Hard Headed Woman

18 Jun 2013 3 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali Tags: , , , , ,

Here is not so different from anywhere else. This is the first line of a poem I wrote once. The rest of it is long ago forgotten. But I wrote it before I knew Bali, and here IS DIFFERENT. The air is different. The opportunities are different. The language is different. And the people…ah, the people!

I met Wayan on my very first visit to Bali. Back then…way back then…she worked at Pertinen Spa and gave me the best massage I’d ever had in my life. When I came back two years later, I looked her up and treated myself to her ‘magic hands’ again and again. We became friends. Then I met her husband, Komang, and their son, Arya. First I was invited to their home, then to special ceremonies, then to Arya’s birthday party. They adopted me as one of their own, and when a Balinese family adopts you…it’s hard to explain. We don’t have anything quite like it in the U.S. It is assumed that they get to tell you what to do!

That’s why, when Wayan started her own business, Jiwa Raga Spa and Wellness, I became the poster child (I use the term loosely!) I tried loudly and long to convince her that she needed someone young, supple, unwrinkled at the very least. She would have none of it. One day she simply announced that she was coming to pick me up for the photo session. End of conversation. If you’re ever in Ubud, go to Jiwa Raga. I’m bigger than life on banners, posters, the spa brochure…it’s my one claim to fame. I told Wayan she was a hard headed woman. She agreed.

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Recently Wayan told me she would come and spend the night with me soon and she would make dinner. Because it’s difficult to plan exact dates in Bali (you never know when the banjar will need help with a cremation or special ceremony) I was pretty sure it would be spur-of-the-moment. So one evening, Wayan, Komang and Arya appeared at my door with groceries and Wayan set about making mie goring. It was delicious!

After the meal Komang announced that he had a special treat and disappeared into the kitchen. The next moment he came out carrying small bowls. “Lemon ice!” he said. He had watched a chef at one of the high-end restaurants in Ubud make it. “I copied him,” he admitted. It was delightful! Wayan told me she had brought treats for breakfast, too. I could get used to house guests like these!

In the morning we gathered around the table in our jammies and enjoyed coffee and  Wayan’s special rolls stuffed with strange ingredients. Some had meat in the middle, some were apple jelly I think…they were very tasty with our coffee. Then it was time for them to go to work.

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The handsome dude in the blue shades and matching jacket is Arya. Daddy Komang adusts his helmet and Wayan observes from behind. Then with hugs and goodbye’s they were on their way.

Family life in Bali is communal. In many cases, the sons remain in the family compound, bring their wives there, raise their children, and care for their aging parents. The family belongs to the banjar, a community of a few hundred people, and they have obligations to that group. Said obligations run the gamut and are based on Hindu ceremonies, rituals, and celebrations. The Balinese experience is completely opposite that of the isolated family unit in the West. So what I expected was based on my experience. What I got was based on theirs, and that’s the story of my life here as it becomes increasingly interwoven with the lives of my Balinese friends.

The vast differences always come as a surprise. I tell myself that by now I should know better, but the programming of my upbringing leaves a powerful imprint, as does my country of origin. I was born to privilege and entitlement just by virtue of being a citizen of the most powerful nation in the world. When I decided to live somewhere else, I came face-to-face with that truth and it has humbled me. I am grateful to Wayan, and Komang, and Arya. They are my teachers, as are my other wonderful Balinese friends. And I’m a slow learner, but ‘better late than never’ as the saying goes!

The Focused Intensity of Bali’s Young

14 Jun 2013 6 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali Tags: , , , ,

Sometimes pictures are so much better than words!

Today was a big day at Dewi’s school. It was the end-of-the-year dance program. When you look at the photos below, keep in mind that Dewi is 5 and her classmates are pre-schoolers and Kindergarteners. None of them is over 6 years old. I didn’t know what to expect, but when I compared the accomplishments of these babies, with the things children in the West do at that age…hmmmm. And we are not talking a ritzy, private institution here. This is an example of a standard education in an average, Balinese school.

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Long before a single foot meets the stage, the kids are at the salon for hair and makeup.  That takes an hour or two. Then the young performers are dressed in the brilliant costumes typical of each dance.  If they are first in the program, it’s soon over. But some of these children had to wait an additional three hours while dance after dance was performed by other classmates. Dewi’s was the last, the Kecak…a grand finale. What I’m getting at is the dedication, patience, and serious attention five and six-year-olds are able to muster when it comes to these time honored traditions.

