Dear  Travellers

Wish You Were Here…. in my little office in Ubud, Bali, that overlooks carved pavilions, stone goddesses and frangipani trees that come in all shades and fragrances. Just another day in paradise!

So what brought me to the shimmering shores of this fabled island, I hear you ask? I fell prey to the seductive charms of Bali in the summer of 1974 when my father decided to take us on a family holiday; to a tropical Asian hideaway that was beginning to capture the hearts of many intrepid Australians. I had never been overseas before and the exotic East was a mystery.

That first visit made a lasting impact on my life. Imagine Ubud more than thirty years ago. I felt like Alice in Wonderland, stepping cautiously into a resplendent culture of startling beauty and wild energy. And I was on sensory overload. I tasted food that defied description, watched dance movements that resembled the flutter of gilded butterflies and saw processions that took my breath away.  You could say I was spell-bound.

I returned to Bali ten years later in 1984 to a land that was still drenched in magic and mystique. That same sensual hypnosis drowned me in a sea of Balinese charm; of smiles, fragrances and culinary thrills. Of course, meeting my husband, Ketut, the second day also played a major part in the attraction. And slowly Bali became my home.

But it was the cuisine that took me by the reins. I am the first to admit that my hedonistic food fetish knows no bounds and I was intrigued with every meal I ate. I wanted to know the secret life of spices, the power of aromatic leaves and the perfection of coconut milk. Every meal was a journey into an antique land: of ceremonial foods and time-honoured cooking. I remembered thinking I was delving into history, into a cuisine that has been shaped by centuries of visitors from foreign places and wild sea-faring folk. My passion became Balinese food in all its finery and nowadays, has extended into a fervour for the food of Indonesia.

To cut a long story short (I could ramble on endlessly about the early days of rice wine and Balinese roses), Ketut and I opened our first restaurant ‘Lilies’ in Monkey forest road in 1987. This rickety, small eatery had an ambience that buzzed with a vibrant village spirit. We spent our days and nights there, entertaining friends, sharing languid meals served with lashings of Bintang beer and making new acquaintances that have lasted until this day.   Ketut and I married in 1989.

From Lilies, we branched out into all sorts of other culinary endeavours, including the Honeymoon Bakery, the Casa Luna restaurant and cooking school and eventually Indus restaurant.

In between, Ketut and I cooked up four spirited children that have given us years of pleasure.  My story was eventually bound into a book. Enter Fragrant Rice, a memoir of my life in Bali with recipes – maybe you have heard of it. More recently I have been directing the Ubud Writers & Readers Festival that is held annually in October. In 2006 it was named as one of the top six festivals in the world by Harper’s Bazaar, UK. But as Amitav Ghosh said recently, “Top 6? What nonsense, number 1 is what you are…”

So, in the meantime I will continue to work on this year’s event in my cosy, scented space and come and join us for the 2009 Ubud Writers & Readers Festival if you can.

My journey over the past few weeks has been celebrating the culinary goddesses of Ubud, the women who have helped shape Ubud’s identity as the centre of all things gastronomic. You can bury any illusions of the glamorous Nigella Lawson twin-set types. These Ubud women are salt-of-the-earth mothers and gracious in their own right, running their home-grown businesses from the heart.

So, I thought I would take you back to the early seventies again, to a time in Bali when tourists were few. My first visit to Bali was in 1974, when Ubud was an untamed jungle of sorts.  But to glean more information about those idyllic years, I thought it best to chat with none other than my husband, Ketut: a proud Ubudian from his temple-scarfed head to his well spread toes. In fact, in writing this column I am rather reluctant to depart from these long-gone days. How lovely they were!

So sit down and cross your legs as I continue a tale of life in Ubud thirty years ago,

(you might want to put the kettle on too!) and join me as I honour the women who remain but faded memories in the minds of my husband’s generation and beyond.

Drumroll and enter: Jero Made Munir, otherwise known as Nini Meneer. Nini Meneer was one of Ubud’s most famous food sellers in the seventies. Born and bred in Ubud, she hailed from the Gusti Homestay compound in Jalan Kajeng and her claim to culinary fame was Lawar sampi or beef lawar and beef satay. Lawar is one of Bali’s beloved ceremonial dishes that is a powerhouse of everything the animal ever owned, mixed with lashings of chilli, coconut and shrimp paste. It can be made with any meat and often incorporates various exotic vegetables and leaves. With the leftover scraps of beef, Nini Meneer lovingly created serapah satay or Balinese-style satay of pounded meat wrapped onto thick bamboo sticks and grilled.

