It's Good

By Linda Higgins

It’s Good.

Life for Laura and Thomas is good. It’s comfortable. It’s calm. So seeking adventure, the couple decides to go on a trip of a lifetime and explore Indonesia. They quickly become immersed in Indonesian life. At the heart of their adventure are the friends they make along the way, who make them feel as if they are part of this beautiful and sometimes chaotic part of the world. Political unrest decimates the tourism industry they rely on, but their love for each other, their pets, and friends remain central to a life full of love and laughter.
Drawing from her own experiences living in Indonesia for 20 years, Linda Higgins writes about an adventure of a lifetime, bringing this colorful part of the world to life in a way that will stay with you long after you finish reading.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linda Higgins
• Release date: Nov 29, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301943913

Linda Higgins

Born and raised on the west coast of the United State, Linda had a love for writing, with an equal passion for fashion. She achieved a Master Designer degree for Ladies and Gentlemen garments in 1973, and started a sportswear company.Linda and her husband moved the design studio to Los Angles in 1985, and launched a showroom to display her work. In 1993, they retired to Bali Indonesia, where she began to write. In 2013, they returned to California and self-published “It’s Good”, her first book, based on their adventures living on this tropical island.She is currently working on her second book, expected to be completed in late-2015. The manuscript was drafted in Bali, unique in approach and a good read for all ages. With a closeness to her pets, Linda visualized their thoughts and with pen and paper created a unique perspective to experiences of life.

Book preview

It’s

Good

By

Linda Higgins

It’s Good

Copyright © 2013 by Linda Higgins

Book Cover Photo and Design by Terry Higgins

All rights reserved. This book is the copyrighted property of the author and no part of this book may be altered, reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any reason commercial or non-commercial, without permission in writing from the author.

This book is based on a true story.

Names have been changed.

Please note the author occasionally uses Indonesian or Balinese words.

National Geographic® is a registered trademark of the National Geographic Society.

ISBN: (Paperback) 978-1-941125-21-2

ISBN: (E-Book) 978-1-301943-91-3

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014957430

Website: www.lindahiggins-author.com

CONTENTS

Chapter 1: Arrival

Chapter 2: Lombok and the Gilli Islands

Chapter 3: Klotok on the Bali Sea

Chapter 4: Visa Overstay

Chapter 5: Tjokorda King of the Mountain

Chapter 6: The Wedding

Chapter 7: A Balinese Holiday

Chapter 8: Sempidi

Chapter 9: Goose Brothers

Chapter 10: Batu Belieg Seminyak

Chapter 11: Komodo Island

Chapter 12: General Manager

Chapter 13: A Villa on the Beach

Chapter 14: The First Terrorist Attack

Chapter 15: Move to Jimbaran Bay

Chapter 16: Final Visa Run to Singapore

Chapter ONE:

ARRIVAL

In the year 1993, simply the best of plans was no plan at all. Shivers of coolness, a chill of excitement - or was it the cool mountain air announcing the arriving winter for the middle-aged couple? Thomas and Laura sat on the back porch that night looking into the forest as they had so many nights before. Stars around Big Bear were bright in late autumn, as bright as life itself. Perhaps that's why with the cold-descending winter, the couple had been compelled by sheer tenacity, before the winter's wind could devour another year, to recapture endless summer near the equator, there to explore, the return unknown. Life it's good. They packed a suitcase each, purchased tickets, a thick handbook and flew to the tropics, young enough to explore and old enough to go now or never.

