Aman Bali by Caroline Major

Ten days, three resorts and a magical country; it was an overdue return to the Island of the Gods on a tour by Aman. After an absence of nineteen years I was unsure what to expect. I’d been told by my Euro-trash friends that Bali had been ruined; overdeveloped. Too many villas; resorts for tourists that crossed too many boundaries. Of course I’d heard nightmare tales of Kuta Beach harassment too, but that was pre-bombing and I sensed that the mood in Bali would be different.

In London a week earlier my sanity had been thrown into question. “Why Bali? There’s a million tropical places in the sun. Are you not worried about the bombings?” The Foreign Office website with its political railings still carries a severe warning almost two years after the event. ‘No. I’m going.’ I enthused, knowing that travel warnings are almost always politically motivated and feeling that the terrorists have achieved their goal. Tourist numbers to Bali are at record lows and the economy struggles. For my travel dollar, an excellent opportunity to help a people in need.

Arriving at Amanusa, on Balis’ most pristine beach, Guy Heywood welcomed me with a warm smile and a firm handshake in the bright sun.
“Have you plans for the afternoon?’
‘Not really. I’m in your hands.’
‘You must try the beach club’ he encouraged. ‘It’s the best thing about Amanusa.’

Expectant, I changed into my new pink Seafolly two piece, wrapped a fine sarong and reached for my floppy white hat. From the wardrobe I unearthed a beautifully woven beach basket and a newspaper. Admiring my suitably casual chic reflection in the mirror before slipping on my sandals and setting off down the wide white paths I pass my local temple. It was the first of a number of culturally sympathetic developments I’d see on my tour. A gunmetal grey vintage beach buggy with a number-plate carved ‘Amanusa’ idled in the drive-way. Five minutes later the drive winding through the golf course arrives at the sea, dropping me into the hands of the beach-club-boys.

In the comfort of a Bale, with a tray of sunscreens and repellent, a wicker wrapped cooler filled with icy cold water and a pyramid of cool and fragrant iced towels I breathe in the sea air. Behind me is the golf-course, and in front, the wide stretch of the Bali Sea in a wonderful shade of tourmaline. When the call of the ocean becomes unbearable my feet swing down from the edge of the Bale, toes digging into warm coarse white sand.

Down on the beach, two surfers paddle in from the break where three to four footers crash down. There’s half a dozen out there and a tourist boat, empty save its pilot watching them ride the waves. A jet ski plays close by and the hawker ladies have assumed a squat position on the beach. Every now and then they turn to look at me and hold up a pink sarong. ’OK?’ she calls. The bale, nearly king-sized, is bolstered beach side comfort - complete with a rolling bamboo blind that could be lowered for a stolen afternoon of naughty sex, the sounds of the crashing waves and the myriad of birds masking all sounds.

Back up on the hill, the night-staff transformed my villa into a twinkling surprise. The edges of a nine metre private swimming pool were lined with candles, the bathtub filled with fresh frangipani, the mosquito nets drawn around the four-poster, and jazz on the CD. Showering in the moonlight served as a delightful aperitif. A newly sun-kissed body lathered with thick, locally made aloe-vera based lotion and a huge mirror an opportunity to enjoy primping. It’s extreme comfort in dark wood, crisp white and black leather. The dinner is Mediterranean under a clear star studded sky by the swimming pool. Around ten pm, the transition from stressed Londoner to holiday hippy skilfully guided by the Aman passion for making a difference to their clients’ lives is complete.

In the morning, after a fruit fuelled slog in the swimming pool, I head to the ‘pampering pavilion’. Putu goes to work on the rejuvenation phase. Using her baby soft hands like a kitten padding her mothers belly for milk she uses firm but soft strokes. The heat emanating from her hands touches like sunlight and melts away the tension stored in my back. After a relaxing twenty four hours, it’s time to go exploring at nearby Ulu Watu, temple by the sea and then into Kuta for a visit to the site of the Bali bomb.

Amandari; The Agung River Valley, Ubud

Away from the coast up in the central mountains, the farmers are well into their day by eight am. Supple bodies turned brown and withered, snakelike from hours spent bent over the rice terraces season after season. Under the watchful eye of ‘Dewi Sri’, the female rice goddess, Balinese farmers tend their wet rice paddies here in much the same manner that they started three centuries ago. The Dutch brought water management expertise to the Agung Valley creating Bali’s oldest and biggest dam and made the land habitable.

