Bali low: a classic innocents abroad tale of woe

Back in 1986, I was in Indonesia with some mates. We took a boat out to a little island, ate roast suckling pig... and disaster struck.

Idyllic: Nusa Lembongan

It may have been the single meal that shaped a lifelong aversion; we’ll never know for sure. What we do know is this… There were three of us: Peter, Michael and me. It was 1986 and we were three (young) men in a boat, a jukung to be precise, an Indonesian outrigger canoe, on our way to Nusa Lembongan from the Balinese coastal town of Candi Dasa. And we were wetter than drowned shags. Miserable.

On a whim we’d chartered this rustic craft from an enterprising local who said he’d get us to the distant island without actually specifying how long it would take. Mistake one. And after hours going sideways as fast as forward, with a powerful current and rolling swell, under a beating sun and now caked in salt, it had morphed from quirky, laddish whim to really ordinary idea.

The die, however, was cast, and eventually we got there. A small tropical island of mangroves and cliffs, steep hills and a frill of shallow coral reefs, their surf breaks with benign titles like “Lacerations”. Nice. Anyway, we chilled, drank beer, stayed in basic huts, spent almost nothing; there was virtually nothing to spend on. The lads may have had a surf; it’s all a bit vague. What I do remember with ridiculous clarity is our final dinner on Lembongan, having been talked into a whole babi guling – spit roasted suckling pig – by our hosts, who promised it would be a fitting Balinese feast to farewell their beautiful island. Mistake two.

We sat down to our “feast” outdoors surrounded by cats, dogs and chickens only to find our little porker undercooked. Really undercooked – a trick we later learnt to be a sly local method of making sure there was plenty, paid for by us, left over for them.

The valedictory dinner became a classic innocents abroad tale of woe. I was first to go down, a day later. It was like the worst hangover of my life, for four days in a darkened Seminyak room. First stop back home: St Vincent’s. Pete was next. Michael was the final domino, ending up in Melbourne’s Infectious Diseases Hospital with a diagnosis of viral meningitis.

No surprise that it took 35 years to go back to Lembongan. And no, there was no babi guling this time round. It may have changed a little but one constant you can rely on all over Indonesia is lumpia. And I had forgotten just how wonderful freshly deep-fried vegetable spring rolls with a good dipping sauce can be with a cold Bintang, a friend to chat with and a nearby surf break to remind yourself of distant youth.

Spring roll wrappers from the local Asian grocer, some wok-tossed cabbage, garlic, ginger, carrot, bean shoots and shallot… There are a million recipes online and you can throw in whatever you like (chopped prawn is good), as long as it’s not suckling pig. Roll, seal with egg white, deep fry at 170C and crack open a lager. It’s Bali, without the belly.