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While their faces show the depth of concentration required to remember the sequences of the dances, their hands and feet execute complex moves.

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While some dance, others patiently wait. Here is lovely Tisna (on the right) with her friend.

P1030742Tisna’s mother is a professional Balinese dance artist and has travelled internationally with her group. She can be seen nightly at the Ubud Palace. Tisna is following in her mothers complicated footsteps.

No school program would be complete without awards. Dewi has modestly accepted her prize for being the most CONFIDENT. Funny, none of us were terribly surprised by that one!

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This darling is fascinated…not by the dancing…but by me…a light-haired white woman who has invaded her world. When I ignored her, she reached a pudgy pointer finger out to touch my face. When I looked at her, she jumped into her mother’s lap.

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And no matter where you go, doting parents are all the same. They’re taking pictures. Notice there’s not an old-fashioned camera in the bunch! They’re all on their iphones!

But she looks so normal…!

11 Jun 2013 6 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali Tags: , , , , ,

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Amit pauses for a photo during a rice paddy walk

She calls herself, Healing Pilgrim. Amit’s story is not your typical biking accident. My friend was cycling in Cambodia, alone, when she found herself on a bridge that seemed fine at the start. She realized too late that it was rotten and she, and the bike, plunged through. A Cambodian farmer and his wife found her and saved her life.

The doctors didn’t give her much hope of walking again. Today, after countless surgeries, Amit walks. Sometimes she crouches or reclines. But she never sits, and she can only stand in one place for mere moments. Pain is a constant in her life, but to look at her, none of that is readily apparent. She is one of those people who suffers invisible injuries, and she has decided to do the thing she CAN do to spread the word about others like herself. She’s going to WALK.

Amit will be walking the Camino de Santiago in Spain to raise awareness about invisible injuries. Please click here to learn more about her story and The Camino Project. Then support her in whatever way you can.

Happiness Lesson #1

31 May 2013 6 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali Tags: , , , , , , ,

Photo credit to acolorfuljourney

Photo credit to acolorfuljourney

BE IN THE NOW AND ALLOW.

That’s my mantra. It helps that it rhymes. It also helps that it’s short and easy to remember. Even so, it’s one of the hardest instructions to follow.

When we want something, we generally want it now. If there are roadblocks to getting it now, we waste days trying to figure out how to get past them.  Often several options involving effort present themselves. Maybe we have to convince someone else to get out of our way. Maybe we have to borrow money. Maybe we try to form alliances. Whatever it is, the stomach knots, the mind spins and the result is STRESS!

LET GO.

Yes, that’s it, let it go. Whatever it is you must have, pushing, tugging, and creating angst for yourself is not the way to get it. If it’s yours, then it’s already yours and the timing will work itself out. If it isn’t yours, but you MAKE it yours, it comes with a warning. It probably won’t bring happiness and blessing to your life.

For too many years, by sheer power of will and a little creative juice, I went after what I wanted, timing be damned. In the process I left a trail of broken dreams in my wake. In my 40’s I began to ask why and seek answers. I started to wake up. Old habits die hard, but a true desire to change is a mighty force and I truly desired a different life.

Letting go of the need to control circumstances was probably the greatest challenge of all. But eventually I stopped having to plot the future down to the last toenail.

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When faced with uncertainty I just did ‘the next right thing’. If that wasn’t clear, I felt my feet. Right. I stopped where I was, planted my two feet flat on the earth, and focused. It’s the quickest way to be grounded in the present moment. Then I repeated my mantra…”Be in the now and allow.”

Peace comes with letting go. Then magic happens. When we move out of the way, we make space for energetic forces that defy our limited site-lines. We allow abundance. We invite blessing.

People ask, “What made you choose Bali?” Well, it wasn’t like that. The energy of Bali chose me, and I allowed it.

Mona Lisa Corset and Lacy Red Bra

29 May 2013 5 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Abang Songan, Ketut’s village, goes about it’s ancient ways under the looming presence of holy Mount Agung. Today, a ceremony would take place here, rain or shine.