Each day in the afternoon, when the sun was slowly descending and losing its bite, Nini Meneer would appear with her rustic table perched on her head piled with all her edibles, walking to the market or wherever there was a bit of village action to sell her famous lawar and satay. Sometimes she would even walk as far as Peliatan, a distance of around three kilometres. You could say she was a moveable feast.

But ‘village action’ I hear you ask. Remember this was the early seventies before the box of ill repute, the television, had infiltrated Bali and one of the most popular past-times, apart from temple gatherings, was cock-fighting. Of course, cock-fighting was performed mainly when there were ceremonies, give or take a few other hundred days of the year. In fact, when I first visited Ubud, cock-fighting was held every afternoon at the Ubud Wantilan or community hall.

So picture the crowded scene: layers of men surrounding a small arena of fighting roosters, gambling their rupiah away in a Lord-of-the-Flies type fervour, chanting the wild cock-fight call, amidst a veil of clove cigarettes; for those were the days when most Indonesian males smoked profusely. And picture little Nini Meneer seated quietly at her table in the corner of the hall, towel on her head, selling her home-cooked treats to a hungry crowd. Hers was a thriving business. My husband, Ketut, a teenager at the time, remembers it vividly.  And when Nini Meneer was not at the cock-fights, she was selling at the market or temple ceremonies all around Ubud. She was as regular as clockwork.

I chatted to Ketut about Nini Meneer. Have you ever spoken to a Balinese about the old days? Have you seen the wistfulness and softness in their eyes? Ketut re-called this tiny grandma, wandering down the memory lane of his mind into a charming place when life was less complicated. “Life was easier then” he said, “maybe, in a sense, it was better than now. There were no real pressures, just ceremonies and simple food”.

Nini Meneer was a typical Balinese grandma: small as Balinese grandmas are, with long hair that was smeared with fresh coconut oil and coiled up on the head. Ketut recalled Nini Meneer’s lawar. “It really was delicious” he reminisced. “But the trouble was, Nini Meneer liked to chew on beetle nut. She chewed it slowly until it dribbled out of the corner of her mouth while she was mixing the ingredients. And as we stood there waiting to buy her food, we would all watch the trickle of red juice, as it ran from her mouth and down to her chin. We watched and watched and prayed it would not run into the lawar”.

“And was there anything distinctive about Nini Meneer’s clothing?’ I asked, trying to establish if she had a certain look.  “Did she wear a particular type of kebaya?” I asked. In those days, bold polyester florals were all the rage so I wondered if she had a well-worn favourite, maybe splashed with motifs of big red roses or polka dots that she wore as a trademark. ‘Yes. She wore a kebaya” Ketut replied, “But actually only half the time. The rest of the time she was she bare-breasted!”

Ketut and I decided to drop into Nini Meneer’s home to chat to her son, Gusti Ketut Bajra, who lives behind Puteri Salon in Jalan Kajeng, to gain a little more insight into this legendary culinary diva. Have you ever wandered up this street? It has a lovely village atmosphere and is overflowing with small homestays and warungs. This is the North Ubud banjar territory of which I am a member. Banjars are rather like extended families, so this street is where I often go to attend weddings and family ceremonies.

As we gazed at a few family photos, I was surprised to find out that Nini Meneer is the mother of Gusti Putu Roni who is often seated out the front of temple ceremonies in Ubud, renting a pile of sarongs to eager tourists. Do you know her? She is rather eccentric and sells jackfruit on the ground floor of the Ubud market, in the far-eastern corner. She always makes me laugh.

Gusti Ketut Bajra is now 66 and said his mother started selling lawar well before he was born. He is one of eight brothers and sisters. “Your mother had a thriving business then?” I asked.  “It was a good business but we were poor in those days,” he said. And looking at Ketut, added, “We were all poor then. You don’t know this about the life then, do you Ketut?” (Ketut being nearly twenty years younger )

“We didn’t have an inheritance, didn’t own any rice fields and before the fifties, we didn’t always have rice to eat. Sometimes people just ate vegetables. These were the crisis years for us. But we had enough to eat.”

