You only think you know what you want: Lesson 2

16 Sep 2014 11 Comments

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

A flyer sits in my e-mail box. It’s from a friend in Australia who holds retreats in Bali. Spring is in the air…it begins. For a hair’s breadth I think, “She needs to update her website. It’s September. Spring is in March…April latest…OH!” Whoops! Southern hemisphere, the seasons are up-side-down. She’s absolutely right, in Australia (and Bali) it’s spring.

This gives me pause. How often, I wonder, do I pass judgment based on my frame of reference?

Often.

It’s one thing to study different countries and cultures in books. It’s another thing entirely to relocate your life to a place on the opposite side of the equator from the familiar comfort zone. My understanding of how things should be is challenged daily. Two recent occurrences come to mind, ceremonies and sleeping arrangements.

Someone said that to the Hindu, life is ceremonies and everything in between is just filler.  The truth of that statement cannot be fully appreciated until it’s experienced. In my white Anglo-Saxon Protestant past, church on Sunday was the tradition. It was an hour of sitting in respectful silence and listening to the sermon with the occasional call-response or hymn to break the monotony. When the pastor said, “Go in peace, serve the Lord,” it was my signal to stop daydreaming, find the page for the last song, and make sure my legs hadn’t fallen asleep.

Not so the Hindu. Rituals are not an hour on Sunday morning. Ceremonies can last hours, days, sometimes even weeks. The priest may be ringing his bell and chanting Sanskrit prayers but men and women continue to gossip and laugh and virtually ignore him.

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At first I’m appalled. What disrespectful people! How can they offend the priest like this? Why doesn’t he say something? All the while I sit piously, hands folded in my lap, paying rapt attention. But the holy man never appears to be offended and as soon as he finishes he joins in with his own jokes and good humor.

I’m an expert at imposing assumptions from my narrow experience on a culture that doesn’t share that experience. Their reverence is shown in ways that I’m only beginning to understand. But I’ve taken note and I’m loosening up.

Yesterday posed a different problem, however, and I tried to play the I’m-not-Hindu-so-that-doesn’t-apply-to-me card. It had to do with the orientation of my bed. The Balinese are adamant about sleeping arrangements. The bed must be positioned so one’s head points either east or south, and I’ll qualify that by saying it depends upon where a person lives on the island in relation to Holy Mount Agung. In Ubud, Agung is to the east. Because of the configuration of the bedroom, however, I want the head of the bed on the west wall.

“Not possible,” says Ketut.

“I know, I know,” I gear up to hold my ground. “But I’m not Hindu so it’s okay for me.”

“No good,” he continues. Impatience rises up at his inflexibility on this topic but I try to reason with him.

“Look, if I put the wardrobe here on the short wall, and the bed here, it’s easier to get to the bathroom. Otherwise too crowded.”

“Ya, but no good.”

I want to say, Why not, dammit?! But instead I offer a meek, “Why not?”

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“Machine. Too much noise. No sleeping.” For a few brief seconds I try to make sense of how a machine has worked it’s way into this spiritual conversation. Then it dawns. The neighbor’s washing machine is directly behind the west bedroom wall. An early morning spin cycle, a little off balance, would be sleep disturbing. I feel the defeated grin spreading across my face as I shake my head.

“Why do I even argue with you?” It’s a rhetorical question, but Ketut has the answer.

“Maybe you forget machine,” he says.

 

 

 

 

 

Diplomacy Bali style, you only think you know what you want!

11 Sep 2014 9 Comments

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

The jungle has it’s place. My idea of a garden, however, is more orderly, manageable, controlled.

In the months preceding the acquisition of the small plot of land adjoining mine, I visualized, sketched, imagined what my garden would look like. Ah, lovely! A solid base of mosaic stone pathways known as batu sikat to create the backdrop for potted palms, bougainvillea, gardenias, and other tropical varietals. It would go from this, its current jungle-ish state,

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The ‘before’ look of my future garden

to something more like this.

Garden plan

The basic idea

I show my drawings to Ketut who will be instrumental in manifesting the vision. (In other words, to him falls the questionable pleasure of uprooting and relocating the jungle and transforming it into planned perfection.) “Oh,” he says, with that tone that I’ve come to recognize as not being quite on my page. “No small mountain???”