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I hopped on the back of the motorbike about 9 a.m. Monday morning. The sky brooded and at the last minute I threw my long, nylon, semi-water resistant coat into the bag. Otherwise I wore layers. The Mona Lisa corset, layer number one, hugged my ribcage. There was no way I wanted to tuck and zip myself into that chamber of horrors in front of a group of giggling pubescent Balinese girls. I knew from past experience that my change from street clothes to temple clothes when we arrived would be a group project. I was prepared. We tooled out of Ubud and headed through Tagalalang, climbing, climbing.

Pretty soon the air, heavy with un-rained moisture, turned brisk. A camisole the color of spring lilacs, the second layer of my ensemble, flashed bright underneath an unbuttoned fleece that flapped like great black wings as we sped along. A few more kilometers and I buttoned the fleece. All at once, the air let loose of its water content. Ketut pulled off the road and slid into his rain poncho. I fished out my coat and buttoned its high collar tight around my neck. I’ve never worn so many clothes in Bali! We set off again, the road slick and glistening, still climbing, climbing.

Balinese women went bare from the waist up until the government, concerned with the growing tourism industry, ruled that they had to wear shirts. But old ways die hard, especially behind the walls of a family compound. When we arrived, Ketut’s 67 years old mother, met us in her sarong and lacy red bra. The bra was on my account…otherwise she wouldn’t have bothered. I was ushered out of the rain, shivering and blue, into the all-purpose shelter. The space was filled to overflowing with offerings. Coffee and platters of food were brought for me and, one by one, family members appeared, crowding into the small space. They joked and commented on the unfortunate failure of magic to make the rain disappear.

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Trays and trays of offerings that have already been blessed at the temple, are now available for munching!

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We huddle together, waiting for the rain to slow a bit more before setting out for the festivities.

Abang Songan has traditions unlike any other village in Bali. I learned that for this special ceremony, not only do the women construct their impossibly high towers of fruits, vegetables, chickens, cakes, and so forth, but the men make an inverted version of the same. (Typically Balinese men do not make offerings.) They carry two of these masterpieces suspended on a pole over their shoulder. As the rain continued it’s postnasal drip, the offerings were shrouded in plastic and prepared for their march to the gathering place.

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Ketut, master of understatement, assured me that these weren’t heavy. But it’s like carrying 4 grocery bags full of apples and bananas! Tell me that’s not heavy!

The women carry these massive structures the equivalent of 3 or 4 blocks of muddy ruts. A superhuman effort!

The women carry these massive structures on their heads for the equivalent of 3 or 4 blocks through muddy ruts…a superhuman effort!

Once at the soccer field, the gathering place for this event, the men’s offerings were placed on racks that had been pre-constructed for the purpose and the women’s offerings were either taken to the auditorium across the street or carefully tucked under makeshift shelters.

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As the rain slowed, plastic was removed from the spectacular arrangements and the place took on a festive air.

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Families gathered under tarps and umbrellas, sitting on plastic tablecloths, chatting and waiting for the holy men to come and bless their offerings. .

About 4 p.m. the rain stopped. Hundreds of offerings had been placed under cover in the auditorium across the street where the gamelan, blessings, and prayers were ongoing. Ketut’s sister-in-law is the take-charge type and the task of managing me for the day had fallen to her. The auditorium was literally jammed with people. She saw me pointing the camera toward the gamelan musicians…”You want photo?” she asked.  I was about to say I had just taken one when she grabbed my arm and hauled me through the crowd right up to the gamelan platform. Once there she turned to me with a triumphant look on her face and gave me a curt nod, as if to say, “Well, what are you waiting for?!”

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The gamelan musicians

I was the token foreigner in the crowd. Once they realized that I liked to take photos, there were many willing to pose. Here are some of my favorites:

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Ketut’s take-charge sister-in-law with her towering offering

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Adorable! And she knows it!

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Three young boys deep in discussion

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Granny and her little tiger

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A colorful family that just wanted their photo taken

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These little mischief makers followed me around and posed numerous times!

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Total sweetness!

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Gede is the handsome chap in white on the far left. He’s standing with cousins and other family members from Trunyan, another traditional village by Lake Batur.

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I don’t want to be picked up!

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Giraffe? These animal jackets are very popular!

