The great Vespa brotherhood of Bali

Posted on 18 February 2015

In Bali, there are no sidewalks. There is no walking. Only riding. Crazy riding. So what to do? Surrender all. Andy Ellis hires a scooter and finds himself embraced in a world where the Vespa is king.

Bali Dewata Scooter Club

Parading a badass rock-star style and a dark edge to his adorned wheels, this guy epitomises the individuality that Bali’s Dewata Scooter Club strives for.

 

The Vespa

  • The first Vespa was built in 1946. When the manufacturer saw his prototype he said, ‘Sembra una vespa!’ (‘It looks like a wasp!’)
  • 2484 were sold in the first year. By 1953, that number was 171 200
  • Famous Vespa riders include Salvador Dali, James Gandolfini, Tiger Woods, Milla Jovovich and the inimitably cool and unconventional Bill Murray

 

‘You come to Bali to do the surfing?’ The cab idles; we’re enveloped by traffic. Only the scooters are buzzing. The cars wait in line. The driver’s got the air-con turned to the max but I can still sense the heat of the day pressing up against the windows, wanting in. I’ve been trapped in a plane for God knows how long and all I want to do is rip my shirt off and run screaming into the sea.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m here to work.’

The conversation ends there. He flashes an eye at his rear-view mirror, parps the hooter and floors it into oncoming traffic. Battalions of scooters come at us, absorb the cab, eddy round. It’s a routine manoeuvre, no biggie. Back home a move like that would’ve hailed the full gnashing of Beelzebub’s vernacular, middle fingers and clenched fists. Not here.

‘The man like you,’ the cabby says, ‘they come here to do the surfing. I take you to my friend. He has a scooter with the surfboard racks. You ride where you want. Surf where want.’ He thinks I’m an Aussie. That’s what they come here to do.

 

In Bali there is no end to the imagination, and possibility, in customising the humble Vespa.

From paramilitary makeovers to conversions that mimic Harley-Davidson choppers, in Bali there is no end to the imagination, and possibility, in customising the humble Vespa.


We pull up outside a grocer’s store. It’s a U-turn-and-drift-across tactic made fair by the simple press of the hooter. By the standards of the international driver’s licence swaddled somewhere in the bottom of my backpack, it’s a foul move. But here protocol states: do what is convenient. Do what is necessary. Let the other guy in, always. The hooter does not exist to claim a righteous standpoint. It’s the hailer that conveys the message: everyone’s going somewhere, right? So let’s all just go where we’re going.

The cabby smiles and uses an outstretched arm to usher me onto a white-tiled stoep. He points to a man sitting cross-legged on the tiles, mechanic’s nails. Two Honda scooters flank him, a vegetable stall at his back. There’s a chicken clucking behind there somewhere too. The place smells like petrol and incense.

A cigarette dangles from lips outlined by week-old stubble. His dark eyes narrow, he offers a soft handshake. The cabby’s warm gesture, this guy wearing a dirty wife-beater sitting on the floor in front of stacks of weird-looking green bananas. And that voodoo chicken. They’re going to rip me off. For sure.

The guy flicks his cigarette into the street and points to the bike with a crude rack attached.

‘For the surfboard,’ he says.

‘How much?’

‘Forty-thousand rupiah, how long you want?’

‘Ten days or so.’

‘Then thirty-five thousand rupiah. Pay me all upfront.’

I’ve quit pretending to be able to do the sums in my head; I pull out my phone and command an app to do the conversion. This great-condition scooter with pink fire decals flaring down the sides is going to cost me less than R400 for 10 days. That’s, well, that’s a joke, right?

The cabby is already idling his car, he winds down the window. ‘You okay, my friend?’ It’s a genuine concern. Not the precursor to a haggle over commission. I turn back to the scooter man; he offers me one of those weird green bananas. These guys are on the level. Their only agenda is a fair exchange. Turns out, I’m the only player on the street.