For the sake of clarity, the Balinese style garden is a series of earthen mounds. In the center of each is a tall tree that is bordered by leafy plants in varying hues of green, red, and yellow, which are again skirted at the lower level with shorter flowering shrubs creating a mountain affect.

Julies garden

Balinese style garden

There is no question that it’s beautiful. But I want something  different.

“No small mountain,” I say, with the inflection of voice that leaves very little room for doubt. “I want pots, not mountains.”

Ketut is thoughtful and quiet.

“What are you thinking?” I get wary when there’s no give and take.

“Oh ya,” he says, and nothing else.

A day passes and Ketut’s industry is beautiful to behold. The jungle, like Bali magic, disappears and I venture into the cleared space to reintroduce my plan, just in case. Ketut speaks first. “Ya, three small mountains, one here, one here, one there.” I decide to go the route of diplomacy.

“Ketut,” I try to be patient. “Tell me what you see.”

After a brief explanation I see the same thing he sees, a traditional Bali garden.

“I don’t want small mountains, just pots. Many batu sikat and pots. Is that possible?”

A small “Ya,” is my answer.

Another day passes. More space is cleared and new plantings appear along the back wall.  It’s taking shape. With drawing in hand I once again venture into the clearing, drumming up the necessary resolve to hold firm with my vision.

“It looks beautiful, amazing!” I tell him, and it does. But I don’t see any indication of a design that includes my decorative pathways. “Where will we put batu sikat?”

“Oh, very expensive,” he says.

“How expensive?”

“Maybe broken.”

“Broken?”

“Ya, land very soft, easy make batu sikat broken. Maybe a little a little around pot. And here small mountain…”

The end of this story is obvious by now. In true Balinese fashion, Ketut has given me what I want, his way. He never tells me I can’t, but with gentle stubbornness he guides me to reach that conclusion all by myself. I have to loosen the reigns. When I do the results are always spectacular. The creativity that erupts in such abundance in this culture astounds me. I have no doubt my garden, when left to Ketut, will be a thing of wondrous beauty. I’ll have a few pots, he’ll have a few mountains, and I’ll believe it was all my idea in the first place.

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Ketut hard at work in the new garden

The Big Fat Full Moon

09 Sep 2014 10 Comments

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

What’s more romantic than moonlight?

My father proposed to my mother on a bridge with the reflection of the moon on the Mississippi River below. She loves to tell the story, how she didn’t answer right away so he took her by the shoulders, peered into her eyes, gave her a little shake and said, “Say yes.” She did, of course.

But I haven’t had any proposals recently, and tonight is Purnama, the ceremony that celebrates the full moon.  Here’s the culprit, just an hour ago, smiling down on my balcony.

P1070350I have no curtains, shades, blinds, or draperies of any kind on any windows. I love light, most light, that is. Moonlight is different. It’s blue. Blue light is not my favorite, neither the eerie illumination from the moon, nor the cold neon glow from the cool color light bulb I bought by mistake. And when it should be dark outside but my house is bathed in that phosphorescent sheen, I don’t sleep. When I don’t sleep, I do other things, like think.

So while I was not sleeping last night as the moon approached full, I contemplated the Hindu calendar that pays homage to the lunar cycles. Purnama is the full moon ceremony, Tilem celebrates the dark moon, and they alternate every fifteen days.

All Balinese ceremonies, celebrations, and rituals have a meaning and a specific purpose. I’ve seen the women walking to temple with offerings on their heads around 8 p.m. on the moon nights. But I never thought to ask why.

So after Ketut finishes arranging a potted bougainvillea at the bottom of my stairway, I snag him. “Tell me about Purnama and Tilem. What are the meanings of those ceremonies?” Sometimes I ask him questions pertaining to rituals and he’ll think for a minute, make a sheepish little laugh and say, “What it means? I don’t know.” This time he explains in some detail and I come away understanding that this ceremony, like many, ensures the balance of opposites, light and dark, life and death, good and bad, happy and sad. If a person is experiencing sadness now, he is told not to worry because soon he will be happy. And if happy, don’t get too excited because it will change. He ends by saying, “Always like this,” and I don’t know if he’s insinuating that from the beginning of time this is the way it’s been done or if every fifteen days it’s always the same. It’s because of the possibility of various interpretations that I decide to check the internet. Google agrees with Ketut but goes on to elaborate.