I watched Gusti as he spoke and could see the movement in his eyes, as if I was rekindling a slow-burning fire. “I remember there used to be around ten people who helped my mother prepare the satay. They would sit on the ground and make the bamboo sticks. When their job was finished, we would give them one satay and some lawar for their efforts. That was their payment. Others would just get meat stock. There were ten coconut bowls and we would fill each one with the stock of plain boiled meat. That was all. We hadn’t even added the spices yet, because spices were expensive in those days.”

Gusti was in charge of buying the meat for his mother. Every day, he would walk to the make shift abattoir in Tenggkulak, about five kilometres away, to buy the fresh meat. He would then walk home, with the meat straddled across a bamboo pole on his shoulders, via the rice fields and Monkey Forest. It was called survival!

“Do you have Nini Meneer’s lawar recipe” I asked (that is one recipe I would have insisted I learn, I thought). “Heaven’s no,” he said and chuckled. “We never thought of asking her for it”. Gusti then proceeded to tell us that, even though Nini Meneer used the same ingredients as everyone else to make her lawar, the same gingers and spices, there was something about the process, the way she mixed it, that created such a luscious end result.

Sometimes Nini Meneer would barter her lawar for offering cakes at the temple or swap coffee from the farmers in exchange for rice. “But this was not really good,” said Gusti, “because then we would not have cash to buy meat for the lawar!”

“But, you know” he continued, “beef was more delicious then too. Even if you ate it without spices. The cows were fed on grass, nothing else. They were not pushed as they are nowadays and there were no feeds or chemicals used.” I watched that wistful look on all their faces: two men from two generations, remembering days gone by.

When Nini Meneer died in 1992 she was possibly ninety years old. “She was hardly ever sick and she never really said much,” said Gusti. But the legacy she left in the hearts of the people of Ubud remains. All you have to say is, “do you remember Nini Meneer,” to the older folk of Ubud, and you will see their eyes light up. Thus is the power of food.

Now that we are in the Festive Season and have entered that escalating countdown to Christmas, I figured it is the time to talk about Balinese ceremonial food and, in particular, Bali’s ‘national’ dish, Babi Guling, Suckling Pig.

What is it that makes Suckling Pig so delectable? I recently had lunch with a friend from Australia who said he dreams about Ibu Oka’s Suckling Pig when he is away from Bali. Imagine that. Here we are, sitting in my restaurant, Casa Luna and eating take-away Suckling Pig, drooling over its many virtues.  There’s something dreadfully wrong with that picture. 

Ibu Oka needs no introduction in Ubud and has become an Indonesian household name, selling suckling pig  in both Ubud and Mas village. It was Ibu Oka’s mother-in-law, Gung Niang Guling, who set the trend by spit-roasting these fat-bellied piglets at the family compound in Tegal Sari, Ubud. Gung Niang Guling was one of those table-carrying D.I.Y. food stalls on legs, selling Babi Guling in the village under the banyan tree. The space was shared with a few other Balinese mums. This is where it all began.

Nowadays, in the busy season, more than twelve suckling pig are roasted and carried down to the warung ready for a day of frenzied trading. Ibu Oka’s, as an Ubud tourist destination, is second only to the Monkey Forest, with bus loads of tourists pouring in to this crowded space to sample her tender meat. You can have the regular sized portion, or for gluttons like me, you can load up on the deluxe serve, topped with a huge slab of crispy pork crackling. If you are going to indulge, you might as well do it properly.

Between you and me, I seldom ate pork until I came to Bali. Rumours that Australian pig is fed on jelly-beans and anti-biotics frankly didn’t appeal but in Bali these cute little “Babes” are fed on a vegetarian diet of cooked banana trunk and sweet potato leaves. And you can taste the difference.

Suckling Pig is a multi-levelled taste sensation of tender meat, fresh spices and virgin coconut oil. When I was last at Ibu Oka’s, a tiny Grandma wandered in from the mountains carrying a jerry-can of fresh coconut oil. “We order our coconut oil from this old woman from Payangan” said one of the roasters. “She makes the finest we can find.”

