Roger Thiedeman discovers shades of Lanka in the Pacung Mountain Resort

Playing ducks and drakes in Bali ...

Terraced rice fields, starting at the bottom, march up the valley sides in free-form curvilinear patterns, seemingly defying gravity. The vivid verdancy of the paddy fields is so bright it almost hurts the eye. Yet eyes and mind are caressed by the pleasing sights. Intermingled with the rice are plots of other vegetable crops; forests clothe the valley slopes not given over to rice cultivation.

I cast my mind back eight months. Back to our first visit to the idyllic island of Bali, and the day we stopped here for a meal during a half-day's sightseeing tour. So captivated by this place and its spectacular views were we, that wife Ingrid and I vowed to return for a longer stay than a hasty buffet lunch allows.

Now we are back. For a two-night sojourn at the Pacung Mountain Resort, perched above the Baturiti Valley, in Bali's central highlands. The Pacung (pronounced "Pachoong") Resort is a modern hotel complex clinging to a hillside beside a climbing, winding road. Sometimes reminiscent of the Colombo-Kandy road, this links the bustling coastal resort of Kuta and the administrative capital Denpasar, with the mountain region of Bedugul, a popular hill station in the days of Dutch colonisation, not unlike Nuwara Eliya.

At street level are the reception area and two restaurants: both overlooking sensational scenes of the surrounding terrain, one restaurant is for formal dining, the other more open to the elements albeit entirely under cover. The latter is our luncheon venue. A few flights of steps lead downward to motel-style rooms: comfortable, clean, well-appointed, and of modest proportions. There is even a swimming pool here.

But as Ingrid and I finish our meal, we look forward - or make that 'downward' - to occupying the accommodation that will be our home for the next two days and nights. Below us, nestling in the valley, ten separate luxury bungalows are arranged in a semi-circle around beautiful landscaped gardens surrounding a large, multi-layered lotus pond, in the midst of paddy fields and vegetable patches.

To get to our unit, we squeeze into a sort of motorised cage travelling on steel rails. The rails are fixed into the steep incline. I guess that's why they call it an 'inclinator'. Slowly, the inclinator takes us down the hundred or so feet to the valley floor. 

At last we reach ground level and the cluster of cabins, one of which is ours, all ours. In fact, throughout our stay at Pacung, we were the only guests to occupy any of the ten bungalows. It gives us an extra sense of solitude, privacy and exclusivity - as though we are VIPs for whom the whole bungalow complex has been reserved.

Settling into our bungalow, we marvel at all that spaciousness and luxury. A high, steep-pitched ceiling, timbered in the style of traditional Balinese dwellings, looms above the bedroom and living area with their attendant mod cons. Leading off the bedroom is a verandah abutting the edge of the pond. Yet man-made comforts are secondary in this garden retreat. 

We are awestruck by the serenity of the place: serenity of restful sights; and serenity of sound - or the lack thereof. There is not even a hint of passing traffic on the road far above us. All around are only the gentle sounds of nature. There is the endless murmur of a babbling brook, cascading down a hillock, then past our bedroom window, on its way to feed the ponds before gushing into the rice fields. 

Further away, beyond a fountain, down amongst the vegetable plots, is a small takarang shed. It is the abode of a solitary farmer, his cow and a small puppy. Occasionally the cow lows calmly, as the pup yaps in unison. We shake our heads and look at each other in happy disbelief. This is peaceful. This is tranquil. This is paradise!

But wait. We are not entirely alone. The pond nuzzling the base of our bungalow is the domain of two white ducks. Stridently vocal as only ducks could be, these feathered fellows quickly adopt us as friends. They gleefully accept the biscuit crumbs and other tidbits that Ingrid and I toss their way. One of them becomes particularly bold and amiable. I presume he must be the male, so I dub him 'Deutrom', after 'Duck' Deutrom, a Ceylonese personality my parents knew many years ago. 

I soon establish an affinity with 'Deutrom'0. It is a trick I learned elsewhere in Bali, watching a duckherd summon his flock. In village areas, usually early in the morning, one might see a young boy lead a gaggle of ducks, Pied Piper fashion, for a day's swimming, rootling and feeding in the muddy waters of the rice paddies. Before leaving them, he plants in the mud a pole with a small flag attached on top. At day's end, the duckherd returns and whistles out loud to his scattered flock. With much quacking and waddling, the ducks converge on the flagpole from all corners of the fields, before the boy does a headcount and escorts them home.

So, I decide to see what would happen if I whistle at 'Deutrom'. "Fweeeeet!", whistle I. To my delight, he gives a single quack back. Encouraged, I repeat: "Fweeeeet! Fweeeeet!". "Quack! Quack!", replies 'Deutrom'. This is wonderful. I feel like a mischievous child again. 

Now, whenever I want 'Deutrom' to quack at me, all I have to do is whistle, and he responds without fail. On our first morning, I am still in bed, having only just woken up. The slatted doors to the verandah are open, and all is quiet. On a whim, I emit a long, shrill whistle. As if on cue, 'Deutrom' begins quacking frenziedly from the pond beneath our verandah, welcoming us to the start of a new day. Such a performance demands to be rewarded with a 'ducky' breakfast of bikkie crumbs!

As with many other parts of Bali, Pacung reminds us very much of Sri Lanka. One afternoon, Ingrid and I are on the verandah, savouring cups of hot tea. Despite an overcast sky, the Baturiti Valley stretches away in the distance. Suddenly things begin getting hazy. A dense fog rolls up the valley. In less than two minutes we are enveloped by swirling mists. Then, equally quickly, the mist disappears and the sun pokes out valiantly. "Just like Haputale," we remark to each other.

At night, we sleep with the glass-paned windows wide open to let in the cool, fresh air. We shut only the outer, wooden slatted blinds, more for shade from daylight than for safety or privacy. Remember, we are alone down here among the bungalows, the ponds, the rice fields, and the gardens - except, of course, for 'Deutrom' and his lady friend, and - over yonder - the farmer, his cow and his puppy. 

Sounds of night soothe our slumber: the stream burbling outside the window; the chorus of a multitude of frogs; nothing else. Just an overwhelming feeling of peace, tranquillity and relaxation that no therapist could ever hope to induce.

Hours later, dawn breaks over the Baturiti Valley. Time to resume my cacophonic camaraderie with 'Deutrom'. Time to begin enjoying another lazy, leisurely, soothing day among nature's beauty at the glorious Pacung Mountain Resort.

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