P1070343Balinese people believe that at the height of the full moon and the peak of dark moon, clusters of galaxies emit a certain energy that affects the lives of living creatures on earth. Therefore, the people of Bali begged (pray) that the energy provided will be positive energy for life.

When you consider that the 2,740,300 Hindus on Bali, are all taking offerings, going to temple, and praying in the blue moonlight tonight, that’s a lot of concentrated focus on a very small island. No wonder the energy here feels different. Where else on earth is it prayed in from the galaxies?!

 

 

What’s the worst that can happen?

08 Sep 2014 6 Comments

by writingforselfdiscovery in Bali, Uncategorized Tags: , , ,

Are you passionate about your life? What exactly does that mean? Should I be? Passionate?

From where I stand, it looks like there are a scraggly few who can proclaim that they’re living the life of their dreams. Why is that? I can think of only two reasons: 1) They don’t know what they want, or 2) They’re afraid to do what it takes to have what they want.

Many, and I was one of these, live with their eyes on tomorrow. Tomorrow things will be better. That’s deadly. It keeps you from living in the present and it delays action indefinitely because, as they say, tomorrow never comes. For a very long time I didn’t know what I wanted. I was afraid to dig too deeply looking for it for fear I would see the truth of how miserable I really was.

And there’s something else. Some people fear that if they go for it, go all out and follow their dream, they’ll find out that it’s not what they wanted after all. That’s a scary enough thought to keep you stuck exactly where you are. So what it really boils down to is only one thing: fear.

I like the What’s the worst that can happen? game when confronting fears. So what if I follow my dream and find out it’s not what I really wanted? What’s the worst that can happen? What if I dig deeply for my truth and realize I’m miserable? Don’t I already know, on some level, that I’m miserable? What’s the worst that can happen?

Most fears are irrational. When they’re put to the What’s the worst that can happen? test, they lose their power because the worst that can happen is often quite manageable.

I’m not questioning anyone’s belief system, but in the absence of proof to the contrary, it appears that we get one shot at life on this amazing planet. We get one chance, a brief span of generally less than 100 years, to explore the grandeur of earth’s terrain, experience the cultures of people different from ourselves, delve into the mysteries of our existence, and eat snake for breakfast. (If you haven’t tried it, you must. It’s one of my favorites.)

And here’s the last test. Do you laugh every day? Not just a chuckle, titter, or giggle, but a belly laugh that makes your tear ducts overflow? If not, you need people like this in your life.


the happy one!P1070336

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You’ll find them when you find your joy, when at last you can say, “This is it! This is who I was meant to be. This is MY BIG, BEAUTIFUL, PASSIONATE LIFE!”

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Travel Guide Barbie

23 Aug 2014 17 Comments

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

Few things are more terrifying than a trip to the hair salon. I can say with absolute honesty that I’ve never walked out of an appointment satisfied. I’m always convinced I could have done it better myself. (Overly confident? Narcissist? Confirmed do-it-yourselfer! Yes!) So for the past several years I’ve applied Nice-n-Easy #108 Natural Reddish Blond every couple of months with deeply satisfying results.

Fast forward…Bali.

I’ve been here for two years. When friends or family ask, “Can I bring you anything from the States?” I’ve begged them to load up on as much #108 as they can comfortably stow in their already overcommitted luggage. In exchange I play tour guide, help them find drivers and navigate the unwieldy currency exchanges. To date, my sassy hair has gotten by on the good graces of visitors. Then that thoughtless company discontinued #108. Trying creatively to meet my needs the last shipment via Jan’s suitcase held various alternatives. Bless her for trying.

Those events propelled me into panic. I’m not about to give up my vivacious strawberry blond-ness without a fight.

I began my search locally and realized in short order that a natural red-blond hair color could not be found in this village. Ubud is a thriving tourist center that caters to Asian women who all have dark hair. The products I found were in shades of mahogany, burgundy, pinky-purple, and brass.