As you know, I am a big fan of coconut oil and believe it is fundamental to the overall flavour of Balinese food, it kick-starts all those the wild fragrances into something heavenly.  Along with the fresh oil and spices, is the organic stuffing of  cassava leaves. While the pig is slowly turning, a mix of coconut oil and turmeric is used to baste the skin, adding a golden glow and a crispy finish. And it doesn’t stop there. At Ibu Oka’s , the suckling pig is roasted over tender coffee wood and coconut husks to add extra flavour and aroma.

Of course, there are other wonderful Balinese specialties you can make for Christmas or the New Year. Smoked Duck is a perennial favourite and Roast Chicken rubbed with Balinese spices and served with sambal matah is a winner. Or how about Roast Turkey stuffed with yellow rice or Roast Lamb basted with kecap manis, cracked pepper and lime leaves.

The foods that promote life, vitality, strength, health,

joy and cheerfulness,

which are sweet, soft, nourishing and agreeable

are favoured by the pure

Bhagavad Gita 17-8

So getting back to the joy of celebration. The eloquent Krishna proffered this quote to his ever-faithful fan, Arjuna, about the virtues of good food. Food embodies something far greater than just a taste sensation and feasting with friends and family is more than just bringing pleasure to the table. A gathering such as this enters our snug inner sanctum that keeps our heart and soul in love: in love with a world that provides and nurtures and in love with humanity. I have often said that the saddest people on the planet are those with eating disorders because they choose to shun a part of life that can lead to such great happiness.

So take my advice and cook up Christmas lunch for family and friends. Spare no expense. In fact, treat it like a Balinese ceremony and make it a happy, busy, noisy affair with loads of laughter and merriment. Because, as they say, what goes around comes around. And even if you can’t offer the finest meal, it will still taste sublime because the spirit of the event will turn it into something unforgettable.

And here’s a little Christmas present to serve with your Christmas Feast.

SAMBAL MATAH

Raw chilli seasoning

This is a deliciously crisp, crunchy sambal, with lashings of kaffir lime, lemongrass and ginger adding to that culinary wow factor. It’s a great accompaniment to roast chicken, summer salads and just about anything char-grilled!

INGREDIENTS :

5 shallots                                                         3 tbs oil

1 large red chilli, seeds removed               1 tsp grated ginger

5 small chillies, seeds removed                 5 kaffir lime leaves

1 tsp torch ginger bud, chopped                sea salt to taste  

½ tsp shrimp paste, roasted                    1 lemongrass stalk                          

1 tsp torch ginger shoot, chopped                   

Slice the shallots finely. Mix robustly with a teaspoon of salt to extract any bitterness.

You don’t need to wash out the salt.

Chop the ginger, lemongrass, lime leaves and chilli very finely.

Mix all the ingredients thoroughly; making sure the shrimp paste is blended in. Check seasonings.

Note : Wash hands thoroughly after handling these ingredients. If chilli burns your skin, rub oil on the spot.

Coconut oil is the preferred oil for this sambal.

Selamat Hari Natal dan Tahun Baru.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

I wish you all a Feast of love, good health and happiness.

Cheers and I will see you in the New Year.

Matur Suksme

When was the last time you walked in the rice fields?  One of the most magical ways to enjoy Ubud, I believe,  is on foot and there’s something to be said for getting back to nature and walking in the fields of green that surround this fabled village. Whether you jalan-jalan along the narrow streets in and around the centre of town or into the picturesque bamboo jungles beyond, where the pace of life slows to a saunter, the experience is always  invigorating and full of surprises.

When I need to breathe mega doses of morning air and stretch my computer-aching limbs, I take a walk along the Tjampuhan ridge, on the path that straddles the East and West Woz rivers, behind our restaurant, Indus. It’s like a sun salutation of the tropical kind, a chance to revel in the glory of nature with all the soft, fuzzy feelings that come with the sweet smiles received from pig-tailed school girls in crimson and white uniforms and miniature Balinese farmers that you pass on the way.