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Ketut and his beautiful, alert little daughter, Nengah.

The day was splendid, but the ritual I found most compelling happened at the end. Two women in white appeared carrying loops of rope. A line of girls formed behind them and each one held onto the rope. They circled the perimeter three times doing graceful movements with their free hands. Ketut said that this particular village ceremony is about starting again. I don’t know the full implications, but I embrace the concept!

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Barefoot in the muddy aftermath of rain, the women circle the area three times.

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Their hands flutter gracefully to the distant sound of gamelan

Dusk had encroached by the time we trudged back to the compound. Once again closeted with the women, Ketut’s mother helped me unwind the yards of sarong fabric, appalled that I had used safety pins to secure it, and neatly folded it back into my satchel. Ketut was ready with the motorbike. We whispered along in the softness of night, no traffic now and no rain. As the kilometers clicked away I once again experienced that familiar bubble of immense gratitude for my friend, Ketut and his willingness to share his family, his traditions, and his unique perspective on life, with this bule gila…crazy foreigner!

Dance in the Bat Cave

25 May 2013 12 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali Tags: , , , , ,

I was on the platform, writing a poem. The night hung in inky stillness just beyond the perimeter of the house. All at once a bat skimmed within inches of my head. This, by itself, isn’t unusual. But what followed was. He streaked past, silvery, soundless, lightning-quick. But he didn’t leave. He circled the light hanging over the dining table. He looped through the bedrooms, out the opening above the bathroom wall, back through the front door, over the platform, under the platform, dizzying in his speed. I watched with horrified fascination, huddling crouched behind my computer screen.

Then there were two, flying in tandem, silver streaks, graceful, ghostly in the night. And then a third. They split up, like Blue Angels, performing an air show of astounding precision. Unnerved and outnumbered, I grabbed my notebooks and phone, scurrying to the bedroom where I could shut the door, lower the blind, and watch out of reach. As I was executing my mad dash, one of them passed at knee height, slicing the air in front of me. Heart thumping against my ribs, I bolted into the bedroom, fumbling to pull the door closed behind me. I threw my armload of stuff on the bed en route to the bathroom door and slammed it shut. Adrenalin surging, I sped across the room to the window with no glass. That morning I had methodically wound the rope that lifts the blinds a few extra turns around the post for good measure. I tore at the string for agonizing moments, certain that one of the flighty creatures would streak in and not find it’s way back out. The blind released.

Safe at last, I moved back to the door, opening it a crack. They were still there. I stood, watching the aerial ballet, transfixed. They knew where I was, of course, and they wanted me to know they knew. Their pattern shifted. One by one they skimmed past my nose which was pressed into the observation crack of the door. I don’t know how long it was, 20 minutes…30…but on and on they danced for me until there wasn’t a shred of doubt in my mind that this was a visitation. Someone bolder may have joined them. They seemed to want that. But I am not someone bolder.

Bing image

Bing image

Wouldn’t I love to know what that was about! Maybe my three daughters visited me in spirit last night. Maybe a series of three events will happen. During meditation this morning another thought occurred to me. I was entranced by the beauty of the bats in flight. There was no furry ugliness, no dark threat, just streaks of liquid silver pirouetting in the light. Perhaps fear is like that, posing as a black demon that incapacitates and renders helpless. But maybe, like the bats, there’s a different truth. If we find our way past the illusion, there may be a wild, silvery dance just beyond the fear.

Arak Attack!

23 May 2013 7 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali Tags: , , , , , ,

I have to write this quick, before I sober up and refuse to admit that I’m subject to such excess. Tonight I ordered a glass of Balinese rice wine. Brem. It comes in red or white. “I sorry, no have,” the wait staff was apologetic. I perused the menu, searching for an alternative. Beet juice, turmeric and ginger, lime fizz…nothing quite does it when all you really want is Brem.

Bali has another alcoholic drink. It’s notoriously potent. As I scanned the options I saw that Arak was one of the offerings in the extensive list. “Well, why not,” I said to myself. “No Brem…I’ll try Arak.” For the sake of the story, you need to know that I ate papaya for breakfast. Later in the day I had a slice of whole grain bread and a cup of coffee. So when I started sipping my glass of Arak with a little lime juice squeezed into it, the time was about 5:00 p.m. After two swallows I knew I had alcohol in my system. I was there to discuss joint business opportunities with a new contact.