I was three months into my last color job. Desperate, I got a lift with a friend to the upscale Mal Galeria in Denpasar, an hour’s drive from Ubud, and began the inquiry. Matahari had hair dye but nothing permissible. The apologetic clerk suggested Hypermart. The name, at least, sounded promising. Reality was a bit something else. Picture Walmart times ten and you’re close. The battalion of check-out counters with lines stretching to oblivion made me re-think going natural. As I did a No way! about-face my eyes caught sight of a small pharmacy tucked into a niche on the left. It’s worth a try, my ever optimistic self said.

I asked in pidgin Indonesian if they had hair color while pointing to my head. After a quick stop at shampoo and a few more meager attempts to communicate, I was led to the back of the shop. There, in a cluster of the usual sultry mahoganies and sables, I saw an incongruous label sporting a cartoonish red-head with enormous eyes. Her hair, Sweet Apricot, was the right color.

schwarzkopf-fresh-light-hair-color-sweet-apricot-L_p0018326099I blinked several times and she was still there. May I look? I said. The name on the box was in English but everything else was undecipherable. Is it for children? I asked. The question seemed reasonable enough to me. The imp on the box was a cartoon after all! What guru of marketing would put a video game type character on a box targeting…Asian teens and young adults? Didn’t they invent the gaming phenomenon? Of course! Brilliant!

The clerks were discussing me, looking at the box, then pointing to my head. This good for you, the older one said.

Now there was no way out. The 95,000 rph price tag translated to about $9 U.S. Shelling out a fist full of 10,000 rph notes I thanked the smiling clerks, tucked my tail, and left.

The box lay hidden in a drawer until last night. A glance in the mirror at my two-tone hairline, dishwater meets redhead, sent me digging under a bag of cotton balls, bandaids, and miscellaneous other supplies. I pulled out Sweet Apricot and was appalled anew by the image. It’ll be okay, I said, Relax! You can do this!

I opened the package and organized the contents in an array before me. The design of the applicator bottle seemed to have significantly superior engineering to the single aperture squeeze thing I was accustomed to. The hermetically sealed packet of plastic gloves weren’t the whisper thin, wrist length throw-aways that Miss Clairol sees fit to supply. They stretched all the way to my elbow and were textured for a non-slip-grip. Sweet Apricot was dead serious about protecting the delicate hands of it’s users.

A quick Google Translate provided instructions that sounded familiar. It’s just hair. As I thought it, I wondered how many times I had breathed out those same three words prior to a disaster of epic proportions.

I’d stalled long enough. With the picture directions spread out on the countertop, I noticed a punch-out circle in the box just the size of the applicator bottle. I was instructed to remove the circle, secure the bottle in the opening for stability, then pour in the color cream, cover securely, and scramble. (Google translate isn’t perfect.) I did as I was told.

You don’t need a blow-by-blow, but the experience was shocking. Once again my sub-grade expectations put me to shame. The solution didn’t singe the nostrils like the Nice-n-Easy brand. It smelled good. The comb-like applicator was 100 times better than the Clairol product and delivered the color cream in an even, perfect flow through its teeth. The goo stayed in my hair and didn’t dribble down the back of my neck or under my chin. Of course all that would be moot depending upon the final outcome.

When I finished, Ubud was experiencing one of its humid, evening rain showers so I knew my hair wouldn’t dry until morning. Final judgment would have to wait.

As the sound of roosters and a chorus of frogs heralded sunrise I stumbled to the bathroom mirror. Spikes of shiny plastic Barbie-doll-ish hair sprouted in all directions. But the color wasn’t a normal Barbie color. It was more like Roller Blade Barbie or Mud Wrestler Barbie. I found myself once again squinting and rubbing my eyes. Maybe after a cup of coffee…?

P1070235After coffee I loved it! No more imports of inferior products from America. No more impositions on the good will and big hearts of Bali bound travelers. I’ve found my color at last, Sweet Apricot!

When I skyped with daughter, Joy, this morning she thought for a minute then christened me, Travel Guide Barbie and I’m okay with that. I’ll still do the tours, arrange drivers, and help with currency exchanges. And I’ll do it with gratitude for my friends who are planning future trips to Bali, because I’ve yet to find a workable alternative to CoverGirl #210 Perfect Point Plus Espresso eyeliner pencil!

