A Rain-Soaked Warung Kitchen
Finding Bali's Heart Through Its Flavors
As rain pelted down on Bali's lush landscape, Liz and I embarked on an adventure to escape the crowds and discover the island's spiritual heart. Our destination was Besakih Temple, known as the Mother Temple, nestled high in the misty hills. With the weather showing no signs of letting up, we opted for a taxi to navigate the slick roads.
"Are you sure about this?" Liz whispered as we climbed into the taxi, raindrops sliding down her nose.
"It's a warm rain and the temple will be less crowded," I reasoned.
Our journey began in Benoa, a commercial town on the southern end of Bali. We had arrived on a cruise ship and had one day in port before our voyage continued.
We drove up into the mountains, stopping in Ubud, a town renowned for its arts scene and picturesque rice terraces. While exploring the rain-soaked streets, enterprising locals surrounded us with a rainbow of umbrellas for sale.
"Special price for you, miss!" called out a young boy with bright eyes, holding up a vibrant blue umbrella.
"We're soaked already," I said with a shrug. He grinned in response, undeterred.
We continued exploring, comfortably traversing the wet streets in our Chaco sandals. The warm rain fell in big drops that splashed against our skin; this was not Ireland, where rain was a much colder affair.
We paused under an awning to get our bearings when we noticed a couple studying a map with intense concentration. They stood out immediately, both with short-cropped hair that hadn't quite grown out, wearing an impractical combination of socks with sandals that were visibly soaked through. Each clutched an umbrella purchased from local vendors, which seemed to be doing only a moderate job of keeping them dry.
"Excuse me," the woman said, noticing us watching them. "Do you know if this temple is worth the trip in this weather?" She pointed to a circled location on their map.
"We're actually heading to Besakih Temple ourselves," I replied. "It's supposed to be spectacular."
"First time in Bali?" the man asked, shifting uncomfortably as water pooled in his socks.
"Yes," I nodded. "You?"
"Second trip," his partner replied, adjusting her grip on her umbrella. "We're George and MJ. Retired military, settled in Ecuador after our service ended last year."
"Nice to meet you," I said. "Ecuador is quite a change from military life."
George nodded. "This whole wandering-around-by-ourselves thing is still new to us. No mission parameters, no squad, just figuring it out as we go."
"Are you also on the cruise?" MJ asked, checking her heavy-duty tactical timepiece.
When we confirmed we were, George pulled out a neatly folded itinerary from a waterproof pocket. "We've allocated forty-five minutes for Ubud, ninety minutes for the temple complex, and thirty minutes for lunch at a local establishment recommended by our research."
Liz and I exchanged amused glances. "We're more 'seat of our pants' travelers," she explained. "Our only plan is to be back before the ship leaves."
"That approach makes me anxious," MJ admitted with a self-deprecating smile.
"We're sailors," I explained. "We're used to adjusting course based on the conditions."
"Navy?" George asked hopefully.
"Recreational," Liz clarified. "We go where the wind takes us."
"That sounds terrifying," MJ said, but her eyes reflected a hint of envy.
"You two heading up to the temple now?" I asked, noting the rain was beginning to ease slightly.
"That's our next stop," George replied.
"Why don't we share a taxi?" Liz suggested. "Might be cheaper for all of us."
As we flagged down a driver, MJ leaned closer. "If you're looking for lunch later, try a local warung, they are the little family places, instead of the tourist spots. The food is incredible."
On the drive up, we learned they'd met during their second tours in Afghanistan, married after returning home, and had chosen Ecuador for its combination of affordable living and expatriate community.
As our taxi wound higher into the mountains, the conversation shifted to the island's history and culture. Despite their regimented approach to travel, their genuine curiosity and respect for local customs revealed travelers with open hearts, if overly organized minds.
We had left the majority of people behind, and as we approached Besakih Temple, it emerged from the mist like a dream, its tiered pagodas climbing the slopes of Mount Agung. George and MJ consulted their watches and decided to split off to follow their own timeline, promising to compare notes back on the ship.
Stone steps, slick with rain, led us upward through a series of split gates known as candi bentar. Each gate seemed to transport us deeper into a realm where the sacred and earthly intertwined. The scent of incense and wet stone mingled in the cool mountain air.
The temple complex unfolded before us in layers, with over 80 individual temples and shrines scattered across the mountainside. Our footsteps echoed on the wet stone as we navigated through courtyards adorned with intricate stone carvings. Incense smoke wafted through the air, mingling with the earthy perfume rising from rain-soaked ground.
The central temple, Pura Penataran Agung, commanded our attention with its imposing six-tiered structure. We climbed its steep steps carefully, each level offering a new perspective of the surrounding temples and the mist-shrouded valley below. Prayer flags fluttered and snapped in the mountain breeze, accompanying the distant sound of gamelan music drifting from nearby.
