Wrong Turn: Indonesia

The Disneyfication of Monkey Business

Uluwatu, Bali, is a Hindu temple of undisturbed serenity – besides the constant threat of ambush from the marauding monkey gangs.

Terrified, I retained the services of a hardened mercenary at the temple gates. Clearly, I hold some preconceptions about unlicensed monkey jousters, and that’s on me, but I didn’t picture my champion as a sweet old lady. Apparently, I’d rather risk the macaques playing frisbee golf with my torn cheek muscles, than be taken for an ageist.

Armed only with a slingshot and a reputation, this grandmother of seven led me into the lawless ape kingdom.

As a few knuckle-dragging lookouts watched on: I, a large, young man, hid from a tiny, infant monkey, behind a little, old lady. The tot scarpered with a flex of my nan’s cartoon artillery.

Now, as anyone I’ve ever met will know, I wrote my PhD thesis on ‘The West’s role in the Disneyfication of Monkey Business’. However, tourists expecting the odd tree-top shenanigan are not prepped for the real business of monkeys: violent extortion.

Temple chimps make a dishonest living nabbing visitors’ phones, handbags and earrings. Then, these vine-swinging racketeers trade those belongings back for snacks. I don’t know if you’ve ever brokered a deal with a monkey up a tree, but they drive a confusing bargain. In the banana republic, the population all know exactly how much corn the shape on each handbag is worth.

As we made our way through the ruins of an old passage, I sensed we had company. I wish I’d said, “We’ve got company.”

The macaques landed all around us, with the grace of a gang in a musical, but the threat of a gang in a prison shower. These long-tailed hardcases were not monkeying around. Not one residual childhood memory of cheekiness across the whole outfit.

Again, I tried taking cover behind my, frankly adorable, human shield. But the walls around us were all stacked with fast-track dismemberment opportunities. To stand a fighting chance, I’d need an elite legion of seven or eight retirees in tortoise-shell formation.

The King of the Swingers reared up on the wall above us. In my exaggeration-prone memory, he had a scar scraped across both eyes. As well as a throaty Chechnyan accent and a flick knife, he tossed lightly between either paw.

In the face of an aerial Macaque-attack, the gentle pensioner showed my ignorance and a set of balls the size of a silverback’s. She didn’t flinch.

There are monkeys you threaten and there are monkeys you don’t. Nan flicked Don Kong his vig - with that, the banarama-clan were on their scary way.

As the fear wore off, I wanted to finish what I started with those damn monkeys: a wee. But I was in no mood for bartering the safe return of my cock and balls.

This was an offscreen piddle in Jurassic Park, with the raptors on the loose. I really, really, really wanted my trusty guide’s protection in the little boy’s room. However, paying an elderly Indonesian lady 100 rupiah for watching me piss, didn’t seem completely appropriate. Just half an hour ago I was doubting her service record. Now I couldn’t go pee-pee without her holding my hand. I eased open every cubicle. Clear.

The temple flooded my body with an ancient peacefulness I’ve never before known. Not inside - meditating is hard enough without the nagging thought a monkey might deface your skull. Nothing relaxes the human spirit like a bit of breathing room between yourself and a pack of hungry animals.

More of my travel writing… check out:

Wrong Turn: Brazil

Wrong Turn: Vietnam

Wrong Turn: Denmark

Wrong Turn: Thailand

Wrong Turn: Strasbourg / Stuttgart

Wrong Turn: Switzerland

Wrong Turn: Italy 2