 

 

When you just keep falling in love

17 Aug 2014 25 Comments

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

For someone who’s sworn off men, I’m not doing too well. I’m alone, that isn’t the issue. But my defenses have been shot to shreds in the loveliest possible ways and I find myself falling in love a little bit every day.

First there’s Ketut. I’ve written thousands of words about Ketut, glowing, gushing words. When I first came to Bali he was my room staff. I remember when he met me at 3 a.m. as I disembarked from a taxi after a trip of thirty-six hours from the States. “You Zely?” he asked, then hoisted my brick-heavy suitcase on his shoulders and told me to follow him. The next morning, there he was again. “Breakfast?” he said. “Kopi? What you want?”

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Ketut with baby daughter Nengah

I remember my thoughts. A man? Why? Couldn’t I have a sweet girl cleaning my room and bringing my breakfast? Drat! I don’t want to put up with man-energy. But I didn’t understand then that the Balinese man isn’t like the men I’d known in the West. Ketut filled my room with flowers, daily. He anticipated me, knew when I would be hungry and showed up with treats. Knew when I wanted company and hung around to chat. Knew, even more importantly, when I wanted to be alone, and left me alone. His intuition was far more highly developed than mine, and I’ve come to realize that’s true of Balinese people in general. (But I won’t go into details here! Another time.) In short, Ketut healed my heart.

Enter, Gede! He’s another member of the staff in the neighborhood where I live. Gede is a clown, a twenty-one-year-old little boy who loves to laugh and make others laugh too. One day he gave me a lift on his motorbike and told me he wanted to bring me a kebaya. That’s the beautiful, traditional blouse that women wear to ceremonies here. It seemed far too generous a gift for someone who doesn’t even employ him, but the next time he went to his home in Kintamani, he came back with not one, but three stunning kebayas for me. They all fit like they had been custom tailored for my body. I fell in love with Gede long before the kebayas, but I fell a little bit deeper that day.

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Gede…always the trickster!

The Tukangs working on my house, we’ll call them Dewa One, Dewa Two, and Pak Mandi, all have a slice of my heart. Dewa One scared the bejeezus out of me when I first met him. He had an angry man look, his hair was wild and his body was as tight as a coiled spring. He snapped orders at his crew and I steered clear. But his work was immaculate and one day I drilled up the nerve to tell him how happy I was with his skillful precision. He smiled. No, you don’t understand. He SMILED! There isn’t a more beautiful face on earth than the smiling face of Dewa One. My heart became gooey. Now I find every possible opportunity to praise him and he graces me with that gorgeous grin every time. I love Dewa One.

workers that took down the yoga deck

Dewa One…you’ll have to trust me about the smile!

The most outrageous of my loves is Pasek. He’s blatant, calls me his second wife, makes highly suggestive comments and enjoys watching me bristle. I’ve met his first wife and I adore her but I wouldn’t want to be her. Her hubby’s a handful. But do I love him? Oh yeah. Pasek is the one I call when my electricity goes out, when my faucet leaks, when I need food from the market, or when I want to know about Balinese culture. His harmless joking has become just another part of life here. And he, too, anticipates me and shows up just when I am about to dial his number.

Bali - Pasek's Family (26)

Pasek and his wife, Nyoman

But it doesn’t end there. I’m in love with my tailor, with the taxi drivers, with the man who sells tickets on the street, and the shop keeper at the corner convenience store. I’m in love with my neighbor’s husband, and pretty much every Balinese man I know. Do I use the word too loosely? I don’t think so. The men in Bali are kind to me. I’m susceptible to that. In the West kindness has become a lost art. We have bumper-stickers to remind us to be kind. But here it’s a fact of life, so I just keep falling in love.

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The neighbor’s husband! (Don’t worry, Nina…you have zero competition here!)

 

 

A (Very Small) Room of One’s Own

30 May 2014 10 Comments

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

Virginia Woolf had it right. People need a place to escape the rigors of social interaction otherwise known as life. Some of us need it more than others. You closet introverts know who you are.

I used to fight my introverted self. It isn’t the preferred category. The extrovert catches the worm. The introvert agonizes over the proper approach to the worm, whether or not the worm will be receptive to the advances, rehearses a dozen different speeches to break the ice and by then the worm is gone.