This is a good time to confess. Yes, I’m grateful for my pink-fire Honda, for not being ripped off, the banana and the free loan of a fleabag helmet plastered with hibiscus stickers. But I don’t feel cool, okay. Back home I ride machines of perceived coolness. I am grateful, yes. But just saying. I feel like a bit of a girl straddling this scooter in the heat of Canggu. I press the ignition, twist the throttle and bullet into the traffic. It takes a moment to realise that I never looked left. Or right. I’d just chucked it all in with the rest of them. And it felt good.

 

The Balinese newborn is believed to be holy, something like an angel, and susceptible to all the deplorable earthly elements at birth. Prior to the Tigang Sasih ceremony – the child’s passage to being of this Earth – the baby’s feet are not permitted to touch the ground. Not for a moment. A woman at a temple is telling me this and it’s beautiful.

Life here is a rhythm of daily meditative ritual, offering and ceremony. The island’s spiritual culture is a heady mix of Hinduism, animism, Pitru Paksha (ancestor worship) and a deep reverence for the Buddhist saints. Meet a man or woman on the street by 9am and be sure that they have made their peace. Meditation has settled the mind and offerings have quietened the angst of the human condition. This is why I have come here. To photograph the ritual, the incredible collective consciousness of the Balinese people. I also heard that nubile Scandinavians escape to the island in January so, well, what’s the cost of a plane ticket to Nirvana, right?

Three days into the trip and I’ve got nothing. Nothing ritual, nothing blonde. I’m riding the pink-fire in the hills surrounding the town of Ubud. Village to village, hoping to meet a family that’ll take me in, share their story. I round a bend, throttle over a bump and there they are.

Under a carport, two men, barefoot, smoking cigarettes. One guy is sitting in lotus; angle grinding so hard it looks like he’s trying to set himself on fire. The other guy, long hair tied into a bun, points at the sparks – like Merlin offering instruction to an apprentice wizard. That’s not why I pull over.

I pull over because scrapped Vespa bodies surround the men. The Vespa and I, our affinity goes way back to a time under a frangipani tree in Cape Town. I was young, and had just discovered that someone would actually pay me to be a writer but that I would need another job to survive being one.

I ran a little picture-framing business out of a garage. About a month after a neighbour sold up and left town, I wandered into his overgrown garden. Under a frangipani tree was an abandoned purple Vespa. I lumped her flat-wheeled carcass back home and stripped her down. That was some 20 years ago.

I kill the pink-flame and stroll over to the man with the hair tied into a bun. His big round eyes flatten to a smile, he reaches out.

‘I can help you, my friend?’

‘You guys fixing these old Vespas?’ I ask.

‘We make them something more. Something extreme.’

‘Like souped-up?’

‘No, extreme. We’re making a sidecar for this one. Army style with ammunition boxes. I’m fitting rocket launchers. You like Vespas?’

‘You kidding me? I have a 1980 150PX back home. And four other bikes. I think that may be why the wife left me.’

He doesn’t get the last bit. Just as well.

‘We are the Dewata Scooter Club. We are famous scooterists. Extreme Vespa.’

Scooterists? I can’t believe my luck, a backyard custom shop and club complete with novel descriptor. I ask to take his picture. ‘Sure,’ he says, ‘But come ride with us. On Saturday, 8am, at the statue of Peliatan. We all meet there, maybe 200 Vespas. We ride to Nusa Dua.’

‘But I’m on that Honda.’

‘So is the rest of Bali.’

 

culture of Bali bikers that take pride in the extreme.

Not all scooters are done up. There are those that are purposefully done down. It’s an all or nothing culture of bikers that take pride in the extreme.


I get to the rendezvous a little late. I park the pink-fire across the street, out of respect. Dewa wasn’t kidding. The scooters are a custom ensemble ranging from paramilitary to psycho minimal. Chopped, bobbed and adorned with all kinds of symbolism tacked and etched onto the bodywork.