Within 15 minutes a stunning young woman wearing a scarf that identically matched her crystalline blue eyes, arrived. She ordered the beet juice so I distinctly had the advantage. I was far wittier, more brilliant, and knowledgeable about life, love, (or is that liberty?) and the pursuit of happiness than anyone else she could ever have possibly met. However, I’ve been around awhile and I know my limitations. When my lips go numb it’s time to shut my mouth. So I did, and listened. Over the next two hours I sipped, listened, nodded, and sipped a bit more. She was delightful. We exchanged cards and she departed to keep a dinner date with her husband.

I sat as dusk gathered. The wait staff brought out candles and the tables flickered in the evening glow. I ordered a Greek salad. It arrived, neatly wrapped to take out, and I stood to leave. My eyes crossed. I took a step, stopped, focused, and took another step. I felt like two people, one of whom was stone cold sober, observing and aware of what needed to be done, and the other quite decidedly fuzzle headed and not firing on all cylinders. The two of us had a quick pow-wow and it was agreed that the stone cold sober one would walk us home. Thankfully it wasn’t far and she did a good job. Once inside the house, the full Arak attack took over and fuzzle head wasted no time. She fumbled with the knot securing the bag of salad, tried to remember where the forks were kept, and settled for a soup spoon.

I don’t drink much. One beer, one glass of wine, and I’m good. But all alcohol is not created equal, and let’s just say, Arak is in a league of its own. I’m glad I tried it. The closest thing to it, in my limited experience, is Scandinavian Aquavit…nasty stuff that should be outlawed or just used in place of diesel fuel. Arak doesn’t bite. Arak just slips down with a cozy burn. But it should come with one of those cautionary FDA labels…take only with meals…do not drive or operate heavy machinery. And I would add, WARNING: may cause temporary fuzzle-headedness!

 

Arak Production

Arak Production

 

Tiny Dancer

16 May 2013 17 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali Tags: , , , , ,

Does Dewi have an 18 year old sister!?! Grabbing my camera, I make no pretense of a polite, “May I please…!” I dash across the lawn my finger clicking shots as I go. Barely acknowledging the presence of her mother and grandfather, who are watching her in stunned silence, I ask the tiny dancer to pose. She cooperates with the poise and practiced perfection of a seasoned veteran.

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This child is five years old. She is learning the traditional Balinese dances and this is her first full regalia performance. She has already spent hours with makeup and hair, and as soon as I have the courtesy to go home, they will be off.

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Her mom tells me that Dewi sat absolutely still through it all. This child who is perpetual motion embodied, sat still? For hours? I try to visualize a Dewi at rest and it’s a stretch. But as I ask for pose after pose, she complies without protest. Here is a star in the making, a true lover of the art of dance.

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Extracting a promise that I will be invited to any such future events, I grudgingly let them go. The next day I’m given a blow-by-blow of the evening’s wild success. Dewi shows me photos on her mother’s camera. Her hands form the precise mudras that accompany complex footwork. She twirls and her beaded scarf blurs in the photo. She is a vision! And she’s only five…years…old…!!!

Cheese Blintzes and Brem

16 May 2013 14 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali Tags: , , , ,

Amit said it was Shavuot. In her family they always eat cheese blintzes to celebrate that day. She hadn’t made cheese blintzes, but she had her mother’s recipe. How hard could it be? I offered the use of my kitchen.

Bali isn’t known for its cheese, and wheat flour isn’t a staple here. So when she sent the list of ingredients asking what I might have on hand, I was able to supply the salt, sugar, and eggs (if duck eggs will work?) and Bali lemons which are a bit more like limes…sort of. Amit would bring the rest.

Half-way through the day I received a text message. “No cottage cheese at Delta. Can you pick up at Coco’s?” I answered in the affirmative, flagged down Gede and his motorbike, and zipped over to Coco’s. Bee-lining it to the refrigerated section at the rear of the store I scanned the shelves. Yogurt in many flavors, sour cream, mascarpone, and light cream cheese were readily available. I scanned again, hoping that in the jumble of products bearing labels from at least 89 different countries, I had somehow overlooked cottage cheese. But to no avail. Ricotta! There was a tub of ricotta. Wasn’t that similar to cottage cheese? I quick texted Amit, “No cottage cheese. Will ricotta work?” In a flash she answered, “Could try…why not!” I grabbed two tubs and headed for checkout via the liquor shelves and grabbed a bottle of Brem, my favorite Balinese rice wine. If the blintzes flopped we could drown our sorrows.