When Pasek asks me if I want to rent the place next door while mine is being renovated, I say, “Oh no. I’ll stay in my house during the construction.”

“No,” he says.

“Yes,” I say. “It’s okay, I like building projects.”

“No,” he says. Pasek is the project manager. Normally I would defer to his greater knowledge of best building practices in Bali. But this time I’m adamant.

“Yes,” I say, and that’s the final word.

It begins innocently enough. I arrange the sofa and chairs in my open living area so the crew can relax while they eat breakfast and lunch. I buy coffee, tea, and sugar for their morning and afternoon beverages. I make the extra bathroom available for their personal needs. In my mind it’s like a very long tea party and I’m the ultimate hostess.

My yoga and meditation routine gets pushed to 6 a.m. so I can be finished before the noise starts.

During the day I sit with my laptop at the dining table so I can watch the work while I write.

After a month the dirt and noise encroach. I remove the dining table and chairs, shove the sofa against the back wall, and relocate my writing to the front terrace. Not sturdy enough for constant use, the sofa breaks. That too is removed. Then the bags of concrete arrive and take over the terrace.

The desk in my bedroom becomes my island of calm.

A day later, the concrete for the new second floor is poured. Without warning, gray cement water rains through the bamboo ceilings of both bedrooms flooding them in minutes. I lurch away from the desk and run for buckets, mops, rags, anything to staunch the flow. I feel my enthusiasm slip a few notches.

Hours later, with the help of Ketut, things are drying.

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“Roof go tomorrow,” he announces as we return the furnishings to their original places. “Maybe furniture move, move.”

“The roof? Tomorrow?” I squeak.

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“Ya,” he says.

We assess the situation and I send him to buy tarps. The next morning I get up with a plan. There’s space in my extra large bathroom for the wardrobe and the chest of drawers. If I move those things out of the bedroom and arrange everything else at the far end to avoid possible future flooding from the unprotected area, the absence of a roof should matter less. I set to work. By the time Ketut comes back I’ve finished.

“Have help?” he asks, as he eyes the large, heavy wardrobe and chest now sitting in the bathroom.

“No,” I say. “I did it myself.”

“Not broken?” he asks.

“No, not me and not the furniture.” He laughs.

P1060865I change the bedding, arrange the side tables and hang a few things on the wall. Not bad. I sink into a chair and gaze at my handiwork. With the bulky items out of sight in the bathroom, the space feels larger. And it looks more like a studio apartment than a bedroom, granted a tiny studio, but the energy of it has shifted.

It’s a refuge. It contains everything I need.

Pasek says in two months the work will be finished. Yesterday two months would have sounded like twenty years. But now I have a place that feels organized and moderately clean where I can shut the door and claim private time. I’ve banished the ridiculous notion that I’m entertaining guests. Enthusiasm has resurfaced. I’ll be fine. All I need is a nook, an undisturbed corner where I can duck away to recharge my introverted batteries…a (very small) room of my own.

Hate your job? Try this…

14 May 2014 5 Comments

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

I’m sure you work hard. The stress level is crushing. The equipment is outdated and your boss breathes down your neck. I’m sorry.

Perhaps you would like to change places with the building crew that arrives in the back of a battered pickup truck every morning, hauled down from their homes in mountain villages in the pre dawn chill. They’ve already cooked the rice and vegetables that they bring along to sustain them through the day. I try to be up before they arrive.

P1060507This time I’ve been awake for hours. I know in a general sense what is supposed to happen today. I’m eager and a little apprehensive.

Before sunup ten people gather in my garden. They’re here to pour concrete for the second level. I know the drill, breakfast first. I’ve set out ten glasses with coffee and sugar. The water kettle is boiling.

P1060511 The boss is a jovial bloke and to look at him I’d never know how quickly he’ll rally the troops and get things moving. Time is never wasted but neither is it rushed. Everyone knows his or her place and what is expected. First the tower and cable must be installed that will carry the bins of concrete to the second floor, fifteen feet above the ground.

P1060537The column goes up while my back is turned to photograph the women carrying bags of cement from the garden to the mix site in the back. It’s done by hand, or head shall we say, with smiles and waves.