A stroll amongst elephant grass, coconut trees and picture-perfect rice fields does something to the soul. If Kerala is said to be “God’s own country”, then Bali must surely be “God’s own garden”.  The glossy morning light in a fresh blue sky and the sounds of nature always slap you with an “it’s great to be alive feeling” and isn’t that the best happy drug you can enjoy. And better still, it’s free. Even the whoosh, whoosh sound of bamboo brooms sweeping the compound in the village is one of the simplest and most pleasurable sound sensations on the planet. And if you are out early enough, you will see a pearly moon hanging overhead and the dew ‘of angels cooking’ hovering above the river. That’s what my husband, Ketut, says it is and I believe him. Because in ‘Gods own garden” angels must surely be living and eating by the cool waters, enjoying a life of luxury of the greenest kind. A moveable, mystical feast.

You can say that there truly are health benefits to be gained by walking in the rice fields.  I remember when Aristides Katoppo, founder of Sinar Harapan newspaper, attended our second Ubud Writers & Readers Festival in 2005. It was shortly after he suffered a light stroke and the rejuvenating energy of a stroll in nature had a huge impact on his recovery. He walked every morning and this outdoor therapy proved so addictive that dear Bapak Aristides forgot to show up to his session at the Festival. He spent the morning roaming in a field of dreams when he was supposed to be leading a discussion on journalism in Indonesia. Such is the magic of Ubud!

The Tjampuhan walk begins at the turn-off to the Ibah hotel and wanders past the school and down those oh-so-deep stairs that lead you across the mossy stone bridge to the Tjampuhan temple, Pura Gunung Lebah. One of my favourite temples in Ubud, Pura Gunung Lebah, is said to be built near sacred caves and dates back to the eighth century when the sage Rsi Markandya came to town and claimed the site as a place for worship.  This ancient temple is believed to have a powerful dose of cosmic energy and a ceremony held in its grounds is always a majestic affair.  

Beyond the temple, the walk takes you across a hillside of elegant elephant grass until you eventually reach the village, Bangkiang Sidem. The name of this village translates as ‘the back of the black ant’, and this small mountain certainly resembles that shape.

And speaking of drinking in nature, you can sip-sip it in, literally, on this walk, with the juice of fat green coconuts. There is a farmer who usually jumps out from behind one of the coconut trees just before you reach Bangkiang Sidem, offering refreshments to thirsty travellers. Morning price, of course. This cheery grandpa has adopted one of the shady palms as his makeshift shop front and, once the sun has risen, it is open for business. I am a huge fan of coconut juice. On a hot day I will guzzle the cool liquid of one or two of these, letting it dribble down my chin in a Robinson Crusoe-type fervour. I will tell you about its virtues another time.

Welcome to Bangkiang Sidem. Tidy Balinese compounds rub shoulders with expatriate homes, in a rustic embrace. Tall trees offer shade after the heat of a sun-burnt journey across the hill. Miniature paintings fill the occasional shop and Balinese dogs of all sizes defend their beloved territory.  I love the filtered light of these small towns and the velvet feeling of unpaved roads, a certain softness under the feet. And then there are the kitchen fragrances of fresh coconut oil, fried shallots and shrimp paste and the scent of steaming rice.  By now I usually succumb to the seduction of breakfast and seek a driver to take me home, pronto. Makan dulu! But if I am feeling particularly energetic, or if my friend, Elizabeth, spurns me on, I will walk to Payogan, up and over the next hill (I don’t do it very often, sigh!).

There are other magical walks that lead you off the beaten track, past dramatic ravines, banyan trees, rambling villas, manicured homestays and schools. Sometimes I have had the pleasure of passing young folk I know as they help in gotong-royong temple activities or students as they pray together in the school yards. Waves and cries of ‘Hello Ibu’ break the morning silence and it is these honest pleasures that stay in your heart. There is something about the essence of village life, seeing the spirit of a community that works together and lives so humbly that make these early morning walks so enchanting. If John Le Carre said ‘to have another language is to have another soul”, then to observe and absorb another culture is to have another voice. Lessons for living of the most compassionate kind.

In the meantime, take a walk around Ubud and enjoy the honest pleasures that this country town provides. All it costs is a little time out of your day. It’s as simple as that. But the glow on the cheeks will last for hours and the memory will last a lifetime.