Airport porters--lots of them. Deliberately confused for officials wanting baggage claim checks. We fell for it, no one else did. Porters demand dollars for putting our stuff on a cart and pushing it enthusiastically for about 30 yards. We paid rupiah worth $1. I imagine: they knew someone to get this job, maybe waited years. Only the boldest survive.

Smooth roads. Lots of cars but only two main roads from airport.

Motorcycles everywhere. Motorcycles, motorcycles and scooters. A few bicycles.

Kuta. An awful strip of KFC, McDonalds. We stop to read map and teenager asks us if we need help. I'm suspicious but friendly. We don't need help. He feels the metal of my French Horn. Is he fascinated or trying a scam? Fascinated. Anywhere else in Indonesia I would have no question.

The tall tree, paved around, in the left lane. Long one way streets. Nice beach with bamboo bars that are far too neat.

We turn inland. Cart after cart of street vendors. I can't tell what they are selling except some have fried chicken.

Square boxes, about five inches across lay in the road and along the sidewalk at places. Often the smell of incense burning. Hindu offerings.

Heading to Denpasar the road is smooth. Motorcycles everywhere. Light industrial area. Stores selling flooring. One field with cows and soccer. A creek in a canal runs along the road. Every house on the left has a brige. Most of the bridges are attractive, not just steel girders. No apparent place to eat. Are they here and we just don't see them? Not here, I decide.

Suddenly a quiet alley barely paved leads to large iron gate, large enough for cars, with curved metal rails for the wheel that supports the end when it is dragged open. Not locked. Another iron gate, smaller.

Many hotel prices in U.S. dollars. Our place is 20,000 Rp. (about $2.15).Wayan, who lets us in, speaks about his boss. Boss's place is ornate. Miraculous compound. Stone and wood carvings, intricate lattice. Like a museum. Yet the door to the new telecom office doesn't close right and leaves a scabby arc on the linoleum.

Our room is clean but bland except the woven ceiling. A low wattage light bulb hangs down in the center. A good fan. A sign in English: Please turn out the lights and turn off the fan when leaving the room.

The first toilet I use in all of Indonesia doesn't work. The resevoir is empty. It will not fill. My urine sets.

Many people wear uniforms of different kinds. As we read, few Indonesians wearing shorts. I'm wearing long pants, though they are uncomfortable and I intend to wear shorts while biking from now on.

Hard to cross streets. Await a small break and force cars and motorcycles to miss you. A young woman rides side-saddle on the back of a bike a man is pedaling. She wears colorful horizontal striped blouse, dark blue jeans and high heels. She acts casually and comfortably, as if she were sitting at a bar. The bottom of her shoes is less than an inch from the pavement but never touches.

Bicycles, and sometimes motor bikes, carry bakeries, souvenir shops and five-and-10 stores. Our weight is nothing. Bicycle with two huge bamboo baskets. Others with fitted glass boxes containing baked goods. Others with tall sides where cheap plastic toys hang.

In the morning at dawn we hear a woman singing or is it chanting? It goes on for some time. I imagine this is a Muslim tradition.

Outside a broom sweeps the porch. The strokes sound practiced. I'm romanticizing but that's first impressions. Joan takes a shower. A tray of tea shows up on the table on the porch in front of our room. Someone waited for us to emerge, no words spoken. How long had they waited. Were we late? Does it matter?

Wayan tells us a lot. The government is good but there is a lot of corruption. "In your country," he says, "people who work for the government are respected. Here no." He's worried about the currency but not too worried. He laughs a lot. He talks more about his boss. Jobs are hard to find. I think of the book Child of All Nations: anything to keep position. That was 100 years ago.

An old woman walks by. She is silent. She passed two or three times before. This time I smile, she smiles back sincerely. I can't help but be glad at that.

Beside the TV antennas on roofs, tall poles with propellers on the end. Pinwheels. I can see no purpose. They are attached to nothing.

Lots of uniformed men in the street with whistles. When a car needs to back out, he stops the traffic. More uniformed guards in every parking lot, trying to tell us where to park our bikes.

Next: Chaos on the Ride from Denpasar to the airport.

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