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This is a specialized crew that comes complete with the mixing machine.They know exactly how much rock, sand, and water must be added to the concrete for just the right consistency. P1060525

I watch as the motor for the generator is cranked, and cranked, then cranked again. With a chug-chug and a puff of dirt-black smoke, it grumbles into service. The mixer turns and women come from both directions with tubs of rock and sand on their heads. A bag of concrete is dumped in, then water, one after another, robotic in their consistency, until the contents is ready. The man at the lever flips the bucket over into the waiting bin. Grey slush pours out and is whisked heavenward to the second floor. It’s a scene that cannot be believed. I took a short video from the terrace that tells the story much more eloquently than I can. View it in all its intensity here. It’s in real time and just as loud in reality as it sounds virtually.

After staring open-mouthed and mesmerized at the perpetual motion below, curiosity gets the best of me and I climb the makeshift ladder to check out what’s happening upstairs. It’s only a little more chilled out up here. The lumpy liquid pours out of the chute and is troweled into place by the dude in rubber boots, knee deep in the slush.

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 They’re hard at it for five hours then it’s finished. The equipment is gone. The people have vanished. Lingering diesel fumes hang in the air but otherwise there’s not a trace of the industry that hummed so efficiently around me mere moments ago. It’s almost too quiet. I feel stunned, like I’ve been pulled out of a blender just before it pulverizes me. My eardrums still vibrate.

It’s a bizarre dichotomy this Bali life. One part of this world is the glitz and glam of all that money can buy, yachts, Hummers, and private jets. The other has barely entered the Machine Age. I’m suspended between the two, well maybe not yachts and Hummers, but I definitely have a foot in the past! And I kind of like it there. I may put both feet in.

I Hope You Dance

12 May 2014 6 Comments

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

No bad dreams this time. Sleep is sweet and morning is a known routine. Ketut’s face appears along with coffee. “Busy today?” I ask.

“Oh no,” he says in a way that always sounds surprised that I would suspect such a thing.  “Finish.”

“But ceremony and dance?” I ask, thinking he means everything is finished.

“Later,” he says.

“Later today?” I ask. Clarification is necessary. I have begun to long for my own bed and a bit of privacy.

“Ya,” he says. We sit, enjoying the steamy warmth. He tells me that all the offerings and food are ready. Now it’s just a matter of the afternoon ceremony for his brother’s little girl and the night-time dance. I tell him I need to write for awhile today, alone in my room.

“No problem,” he says. He will tell his family to leave me alone. That concept simply doesn’t exist here. If you want to be alone surely you must be sick. In this loving, extended family, nobody should ever have to be alone. Groan!

After breakfast I closet myself away with my computer. I close the door but leave the curtain pulled back so anyone who needs to know what I’m doing in the confines of my solitary space, can peek in. Five minutes pass. A tiny face appears with nose smudged up against the glass. Another head, and another. The door opens a crack then three giggling girls pile beside me on the bed and stare at the hundreds of gray words marching across the screen. I suppress the urge to entertain them and continue to type. They watch in silent awe. Maybe twenty minutes later, one by one, they scoot off the bed and run away. Ahh.

A few more minutes pass. There’s a shadow at the window. It’s grandpa. A quick glance in and he proceeds past. A little later it’s grandma. She stops, grins. I grin back and wave. She leaves. How much more time can I take without appearing gauche, ungrateful, inconsiderate, and strange? Scratch strange. I’ll always be strange. I eke out another forty-five minutes, close the laptop, and venture forth.

My timing is perfect. Nita, with her mom and dad, are at the street in front of the compound making offerings. The white clothed priest and his bell have returned. A bit of scrambling ensues and someone locates a chair. It’s brushed off and offered to me, a throne for the queen of everything. I sit, am granted permission to take photos, and the ceremony begins. It’s clear that baby has new shoes!

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When the outside ritual is finished the priest moves inside. He chants blessings for the family, for the offerings, for auspicious days, for the ancestors. Grandpa’s sister, old as dirt, sits though it all with me. She tells me she wants a copy of this photo to post on her cremation tower when she dies. It’s a customary practice but often the only photo a Balinese person has is the one the government takes for I.D. purposes. It’s a one-time event and hers was a long time ago. When blown up the grainy reproductions resemble a bowl of Grape-Nuts. I assure her she will have her picture.