And the riders. They’re in badass outfits. One guy looks like Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean. Cigarettes dangle. Tattoos. Cut-off leathers. Waistcoats with badges and chains – they’ve gone all out. But nobody is revving. They’re in a huddle praying, making an offering, asking for a safe and peaceful passage to Nusa Dua.

Dewa comes over to me.

‘You come, you come. Good, good. Let’s go, let’s go.’

The grand mass kickstarts a pall of two-stroke smoke. For the Vespa enthusiast this smell is the warm, precious scent of nostalgia. Like the clichéd cut grass of summer. Except you’re not pushing the mower, you’ve mounted the machine.

I’m inside of the criss-crossing swarm with no clue of its immediate intent or direction. But who cares, riding a scooter in Bali is an investigation into the temporal dimension. It’s a sense of the space around, the space that you will create, the space that you are about to lose. Only a scooterist knows the feeling. Dewa has introduced me to a few of the guys and I’m gunning with them. We’re riding with the spirit of Hanuman, the monkey god, as our guardian. The story of Hanuman is worth a google. Do that later, because now the gang belts across the countryside.

We stop at nothing. Four-way intersections? No. We go. That traffic light? For pussies. Trucks pull to the side, children wave. Oh God, if only a Scandinavian nubile could see me now.

 

The throng of scooterists never adhered to traffic lights or stop signs.

The throng of scooterists never adhered to traffic lights or stop signs, rather opting for the yield approach to impending collision. When the gang did choose to stop, it was for cigarettes and cold drinks along the way.


There are two Nusa Duas. The Nusa Dua colonised by Sol Kerzner types – six-star theme resorts that template the Bali experience into feeling and tasting like all of the other luxury pool gowns and umbrella drinks offered in the tropics. And then there is the Nusa Dua for locals and wild-men scooterists. There is no judgment here. We’d have crashed the fancy joint had the security man in the beret and putties not run out to guard the gates of opulence. We buzzed on by.

Suddenly Bali came to an end. We puttered at the edge of a cliff waiting for the stragglers who’d stopped for a swig. The first rule of being a biker is: make an entrance. And we needed a full band of scooterists to smoke up the beach that lay below.

The scooterists got what they came for. Attention. People gathered around the modified bikes, pointed and marvelled. In a world of homogenous Hondas, the extreme custom Vespa is a welcome contradiction. The men cut their engines, rocked their bikes onto centre stands and gathered in flocks.

Some started fires, others set up makeshift shelters. A band emerged from a bakkie. They manifested a huge set of speakers and started belting out Blues covers. Plastic five-litre jugs, the kind you’d use for petrol, full of rice wine went from hands to lips. The whiff of fish and chicken kebabs roasting on open flames blanketed the beach and drifted with the general diminishing sobriety. And so it went. South.

 

After the hell-ride across the island, the clan set up camp on the beach.

After the hell-ride across the island, the clan set up camp on the beach. Fires were lit, skewers of fish and chicken lined the bellies and swigs of rice wine brought out guffaws that could be heard across the bay.


I wandered among them, chatting, not understanding a word, grasping at the level of my fortune and the privilege of the experience. I’d just met one of the families I sought; they’d taken me in, performed their ritual and shared a rite of passage. Resting a foot on the hump of a sidecar, my cheeks ballooning with rice wine, I realised that it couldn’t last. I still had the job to do. I had to leave all of this and go find a temple someplace. The wine drained into my veins and spun my brain. Dewa beamed another smile, slurred something in Balinese. The band played a Bob Marley song. Ah, bugger. I took another mouthful of wine.

For now I was in the right place. I surrender.

 
Bali map
 

Plan your own trip to Bali

Bali is noted as a surf destination, so if you want the comprehensive cheat sheet to the island speak to a surfer. I used All-Aboard Surf Travel. It offers competitive options on flights and short-stay accommodation. Packages from Johannesburg start from R10 500 a person, but rocket during peak season (December). A good call is to book flights and your first four days of accommodation to get your bearings.

