Video Night in Kathmandu by Pico Iyer Read Free Book Online Page A

is the first vanity, and goal, of every traveler to come upon his own private pocket of perfection, it is his second vanity, and goal, to shut the door behind him. Paradise is a deserted island or a solitary glade. Bali, however, was a common paradise, a collective find and, as such, an insult to the imagination. For years, the island had swarmed with crowds desperate to get away from the crowds. “The thing I hate about Bali,” an American in Hong Kong told me, “is that everyone on the island is American or Australian, but every one of them is ignoring all the others and pretending that he’s the only foreigner who’s discovered the place.”
    Yet still Bali remained unavoidable and irresistible. And what distinguished it most from its rivals for the Pyrrhic distinction of the world’s loveliest paradise island—what set it apart from Mustique or los or even Tahiti—was the variety of its enticements. Bali had something for everyone. Some people traveled to pamper themselves, some to enjoy themselves, some to improve themselves; all of them came to Bali. And all of them, whether sun worshipper, antique collector or truth seeker, were guaranteed absolute satisfaction. For though the Indonesian government had wisely stuck by the Dutch policy of “Bali for the Balinese” and permitted tourists only in the eastern half of the island—the west remained virtually impenetrable—there was still a wealth of guidebook riches to be found here: pamphlet-perfect surf and sand for the beach bum; five-star resorts for the sybarite; myths and rituals in abundance for the culture vulture.
    Through a miracle of convenience, moreover, the separate needs of the separate species of
Homo touristicus
were satisfied in three separate areas, located within a twenty-mile radius of one another. Along the western side of the super-developed southern peninsula was Kuta Beach, once a major rest stop forhippie gypsies on their way from Kathmandu to Cuzco, and now primarily a holiday camp for Australian surfers and their blondes; on the other side of the peninsula—ten miles, and a thousand worlds, away—was Sanur Beach, a strip of concrete, luxury hotels set along the sea, the Waikiki or Cannes of the East, where the international set came out to play; and at the apex of the compact triangle, set in the heart of Bali’s magical middle kingdom, was the hillside village of Ubud, where trendy visitors came to study the native culture and foreign artists set up home and shop.
    Even more conveniently, tourism in Bali was remarkably segregated. No self-respecting self-styled student of the local culture would ever be caught dead inside the discos and juice bars of Kuta, while feto of the musclemen on the beach had time for the festivals and galleries of Ubud; both groups scorned the Sanur life they could not afford, and the Sanur settlers looked down on the basic conditions of Kuta and Ubud, which they found uncomfortably close to those of the Balinese they so admired. And everyone, in all three areas, shunned Denpasar, the noisy, traffic-choked town at the middle of the triangle, which had the unenviable task of underwriting the pleasures of Eden with practical facilities.
    Thus Ferdinand and Antonio and Gonzalo all drifted around the enchanted island, each in his own private dream, each largely unaware of the others’ proximity, all watched only by their invisible hosts.
II
    Bali’s most famous tourist community—cursed and coveted around the world—was Kuta. Fifteen years ago, the quiet fishing village had been the cheap utopia of bohemians in quest of rural hangouts and vegetable highs; watching a psychedelic sunset at Kuta was said to be almost as good as seeing Jerry Garcia at the Fillmore West or conversing with Buddha on a Himalayan mountaintop. And fifteen years ago, there had been only two restaurants in the area. The first hotel in Kuta had opened only in 1959; by now, however, the area was pockmarked with more than three