L

ate in the afternoon, the village streets of Bali become a moveable feast of Indonesian food.

Across the archipelago a certain type of music can be heard that time of day above the local din of cars, motorbikes, children and nature that heralds a most comforting message - it's time to eat. Knives, spoons, bowls, plates, glasses and even bamboo become part of a culinary orchestra and when the sun starts to descend, it's on with the "makan" show with a chorus line of street vendors appearing on the horizon.

I grew up in the suburbs of Melbourne. On most weekends when I was young, the cheesy sound of "Greensleeves" floated through the streets after three o'clock and it meant only one thing: Mr. Whippy. Mr. Whippy was the bearer of soft-serve, creamy white ice cream that bore little resemblance to store-bought vanilla ice cream.

It was branded in the music of a traditional English folk song and we all salivated at the sound of it. A burlesque-like pink and white van with Mr. Whippy gaily painted on the front was the vehicle to deliver the creamy treat. It was resplendent with faux ice creams in cones and other flashy images and became the voice of a certain type of power to which young gluttons like me became afflicted.

"If you don't clean up your room, there'll be no Mr. Whippy for you", "Finish your homework or no ice cream" and other threats were part of my mother's ammunition, a means of taming disobedient children. She knew all the tricks and I did as I was told. No-one could resist Mr. Whippy.

In Indonesia, the choice of street food is endless and it doesn't stop at sloppy sweet dishes. Ting-ting-ting is the universal music of bakso and one that creates a certain kind of movement in our house. Bakso time! Tek-tek-tek is the higher octave sound of noodles, as the knife hits the plate and a hollow tock-tock-tock is the sound of tofu, bamboo being the instrument.

This home-grown orchestra is sheer poetry, the sound of culinary music. I am picturing Julie Andrews twirling on the hill, knife and bowl in hand . the hills are alive . with the sound of noodles. . Thus is the power of sound, the community of voice. The same kinds of emotions that Mr. Whippy stirred in me as a child are embedded in the digestive tracts of young Indonesians every afternoon.

But with Ramadan over and the Muslim holiday season being celebrated, there is a curious afternoon fasting in Bali at the moment. The Lebaran break has dried up the afternoon snacks of an entire island because the bringers of this bountiful urban feast are the migrants of Bali. The streets are quiet, almost deserted in fact, and housewives are looking forlorn. No tek-tek-tek, tock-tock-tock. Holiday season means the outsiders return to their roots, the land of their ancestors, axis mundi. And mothers once more have to return to their domestic duties of looking after their own children and tidying their own house.

The practice of home deliveries, Indonesian-style, roughly began in the 80s. That's what happens when people move around - their cuisine moves with them. Rather like McDonalds, (which my husband Ketut affectionately calls the American Embassy), there is comfort in the same food, same flavors no matter where you are.

It's also called survival and these earnest street vendors brought with them a certain kind of creativity to make themselves heard, so to speak. And if it is said that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, then the way to another culture is through its meals.

There's no need to go out for dinner as we do in the West, because food here comes and gets you, tracks you down like a scud missile, no matter where you live. Ting-ting-ting, tek-tek-tek. But in recent years Bali has fought back with a new breed of street vendor. Enter Bakso Krama Bali and Ajeg Bali, a movement among middle-class Balinese that focuses on Balinese identity. These passionate Balinese folk have been investing their rupiah in the traders of the fabled island of the gods to encourage them to become culinary entrepreneurs. Because it seems that there is more to bakso than just tasty balls of meat. With Bakso Bali being pork, it also boils down to ethnicity, if you know what I mean.

With the Bakso Krama Bali seller there is also a code of dress and transport that is part of the package. The traditional jalan-jalan food cart has been replaced by a zappy motorbike and the costume is none other than a sarong and udeng, Balinese male head-gear, as if he is fresh from a ceremony. The only sound he sports is the brrrm-brrrm-brrrm of the motorbike. How could you transport an entire gamelan after all . chang-chang-chang?

Assorted intellectuals on the island say that migrants come to Bali selling bakso to buy land and the Balinese are selling land to buy bakso. Folk on the island say that while the Balinese bakso might be more expensive, it is more delicious because it contains fewer preservatives than that offered by the "others". Who's to know? While gastronomic solidarity might create a strengthening in one arena it can also cause meaty rumblings on other fronts.

But let's get to the point: Where's my afternoon bakso? Any culinary entrepreneur would grab the bull by the reigns and seize the moment. But, alas, there is no brrrm-brrrm-brrrm to stir my taste buds, no handsome Balinese man on a motorbike to satisfy my pangs of hunger.

So I guess I will have to do without and fast like all my local comrades or perhaps learn to make bakso myself. After all, I am supposed to be a village chef. So here's cheers to Bakso Krama Casa Luna full of 100 different herbs and spices. Finger licken' good if that's possible. Watch out!