Butterflies of Bali. Victor Mason

Now I was delighted that my luncheon party had fallen by the wayside, and I fervently wished it would fail to recover. So we sat at a table on the beach, and ate and chatted late into the afternoon. Everything was perfect, and I was enraptured.

      And then I suggested that we take an excursion to the southern tip of the island—to the cliff-top temple at Ulu Watu, perched high above the rolling breakers of the infinite Indian Ocean, dashing eternally at its foot and shaking its very foundations with a hollow roar.

      To the temple known as Pura Luhur, one of Bali’s holiest where, one thousand years ago, the pioneering Brahmanic divine, Pedanda Wawu Rau, had accomplished moksa ascending to heaven in a puff of smoke, it was agreed that we should go.

      Gaily we drove along the narrow, cratered road, between high hedges of cactus and lantana, ablaze with clusters of scarlet and orange flowers, and covered with spotted blue and tawny black-veined Danaid butterflies. In dancing clouds they fluttered as we swept past. How very different was the landscape here: it seemed indeed that we had journeyed none too gently, but with a palpable jolt, from one geographical zone to another—from the Oriental to the Australian Region precisely, at one fell swoop. Here were no palms sheltering terraced rice-paddies, but stunted, thorny shrubs and eucalypts, with here and there a towering cotton-tree, affording little shade to the slopes of jagged coral scree and plots of sparse dry cultivation. Once this land must have been thrust up by violent seismic upheaval from the ocean depths: not perhaps so very long ago. From our vantage at the height of this table-land or bluff, we caught occasional glimpses of the surrounding aquamarine sea. Although it was late afternoon, the light and colour had shed none of their intensity. Everything was brighter here. The sun beat fiercely down.

      “You know what this reminds me of?” Hermione suddenly turned enquiringly to me, as we bowled through the unexpected, unfamiliar terrain: “it reminds me for all the world of Corsica. It has that same quality of light, and that rugged, untamed look about it. The few people we’ve seen also have a sun-burned, swarthy complexion not unlike Mediterranean fisher-folk.” And I could not help but agree.

      We passed through a straggling village of houses crudely constructed of limestone blocks, hewn from the hillside nearby. These were the only habitations we had seen. A contrary blaze of violent magenta bougainvillaea sprang over a drab compound wall, imparting a spark of life to the overpowering dereliction. Here were no wayside stalls serving drinks and confections, and providing a venue for neighbourliness and idle gossip. A knot of ragged, wild-looking individuals squatted by the roadside, staring menacingly at passers-by. From Indra’s garden we had moved to another sphere. One keenly felt the alien nature of this place.

      As we drew near our destination, the countryside around us assumed a still more rugged aspect; strangely sculpted coral knolls poked through a dense undergrowth of dwarf acacia and spiny Zizyphus; here and there yawned cavern mouths. A steep descent and hairpin bend brought us to a shady parking area, situated a few minutes’ walk away from the eminence on which the temple stood, at the head of a timeless rock-cut staircase and avenue of fragrant white jasmine, as a shining throne or diadem atop a marbled citadel, adorned with wreaths of flowers. The effect on us both was awesome.

      Entering the outer gate and quadrangle, we were overwhelmed in turn by the austere simplicity of design, and the silence and utter solitude of the enclosed space. It was the perfect foil and understatement for the scene that was to come. For passing through the coral portal to the inner precinct, we were in one breathless instant assailed by the blast of rushing air and the roar of surf pounding the promontory beneath our feet. We stood transfixed and mute, Hermione and I, consumed by the might of this elemental display; mere specks of form in time and space. There was no one else within the walls: we might have been the last inhabitants of planet Earth.

      Holding Hermione’s hand, I steered her towards the low parapet encircling the court and scattered shrines, and together we gazed out, over the even lines of rollers receding to the sharp horizon, and finally below where the massive breakers dissolved in broad bands of churning foam, racing to meet the foot of the towering chalk cliffs. A lone tropicbird sailed by, white suffused golden, ethereal, immensely long tail-streamers floating behind and of such delicate appearance that they seemed certain to sever. And lost in contemplation of this aerial splendour, etched against the cresting waves, I suddenly saw what I had hoped to see, briefly outlined and uplifted in the translucent swell, for once free as the bird above it—a turtle.

      “Look,” I squeezed Hermione’s arm, “a turtle!” These were the first words either of us had spoken in a quarter of an hour. But the wave had peaked and broken in the time taken to pronounce them, and the beast was submerged in a seething cauldron of froth.