Butterflies of Bali. Victor Mason

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

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