Dark clouds occasionally parted, allowing brief shafts of sunlight to illuminate the temple's stone surfaces, highlighting the centuries-old craftsmanship in the weathered carvings. We paused often, mesmerized by the ornate details: demons and deities locked in eternal dance, mythological creatures guarding sacred spaces, and intricate floral patterns celebrating nature's beauty.
Besakih stayed with us as we descended back to our waiting taxi. The spiritual resonance of the temple visit gave way to more earthly concerns as mid-afternoon hunger gnawed at us.
Remembering MJ's recommendation, we asked our driver to take us to a local warung rather than a tourist restaurant. He nodded approvingly and suggested a small establishment tucked away in a village.
Stepping inside, we found ourselves in a humble dining room where plastic chairs surrounded well-worn wooden tables. The menu, handwritten in Balinese script, might as well have been hieroglyphics to us.
"I don't see any prices," Liz whispered, a note of concern in her voice.
Before I could respond, the owner—a woman with laugh lines etched deeply around her eyes—approached our table, wiping her hands on a faded cloth.
She spoke slowly in Balinese and looked at us hopefully.
I shook my head apologetically. "No Indonesian," I admitted.
Instead of frustration, her face lit up with a challenge accepted. "You come," she said decisively, beckoning us with a wave.
Sensing our hesitation, she took me by the arm and drew us into the back of the restaurant.
We followed her through a beaded curtain into the kitchen's inner sanctum, which was a sensory revelation. Steam rose from massive pots bubbling on well-used stovetops, carrying the aromatic symphony of galangal, turmeric, and lemongrass. Chilies sizzled in well-seasoned woks, their spicy essence making our eyes water.
Language barriers disappeared as the owner guided us through her culinary domain with gestures alone. She lifted lids revealing fragrant dishes, pointing and nodding encouragingly. When she uncovered a pot of what appeared to be pork, she mimicked eating with exaggerated satisfaction, patting her stomach appreciatively.
Liz pointed inquiringly to another dish wrapped in banana leaves. The woman smiled and made a graceful undulating motion with her hands that somehow perfectly conveyed "fish." She then made a gesture of wrapping something and then touching her fingertips together repeatedly—perhaps indicating tenderness or the way the fish would flake apart.
Along the counter, dishes in various stages of preparation offered a visual feast: vibrant green vegetables, golden curry sauces, and deep red sambal. Without a single shared word between us, the owner somehow communicated the essence of each dish through an elaborate choreography of nods, gestures, and facial expressions.
A young girl of about ten appeared at the woman's side, watching us with curious eyes. The woman placed her hand on the girl's shoulder with obvious maternal pride, and the daughter offered a shy smile but remained silent. She followed us attentively as we toured the kitchen, occasionally whispering to her mother, who would nod or shake her head in response.
Through a combination of gestures, nods, and appreciative sniffs, we made our selections from the aromatic offerings before us. The girl ran ahead to prepare our table.
Back at our table, the dishes that arrived weren't exactly what we'd envisioned—we'd pointed at what looked like chicken but received fish, and what we thought was rice turned out to be noodles—yet each bite was a delicious surprise. The flavors were bold and complex, clearly born from generations of culinary expertise. Every spoonful revealed new layers of taste: sweet, sour, spicy, and savory dancing on our tongues.
"This is incredible," Liz murmured, closing her eyes to savor a particularly flavorful bite. "I don't even know what I'm eating, but I never want it to end."
The owner watched from a distance, her face glowing with pride at our obvious enjoyment. When the little girl brought us extra napkins, I asked her, "Did you help cook this?"
She nodded solemnly. "I make," she said, pointing to the sambal, chili paste that had nearly taken the roof of my mouth off.
"Very good," I replied. Her delighted giggle was worth the burning sensation.
As we prepared to leave, I glanced at my watch and felt a jolt of panic. "Liz! The ship leaves in forty minutes!"
The owner, seeing our sudden distress, quickly calculated our bill. Her daughter pressed a small woven bracelet into Liz's hand, a parting gift that brought unexpected tears to her eyes.
Our driver, sensing the urgency, navigated the winding roads with newfound purpose, occasionally taking shortcuts through villages where children waved as we passed. The rain had finally stopped, and late afternoon sun gilded the wet landscape.
"Will we make it?" Liz asked, tension evident in her voice as she fingered her new bracelet.
"No worry," our driver assured us with a grin.
We made it to the port with just five minutes to spare, rushing up the gangplank as final boarding calls echoed across the water. On deck, catching our breath, we watched Bali's coastline recede in the golden light of approaching sunset.
Later that evening, we spotted George and MJ at dinner, their faces animated as they recounted their perfectly executed temple visit to their tablemates. Catching our eye, MJ excused herself and came over.
"We saw you running up the dock!" she said, relief evident in her voice. "We were worried."
"We made it," Liz laughed, showing off her bracelet. "And thank you for suggesting the warung—we had the most amazing lunch experience."
As the ship glided through darkening waters, the warmth of Bali's welcome stayed with us, carried in a handwoven bracelet and the lingering heat of a great meal.