Amit arrived with the recipe. It was the classic pinch of this, a little more of that if too thick, and mix until creamy. We collected the ingredients. Where were the lemons? They had been in the refrigerator before Ibu came that morning. Now they were gone. I haven’t quite figured out Ibu and the refrigerator. She keeps the house offerings in there and I store fruits and veggies. But on a disturbingly regular basis, some of my fruits and veggies go missing. And on other occasions, an abundance of unasked for produce appears…like 8 avocadoes, or 5 bunches of bananas. When I ask her she just says, “No problem.” What can you say to that? So the cheese blintzes will not have the squirt of lemon juice. Amit points to the recipe. It says ‘lemon juice optional’. Saved.

She stirred the eggs while I sprinkled in the flour alternately with a little water. Pretty soon we had what resembled a crepe batter. Amit seemed pleased until she asked for a pan and I handed her the wok. “Don’t you have anything with a flat bottom?” She looked puzzled, maybe even a bit dismayed. “This will work, won’t it?” I asked, avoiding the question. She scanned the 2 remaining pans hanging over the counter. It was quite obvious that the wok was far and away the best option.

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So the blintz-making began with Amit blessing the wok…perhaps…or maybe she’s testing the temperature?

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She spread the ‘creamy’ batter and worked it up onto the edges as best she could

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The first one was a bit thick-ish in the center, but after we realized we could pick up the wok and swirl the batter up the sides the quality improved

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A bit of ricotta mixed with a pinch of salt and a dab of sugar gets bundled up in the eggy little pancake

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Mission accomplished! We polished off that plate and, since this was the sole dinner, made a second, similar batch and devoured those as well.

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I’d forgotten how much I like cheese!

Cheese blintzes and brem for Shavuot! What a treat! And a good time was had by all…thanks, Amit!

Things You Learn at a Balinese Wedding

11 May 2013 8 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Uncategorized Tags: , , , ,

An invitation to a Balinese wedding is a rare occurrence for a foreigner, and an honor. When Wayan said she wanted me to come to her sister’s wedding I was very excited! I checked with Ketut to make sure he and his motorbike were available to spend the day in a remote village near Mt. Bratan. He was. He said it would take about an hour to get to Palian Banjar in Luwus where the festivities were to occur.

At 8:30 on the appointed day, I arranged myself side-saddle on the motorbike, in my temple clothes, and we set out. I was surprised that Ketut didn’t offer me a helmet. We passed police on the way and I asked him if I should have one on. “No problem,” he said. Usually he won’t let me out of the gate without one. Later, Komang, Wayan’s husband, informed me that when women are in temple clothes a helmet isn’t required. “It will break their hair,” he said. By the time we arrived, having spent an hour with the wind whipping my ‘do’ at 50 mph, my hair was pretty well broken anyway!

P1030401Weddings are an all day affair. When Ketut and I arrived at the bride’s family compound, neither the bride nor the groom was there. They, with the groom’s family, were all at his family home in another village about 45 minutes away.

Wayan and her relatives bustled around, preparing food and taking care of the children.  The pavilion that stages all the important rituals in a family’s life was bountifully decorated with rich fabrics and offerings, awaiting the return of the celebrated couple. An upside-down basket had been placed in the very center of the area with coconuts on top and offerings inside. The contents were offerings for the earth, Komang informed me. In another area there was an altar with more offerings. Those had been placed between the houses and the river. “If the spirits decide to check out what’s going on, they will see the food and stop to eat. This encourages them to come this far but no farther. P1030405P1030406

I asked the significance of the inverted basket. Inquiring minds want to know these things. I was told it was to keep the offerings safe from the dogs and the people roaming the area. Some things are simply practical.