The international flight departed from Los Angeles, the city of angels; with so many people living in the city, there must be angels. On the LA sidewalks, Thomas’s pace quickened, as they walked from the garment district on Ninth Street. Laura saw him ten feet in front, until there at the crosswalk curb, they were together with many others in the same stance waiting for the light to change. Together they crossed, and as his Docs fell upon the curb on the other side, he was off again, each step taken firmly with purpose, this continued block after block, separating as they walked, always together at the crosswalks. They took a right turn on Flower Street, towards the financial district, now he was eight feet ahead in an easy confident stride. She opened her compass to anchor her LA bearings, almost passing Ethyl serving coffee to the window table patrons at the Hamburger Hamlet, where they use to stop for breakfast every morning for hash browns and eggs, and she waved and smiled. They wouldn’t be stopping today; it was already late. Onward through Union Square buildings of polished stone, black glass or mirrored, so high are some that the upper half seems to dissolve into sky. The millionaire men’s club built of red brick across the street was the most inconspicuous of all. But all were shiny, sturdy, established in the fortunes and fame of generations past, present, and future, held prodigiously in these respectable vaults of financial fiduciary matters. The traffic was light; limousines passed slow and graceful like whales. Thomas waited at the outdoor escalator wearing denims and a long-sleeve shirt rolled up. This was the season of hot days and cold evenings. They were walking downtown to the Bonaventure hotel for drinks, before going to the LA airport later that night. Laura stepped onto the escalator first, and as they rode up, they both looked across to the right toward the large red letters of a neon sign that read Jesus Saves. They entered the courtyard of the Bonaventure, and headed to the Top of Five. As they sat with drinks for an hour in the revolving restaurant for the full revolution, it grew dark. The city laid below, extending as far as they could see in every direction. At dark, the tail lights of traffic appeared in a red-veined grid that flowed from the beat of a strong heart. White city lights spread in open arms like wings, giving the illusion of soaring.

Los Angeles has been good to us, and I'm going to miss it, Laura said, raising her glass of cinnamon cream Rum, to the endless possibilities that endure in the effort of trying.

They both took a sip of their drink in salute. Then Thomas raised his glass of whiskey, to make a toast, From rags to riches, only in LA.

Six hours later, Thomas and Laura were in Hawaii with an arrival that separated them from those who had reached their final destination. If the two-hour layover had been longer, they may have not left those beautiful islands.

With nothing below but water for the past sixteen hours, they began the approach to Biak, New Guinea, landing at a small airport that seemed to have sprung up in the middle of a dark green jungle, with little grass roof huts scattered in the nearby area. The only plane on a narrow air strip, an exit ladder was moved into place. The opening of the airplane door brought an unfamiliar humid heat, shortly replaced by the cool air-conditioned airport lobby. It was after all the passengers had entered the lobby, that the airport entrance door was locked by a security guard.

Well this is a new experience, Thomas said. I don't recall ever being locked inside an airport terminal, think I'll have a look around. He noticed another exit used by airport staff and decided to use it to take a few photos outside. Laura remained in the lobby, and Thomas was shortly escorted back inside for his own safety. The security, along with an airport guide, explained to them that two local tribes were having a slight disagreement and shooting arrows across the runway in an effort to strengthen their own particular point of view.

With the plane refueled and a temporary cease fire negotiated to allow the plane to take off, passengers had boarded when the pilot announced a minor ten-minute delay as a local herdsman was taking advantage of the truce and crossing his herd of goats to the open pasture across the runway.

The next stop was their destination Bali Indonesia, the location where those hours of book reading would become reality. Looking from the windows of the plane, the small island appeared to be buoyant, as if rocking in the surrounding waters of the Indian Ocean, anchored by the sun, encircled by thick foamy white sand under the umbrella of tall swaying palms. There were no buildings taller than the tallest palm tree. The island itself a natural tropical garden and that was what they had come here for, to live in a garden.

A smooth landing and another roll up stairs was placed to access the asphalt tarmac that had increased the unbelievable heat. A longer than appreciated walk to the air conditioned terminal left shirts clinging and faces dripping. The line through immigration was staggeringly long. The closer they came to their turn, the louder the thud of a stamping tool on a passport. Their thud received, left just baggage to collect, customs to clear, and the adventure to get underway. Immigration stamped their passports with a thirty day tourist visa that had the option of two renewals. This gave them a total of ninety days. Thomas and Laura collected their luggage and proceeded to customs. The customs Official projected an image of authority in his bright white shirt with gold stars on black epaulets, a name tag and shiny gold badge. He took a long visual scan of Thomas and Laura. They offered a smile that went unreturned.

Anything to declare, asked the Official.

No sir, Thomas replied.

The Official then nodded to two security guards. As the guards approached, the Official, without speaking a word, pointed to the taped shut cardboard box that was on the floor with Thomas and Laura's suitcases. The guards lifted the box onto a roll cart and resumed their posts at the terminal exit.