When to visit

I travelled in January, the rainy season, trusting that I’d have overcast skies better suited for all-day photography. Turns out the weather was mostly sunny and hot with daily evening showers. For surfing, the best time is June to October.

Things to do in Bali

To ride with the Dewata Scooter Club, find them on Facebook. It has regular outrides with other clubs.

If you’re up for surfing, you can take your own board (it’s always better to ride your own equipment), but it’s also cheap to rent – I hired boards from a guy on the beach at Sanur. Get a scooter with a surf rack and take your board everywhere with you. It’s not an exception, it’s the norm.

What you need to know

Wear a helmet, even though the locals don’t. The cops stage regular pull-overs, especially for tourists. They will fine you if you don’t have a helmet or an international licence. (Tip: Keep your wallet out of sight and around Rp50000 in a pocket for the very occasional cop who insists on a ‘fine’. Tell him it’s all you’ve got.)

Where to stay in Bali

Three things about Bali: you’re never going to be short of transport, food or a place to stay.

 

Ubud, Hibiscus Cottages offers an authentic Balinese home experience

Found in Bali’s spiritual hub of Ubud, Hibiscus Cottages offers an authentic Balinese home experience. The view over the rice paddies from the rooftop temple is the perfect spot for morning meditation.


The general rule is Kuta for the jollers, Nusa Dua for the high-rollers and Ubud for the shoo-waas.

I had no fixed plan, a carry-on bag and zero intention of sleeping on the floor or sharing backpackers with a crew of travelling surf rats. I paid between R290 and R470 for accommodation. Negotiate.

Puri Rama in Berawa Beach is central, super clean, comfortable and a good example of affordable mid-range accommodation. The owner is a gem. Email upfront and he’ll arrange airport transfer for around Rp200000 (R180) and a deal on a scooter for Rp40000 (c. R37) a day. (Tip: Ask for the room opposite the shrine in the garden.)

In Ubud, I stayed at Hibiscus Cottages, a traditional homestead bordering a rice paddy in the heart of the town. It’s an authentic Balinese experience and offers breakfast as a part of the deal – be sure to order the green banana pancakes. (Tip: Ask for the upstairs room, the one beneath the rooftop shrine. Head up there at sunrise to meditate.)

Eating and drinking

You’ll find warungs on every street, from simple holes in the wall to restaurant-like spaces. They serve traditional Balinese food and it’s all good – rice, noodles, egg, chicken and pork are staples. Street food is good too. Go for the barbequed Bali-style pork ribs – you know you want to. Western-style restaurants are everywhere, but if you’re into custom motorcycles head to the Deus Ex Machina Temple of Enthusiasm, a great bar that attracts all the cool kids.

 

Dont visit Bali without a visit to the Deus Ex Machina Temple of Enthusiasm

Don’t go to Bali without a visit to the Deus Ex Machina Temple of Enthusiasm ‒ it’s a shrine to custom motorcycle builds, retro surf culture, contemporary art and laid-back music. The temple is complete with a restaurant, bar, surf and bike shop, gallery and the promise of fun times.

 

What to pack

Whatever you can fit into a medium carry-on bag is plenty. Costume, shorts, T-shirts and flops. If you’re scootering, take a raincoat.

Costs

Rupiah (Rp) is the official currency. At the time of going to print, R1 was equivalent to about Rp1100.

Bali is a budget traveller’s paradise. You’ve got options. You could land with just your cozzie and sniff out the homestay or backpackers closest to the kind of action you’re up for. Homestays are like B&Bs and they’re everywhere. Families set aside rooms in homes and vary from acceptable to awesome. Expect to pay about R120 a night. To be comfortable, bank on about R550 a day for the basics.

Resort bookings start at R15000 for a week and include flights. Shop around or call the agent. Expect to pay around R37 a day for scooter rental.

 
This story first appeared in the September 2014 issue of Getaway magazine.

Please note that all prices were accurate at the time of going to print, but are subject to change at any time. Please take the above prices as indications only, and check with an agent or establishment before travelling.






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