My Amandari guide Darma and I walked down the valley bank along the narrow river stone path. Women gathered the black mud for making concrete, working as a team to pile the baskets held high on the head full of the sticky wet dirt. They worked as a chain, taking turns to crouch and catch while another lobbed basins full of mud. Passing through a narrow stretch he pointed to coffee plants, pineapple bushes, clove trees, mandarins, tarrow, tumeric, star-fruit and sweet-potato. I tasted unripe rice, still gelatinous and sweet that he squeezed through the husk into my waiting mouth. He told me about the taste of the dragonfly and the good sauce it makes and how snails from rice paddies are good made into a satay (but that he preferred chicken). He talked to his neighbours who commented on what a pretty guest he had today and I asked if he had grown up in this land. His mother is from Ubud on the Aman side of the river and his father from Kedewatan opposite.

As a child he had worked these rice paddies and knew the valley. On quiet days at Aman, he and a colleague scout the country looking for new walks to open up. He offered to sell me a fabulous plot of land overlooking the river, telling me that the villagers have grown lazy and a little materialistic. And that even though temple life was still a major part of their culture, people didn’t want to do the back breaking work involved in tending the rice. We walked through the village and past the grand banyan tree at the centre, over the stone floor built for the gala dinners hosted nearby the temple. All the while the sound of Bali rang out; dogs yapping loudly to signal the passage of strangers. A man on a motorcycle collected plastic from the streets and I enjoyed the sun on my skin and the leisurely pace of the relaxed walk. We trekked twelve kilometres in two hours, with lots of stops for video and photos. I spent the afternoon on my private terrace looking out over the valley ruminating on the increased affluence of the Balinese.

Amankila; Candidasa

An hour and a half away on the East coast, Aman XII - a refurbished Balinese Outrigger made for cruising - set out from Amankila. First the rubber ducky dived through the waves, pulled by well muscled Balinese Beach boys with broad smiles. Once aboard the cruiser, we set course for Nusa Penida. Lombok loomed large in the distance. Under the water, rocky outcrops harboured a suprising multitude of colourful fish. Once a ‘dynamite fishing’ zone, an Aman education campaign and income replacement scheme has kick-started a rejuvenation. Perched on the roof deck with Tracy Atherton, GM of Amankila, we lazed on bolsters enjoying the warmth of the cloud hidden sun. The view of Mount Agung; a volcanic giant and most sacred of places peeked out above the steep coastline in the foreground inspiring talk of the ritualistic side of the Balinese.

Discussing life out here on the perimeters, she entertained with stories of tourists possessing an adventurous spirit or a desire to get away and how that works with the local community. The resort village of Manggis is the source of a majority of loyal Amankila employees following Aman policy. As a direct result they excel at matching mountain biking trails, treks and coastal kayaking and sailing spots to the guests' energy and ability. Many of the staff have been with Amankila since it opened and have met their partners there, got married and had children. They learn to swim and they learn to speak English. Aman is teacher, parent and benefactor in a symbiotic relationship which ultimately serves attention seeking holiday guests. Aman training somehow manages to make mind-readers of staff. Before you’ve thought you want it, someone is on hand with towels, drinks, food, sunscreen or a suggestion. Whatever it is that you might want, right at the moment you need it. Uncanny. What makes it really impressive though, is the translation of this phenomenon into the cultural tourism on offer. It’s hard not to feel that you’ve been an honoured guest in the Balinese community in each of the three Aman Bali resorts.

Using leadership, Aman has motivated a renaissance amongst Balinese hotel owners. Over fifteen years, they’ve maintained an unsurpassed level of service and experience inspiring the best form of flattery: imitation. Not everybody can afford to be an Aman guest, but the crop of smaller upscale properties springing up on the island is a general benefit to the evolution of Bali. With the night-life bombed out of Kuta, unquestionably more upmarket entertainment developments in Seminyak, the growing affluence of the Balinese and an increased respect and responsibility for the environment, Bali has become a more attractive destination for sensitive guests. Amans’ constant re-invention, self awareness and drive to surprise is a market leading formula. In simple terms, Aman Bali is the best luxury option and its presence a benefit to anyone lucky enough to visit ‘The Island of the Gods’.