I was invited to sit on the floor of a roofed terrace, and a bottle of sweet tea was brought with a plate of the Balinese kue. I love these sweet treats! They are usually stuffed with some combination of coconut, banana, or palm sugar, wrapped in a piece of banana leaf and boiled or steamed. There are many other variations of kue, slabs of striped seaweed gelatin, cupcakes in shocking colors, sesame seed balls, and coconut macaroon type confections to name a few. But those sticky-sweet rice confections are hard to leave alone.

The morning of the wedding, family members gather to socialize and continue preparations for the afternoon when friends and business associates will arrive. Wayan stir-fried a wok of fresh vegetables preparing mei goreng for the meal to be served later.

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This beauty posed by the huge cocoa pod.

Their property includes groves of trees that extend beyond the buildings and Komang offered to show me the gardens and the ‘investment’. As we strolled he pointed out jackfruit, squash, and many chocolate trees. I was curious about the investment, and I didn’t have to wait long. Two, soft-eyed cows watched us casually from their shelter. Hopefully they will produce milk and offspring.

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The family’s investment

We passed another area of empty stalls. “What are these for?” I asked. “Those are the pigs,” Komang replied. “Didn’t you see his head? We kill them for the wedding.” How did I miss a pig’s head? I followed Komang back to the sumptuous pavilion and there it was, right in plain sight in the midst of the towering offerings.

P1030436We see what we want to see, and the reverse is also true!

Back from our stroll, lunch was served. Wayan’s mei goring was perfect. The lawar, coconut sambal, shredded pork, and a number of dishes that will remain nameless because I couldn’t pronounce them, were enjoyed by all. But I was taken by crispy black chips in a serving dish. “Fried blood,” I was told when I asked. For some things, one taste is enough. That was one of those.

After lunch, I had ample opportunity to massacre the Indonesian language as I tried to communicate with the family. Maybe that’s why nobody’s smiling!

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I asked Komang to take a photo of me with my twin in yellow. We were both wearing our golden lace kebayas with the white, bone crushing Mona Lisa corset underneath! She has the traditional brooch and earrings that I see so many women wearing. That’s on my shopping list!

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Komang works in the hospitality industry and speaks beautiful English. As we chatted through the morning I learned a few Balinese idioms. One of the more portly women of the family sat down at a distance to us. Komang leaned over and said, “In Bali we say her plate is never dry.” That certainly says it all! A little later he told me that when someone thinks they know more than anyone else, they are called a Google mouth. I laughed until I thought I would burst right out of my corset!

The Balinese love to laugh. Their culture isn’t always subtle, and if they see something they tend to comment. Ketut noticed an attractive young woman and someone said, “Cuci mata?” They were asking him if he was window shopping! (Literally it means wash eyes.) He didn’t seem to mind.

I glanced off to the side and saw Komang retying his udeng using the window for a mirror. I admire the attractive, boat-shaped head coverings worn by Balinese men during ceremonies. I took the opportunity to snap his photo and did a little cuci mata myself!

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About 1:30 p.m. the bride and groom arrived. I was enthralled with the bride’s ornate headdress. She cooperated beautifully as I captured her front, back, and sideways!

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P1030446Balinese customs are radically different from those in the west. A couple usually doesn’t announce their engagement until the woman is pregnant. An elaborate abduction is planned where the man and his friends go to the woman’s compound and ‘steal’ her. After the ceremony, the wife remains with the husband’s family. In this case, the husband will remain with the wife’s family because there are no sons here to care for the bride’s parents as they age.

428619_10201026970344831_471840622_nAfter prayers in the family temple, and blessings on the ceremonial platform, the extended family began to disperse. It was about 3:30 in the afternoon. I had logged 8 hours in the corset and was ready to uncage my midsection. Wayan took me into a private room and I changed into much more comfortable clothing that would allow me to straddle the motorbike for the ride home. She produced a helmet since I had shed my temple clothes and my hairdo was no longer exempt. We said our good-by’s and were escorted out of the compound. What a lovely day!

But I didn’t want it to end. We were close to Mt. Bratan and I hadn’t seen this area yet. Ketut nosed the bike into a climb and we headed toward the summit. After about 20 minutes the sky turned black and ominous clouds cooled the air to an uncomfortable degree. Ketut did a swift 180 and we headed for home just in time. The rain caught up with us for a few minutes. We pulled off to the side and I wrapped my sarong around my shoulders, Superman style. It passed quickly and we were once again on our way down the mountain toward home.

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