What is in the box? The Official asked.

The box contains a computer, Thomas replied. He knew there had been nothing about customs do and don’t in any of the books that he and Laura had studied, unless it was in some of those boring facts and figures they had skipped over.

Place the luggage on the roll cart and follow me to the custom office and bring the roll cart. The Official's demeanor had changed from inquisitive to cordial.

Thomas lifted the suitcases onto the roll cart, pushing it as they followed the Official down a hallway to his office.

The Official entered his small office and sat behind a desk. Thomas pushed the roll cart into the office, and there was not enough room for him and Laura to enter. The Official took the box off the roll cart, and said, Leave the cart in the hallway, and come sit down.

They complied, sitting in the two chairs opposite the Official. Thomas scanned the office that had walls lined with metal book shelves, stuffed with three ring black binders.

I am to be informing you of import fee for various items, being this computer, the Official said. The boxed computer was sitting on top of his desk.

This item is not for import, it is for personal use only. That explanation from Thomas generated nothing more than a blank stare from the custom Official.

How much people pay for a nice computer like that in America? The Official paused for Thomas or Laura to answer, when they didn’t, the Official continued.

I know everything in America is being very expensive.

This computer is old and value small, Thomas explained.

I understand that, but if you don't have this one, I am curious of value for new, to replace old, the Official responded. Thomas and Laura looked at each other to acknowledge they both understood the implication of his comment.

Fifteen hundred dollars, Thomas said.

The custom Official ran his finger over half of the black binders and with a selection made placed a binder on the desk. He began flipping through it, eventually stopping and turning it for them to review. Thomas and Laura saw the word computer just below the Official’s extremely long thumb nail, then watched as he slid the two inch nail slowly across the page, stopping to point out the figure of one-hundred percent. They looked at the Official and he was smiling. They leaned back in their chairs and Thomas crossed his arms, Laura folded her hands on her lap. The Official leaned forward, and while attempting to restrain his excitement he said, You owe me one thousand, five hundred dollars. Discussions continued for a considerable length of time before a reasonable cash fee could be reached, leaving behind a smiling custom Official. Laura gave Thomas a questioning look when the Official applied an 'accepted' sticker to the unopened box. Thomas just shrugged.

Sweating from the stinging heat and exhausted from the twenty-four hour flight, they could see their destination just through the glass terminal doors. Setting foot forward, they exit into a heat blast nearing a hundred percent humidity. It felt as if they had stepped into the honey comb and become the honey. A thriving mass of tourism enterprise, all vying for the newly arrived customers, met them as they left the terminal. There must have been thirty representatives from hotels holding signs, calling names, names of hotels, names of busses, names of drivers, while others were shouting, transport. The hive was buzzing in a structured chaos. Shoulder to shoulder people moved to reach a vantage point, unable to see ahead. Midway through the throng, the mass became tight and barely a step was possible. Then Thomas reached back through the crowd, grabbed hold of Laura’s hand and clasped it tight. As her eyes grazed the tops of heads, she saw him shoulders taller than the rest. He smiled, happy as a bear in a honey tree, exclaiming, Isn't this exciting? She felt as if they were pilgrims pulling their wagons, pushing onward, gravitating as always toward one another. So it was that they had arrived.

Needing transportation, they asked the fee to Candidasa. The cost of transport was negotiable, that they had read in the well-worn handbook. An air-conditioned van selected, their exhaustion dissipated in the cool, comfortable two-hour drive. From the tall windows of the van they began to integrate visually to the commerce activities of street vendors, who sold food from pushcarts along the side of the road. The carts contained sliced fruit and vegetables, or Bakso a local favorite that consisted of rice balls soaked in chicken or beef broth. Motorcyclist's abruptly stopped in traffic to make a purchase, while others weave and dart in front of the van. The traffic felt dangerously unpredictable to Laura and she grew tense, while Thomas enjoyed the interaction between motorists in the sea of motorcycles. The van cautiously proceeded to a turnoff, and entered onto the only major road on the island, referred to as the bypass. They were leaving the southern part of the island and heading toward the East coast, to Candidasa, a traditional fishing village, where their hotel awaited.

