to do but have no strength left to do it again so all that is left to do now is to bring it home and make lovely sashimi for the family.

Fish market in Jimbaran

While in Bali I asked our guide and factotum Putu to take us to the local fish market. I was only too aware of how much both Max and his dad would have appreciated visiting the local market and taking home some prized specimen to whack on the BBQ. He looked at me quizzically and asked me if I was sure. "Well naturally I am sure, why wouldn't I be?". He replied that in all his years of serving visitors staying at the villa nobody had ever asked to go to the fish market preferring the glitzy shopping centers of Kuta and Seminyak . "Sorry to disappoint you but nothing could be less interesting to me than wandering through endless tourists traps buying useless trinkets" said I and once again I was left wondering if I am normal though after all this time I should know the sad truth.
So early on Sunday morning we hopped in our car and sauntered off to the small village of Jimbaran located at the end of a lovely bay and garnished by rows and rows of small fish (really, no way?!) restaurants hanging off the fish market.
Fondly remembering my beloved Billinsgate in London I imagined a refrigerated building with rows of white tiled displays and fish mongers in white overcoats.
Well, I did not really get that but I got so much more.
Colored little boats filled the bay and when one would move close to the shore the men would run to it and spend the following 10 minutes transporting wicker basket heaving with fish to the stalls. The stalls were either overturned wooden fruit crates where the fish would lie in a neat row on a plastic sheet on the beach or, if you were really big in the fish world, concrete tables in a dark, dingy, hot, low ceiling-ed (as Max pointed out on more than one occasion after banging his head a couple of times) corrugated-iron sheet covered structure where the fish mongers would sit with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths waiting for punters and small babies would laughingly play with slimy water made bloody red by fish heads and severed tails.
Rows and rows of tuna, mahi-mahi, barracuda, snappers, groupers, prawns, crabs and lobsters adorned the tables and we could not wait to lay our hands on such a bounty. In the end we left with 4 lobsters, 2 snappers, 2 Kg of giant cockles and a small tuna for sashimi feeling very satisfied with ourselves and eager to get our treasure as close to a BBQ as we could. Putu, always close by, took the fish to the car and we wandered amongst the boats and stalls, admiring the nets heavy with silvery sardines and rushing over to see what the next boat was bringing in.
A walk on the beach and then back to the villa ready for a mouthwatering feast.

Bali adventure!

This time Max and I have decided to tempt fate and have invited our parents to Bali for 2 week, I mean 2 weeks!! No worries, we are still alive and we have not succumbed to parentcide instincts so no harm done there.
I found Bali beautiful as one would imagine and as all the guides describe it. The land of smiles, the land of the gods.
But I doubt I will go back and it will not be one of the first places I will think of when reminiscing about past holidays in fact quite the opposite, I think I will forget about it quite soon and not because something bad happened but because nothing remarkable did.
The best Bali had to offer was probably the fact that as a family we had a terrific time together and enjoyed every minute -bar the sweet Bali belly moments-. To be together this way in a villa that was as homey as it was stunning and have the possibility of swimming in a cool pool looking at the heaving waves crashing on the shore, go to the fish market and grill our own lobsters, visit beautifully decadent temples and bask in the glory of lush jungles and impossibly tall bamboo trees and to do it as a family was just too good.
But in the end the thing I remember most of the island is the traffic, the interminable queues of millions of scooters weaving in and out in front of cars and trucks, the danger of crumbling sidewalks, the war torn look of half built buildings and the smell of millions of food and flower offerings left to rot after they had fulfilled their godly mission.
I had just finished reading Eat, Pray, Love by E. Gilbert before I left for Bali and I was disappointed by the book and mostly by the author who gave me the idea of being away with the fairies and had failed to come back to earth rather than being a person in search of herself after going through a painful divorce. Her depiction of Bali is romantic and seen through rose tinted glasses and if I could just strip down the island to its ideal bare bone I might see it this way as well. But fat reality is never too far away and I cannot endorse spending countless hours preparing dainty little offerings, throwing flowers and pouring water on everybody's head in a cleaning and purification frenzy when rubbish and waste collects at the sides of the roads.
Still one moment stays in my memory and brings a smile to my face. While driving to Mengwi and the temple of Taman Ayun we started talking about reincarnation and what a sweet idea it is. We asked each other what we wanted to be in our next life and while my father-in-law and hubby both opted for becoming a fish -to give something back they say, having depleted the ocean's pantry says I- and the rest of the family choosing other more or less opportune creatures I asked our driver-cum-guide-cum-butler Putu what he wanted to be. He smiled and said "me again because I am happy to be me". How refreshing, somebody who is actually content with who they are and does not ask to be rich, famous, successful, a bird, a lion or a fish fry. I guess this is the best thing I am going to take home from Bali, the sweet memory of a look of pure contentment on a good man's face.

Winter in Singapore

What a relief to get back from a 2 week stint in Bali and find that winter has finally arrived in Sing!
Gone are the hot, steamy days when even breathing seems too much of a hassle and feeling like a jellyfish washed up on a rock, slowly melting away in the sweltering heat is the best description I can give of how I have felt in the past 6 months.
All the shops have geared up for this and put on display their best winter frocks ready for the first snow flurries and walks in the forest in search of chestnuts to roast on an open fire.
Zara was the first with its knee high boots and long, warm knitted coats but Armani was soon to follow with fur trimmed jackets and thick sweaters and one after the other all the designers shops have stepped up and mittens and woolen scarves now adorn the glossy display windows. What a treat!
There is only one small detail that seems to have been missed by this shopping Mecca, a minor thing, maybe really barely noticeable and I should probably not make such a fuss about it.
Still it niggles in the back of my mind and I cannot get rid of it.
The point is that while in one hemisphere or the other there is always a winter , often with snow and sometimes cold, slimy sleet there is no such thing here, a blink away from the equator where seasons do not change in a significant way.
Yes, I admit losing 2 degrees in the past week has been bliss moving my melting jellyfish status to that of a soon to be chilly crab minutes away from the pot but the grim reality is that it is still a hot place to live in, no matter how many mentally challenged teenagers walk the streets in Uggs and leather jackets giving off that slight corn chip aroma so typical of sweaty feet. Older shopaholic steer clear of winter wear but I can see a slight look of panic in their eyes and the horrible realization that summer clothes are miles away. Fingers clutch and release Visa cards almost maniacally and I suppose shrinks have their work cut out in this period as many ladies - and gentlemen as well- feel the crippling sense of loss from lack of swiping . Winter tis' the season to be jolly? Doubt it or at least not here, a stone throw away from the equator.
Maybe then there is a reason why expats rush home at Xmas as soon as the international schools close up and it is not to see their families or friends, to carve fat geese and plump turkeys and slump heaving on the sofa saying, as they do every year, "I ate too much". I do not want to start a rush of family recriminations but I just wonder if the siren call of unused Platinum cards has something to do with it