Arriving at the hotel, they checked-in and were escorted to their bungalow, following a sand path through tropical gardens which met wooden bridges for passage over lotus ponds. The bungalow was wooden with a grass roof and an outdoor patio. They dug out swimming suits from their luggage and headed for the secluded saltwater swimming pool. Refreshed from a few laps they fell asleep on the poolside lounge chairs, waking just after sunset.

Do you have any idea of what time it is? Laura asked.

Only that it's time to eat, Thomas replied.

I didn't see any restaurants, did you? Laura asked.

No, not in the three block strip they call Candidasa, and I haven't even seen any people either. I know there's a restaurant here at the hotel, let's opt for room service, Thomas said.

At the bungalow they changed, and ordered dinner served on the porch, Australian beef tenderloin, baked potato, green salad and a bottle of red wine. Dark green foliage surrounded the bungalow, and the temperature was seventy-five degrees. The porch, lit by the amber light of a lantern, and the rattan furniture, was so relaxing they sat late into the evening. There was no music or TV to listen to, just the swishing surf and the croaking toads. Thomas lifted his glass for a toast, Half way round the world, what a day my love. Their glasses clink.

The temperature had not changed more than ten degrees between day and night. Waking at sunrise their eyes blinked open to soft rays of sun that shimmered through the canopy of palm trees. They put on swimsuits, slid into flip-flops, Laura added a sarong, and hand in hand they strolled to the beach. There was evidence of a community near the beach. Several motorcycles parked in the sand, the aroma of steaming rice, mingled with pungent garlic that sizzled with fried fish. With that first step onto the beach the deep powdered sand enveloped each foot. Pausing they stood amazed, taking in the gentle expanse of the Bali Sea.

The sunrise beach walk revealed fishing boats had already been out and now are beginning to come to shore in an effort to protect the fresh catch from the approaching heat. These small rough boats called jukung were painted in bright colors. Attached to each side was a bracing arm, a long wooden pole that runs parallel to the length of the boat to stabilize it. Usually these boats carry one or two fisherman and a big net, the net was spread out across the sand for inspection and repairs. When one of the fishermen suggested that Thomas and Laura buy a fish and he would cook it there on the beach for breakfast, they could not resist. The fisherman had pulled his jukung tight into the sand, just a few feet away lit a pile of coconut shells and husks that smoked. Cooking the fish in the salty sea breeze enhanced the flavor and appetite. Thomas and Laura sat in the sand using fingers, nibbling on yellow fin tuna served on a banana leaf. The fisherman loaded the fish from his boat into two buckets, one in each hand. From the weight of carrying the buckets, his feet sank deep in the sand. Thomas and Laura watched him walk away, down the length of beach until he was a dot. This wide beach, that had sections of white sand and sections of black sand was empty, except for the many idle jukung, that lay tilted to one side under a bright sun. Thomas and Laura walked the beach barefoot, carrying flip flops, and occasionally would slide into the warm water feeling immersed in the presence of being there.

Over the following weeks, waking up at sunrise for a beach walk had become routine. One day upon returning to the hotel they met a man at the bridge crossing the lotus pond.

You must be my neighbors, I've just checked-in, my name is James. He was in his mid thirties with eyes the same color as the chambray shirt he wore the depth of blue of his eyes was alarming. His face leathered by sun, was a dark contrast to his blond hair that hung in dread locks.

Where you from James? Thomas asked.

Australia mate. Are you here on holiday? James replied.

Just drifting, it seems a nice place to land. We're enjoying the lifestyle of an islander, and inclined to live here, Thomas replied.

James was a wiry sea voyager, that had left Australia at the age of twenty-one, sailing a boat to Indonesia. He made it to Bali needing boat repairs or a bigger boat to continue the voyage, that was twelve years ago. James had since been working in Bali and now was ready to purchase a vessel big enough to live on. In the meantime he would stay at the hotel. His dream to explore the vast archipelago, of thirteen thousand islands that constitute the country of Indonesia, would soon be realized.

Over the next several days Thomas and Laura had become better acquainted with James, when he approached them to say, "I bought my boat and will be leaving in the morning. How about I stop by tonight