The ceremony ends with a meal of course. All the mouth-watering satays, kues, spicy vegetables, soups, and rice appear once again in abundance.

As dusk wraps us all in the soft haze of approaching night, Wayan strolls in with a red drum.

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On his heels the heavy gamelan instruments, each one carried by two strapping Bali boys, line up on the mats spread out for the occasion. Children that are too shy to look at me, run for them and are allowed their moment of glory as they pound away. After impressing everyone, they’re shooed to their parents as the men take their seats. Gamelan. Metal on metal softened by drum-thumping rhythm and melodious flute. My heart hammers the same cadence. I peer into the darkness knowing that soon the stunning dancers will captivate my senses.

But what’s this? I don’t think there’s a Balinese woman anywhere that is taller than I am and that’s 5’2″. These willowy wonders are well over six feet! I stare at the beautiful faces, bright red lips, haunting eyes. One apparition is swaying with undulating grace right in front of me. The sister-in-law sitting beside me makes a comment and even though I don’t know the words, I’m familiar enough with bawdy Balinese humor to know she’s not looking at the feet! I discreetly jab her ribs with my elbow and she roars with laughter. The dancer is unruffled.

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They’re men. The last dance like this I attended the performers were nubile young girls. Although the guys do a spectacular job it isn’t the same.  I ask Ketut.

“Long time ago,” he begins, “All like this. Only men not married can dance. No girl.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Oh, because all like this. Married no can.” Cryptic Ketut. His answers multiply my questions. But I refrain. Another time.

The mother/daughter dance is next. When little Nengah, Ketut’s baby, had her dance it was with Ketut. I want to ask why this time the child’s mother is dancing instead of her father. But before I can plague him with yet another question, a sweet young female dancer waves a fan in my face. Where did she come from? The fan is an invitation for me to join the dance.

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It’s time to leave my body again! I hover in the blue light near the peak of the tarp roof and observe. All eyes fasten on my attempts to move my feet, my fan, my head, my fingers, in unison with my partner’s. Twirl. Repeat. Move to the right. The left. My gaze sweeps over the crowd. I’m getting thumbs-up from Grandma. The gamelan players are amused. The sweet dancer who has to endure my fumble-stumble attempt maintains her deadpan, professional face. Then it’s over.

“Ya good,” says Ketut.

The music ends, the dancers become normal people, and food and coffee makes the rounds. It’s a time warp and for a moment I feel like I’ve always been here, that nothing else exists. It’s that familiar. Gratitude floods over me with goose bumps.

I’m reminded of a song on a CD, a gift from my daughter many years ago. The words encapsulated her wish for me at that difficult time in our lives. Neither of us dreamed of the way it would manifest.

“I Hope You Dance”

By Lee Ann Womack

I hope you never lose your sense of wonder,
You get your fill to eat but always keep that hunger,
May you never take one single breath for granted,
God forbid love ever leave you empty handed,
I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean,
Whenever one door closes I hope one more opens,
Promise me that you’ll give faith a fighting chance,
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance.I hope you dance….I hope you dance.
I hope you never fear those mountains in the distance,
Never settle for the path of least resistance
Livin’ might mean takin’ chances but they’re worth takin’,
Lovin’ might be a mistake but it’s worth makin’,
Don’t let some hell bent heart leave you bitter,
When you come close to sellin’ out reconsider,
Give the heavens above more than just a passing glance,
And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance.I hope you dance….I hope you dance.
I hope you dance….I hope you dance.
Time is a wheel in constant motion always rolling us along,
Tell me who wants to look back on their years and wonder where those years have gone.

Off With Their Heads!

11 May 2014 7 Comments

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

After the bizarre ferris wheel ride in the middle of godforsaken nowhere that followed a day of new experiences one after another, I’m exhausted. My roommate is still with her peers at the fair so I have our small room to myself, well almost. The scritch-scratch begins. “Oh no,” I moan as I whip the fuzzy blanket over my head and begin breathing my own fumes. I determine that whatever it is, it WILL NOT touch my skin, not tonight. The noises go on and on and I lay tense and waiting for the inevitable skitter of feet across some body part.

Then the tell-tale rustling stops. “Great,” I groan, “I know you’re just waiting for me to uncover my head and you’ll pounce!” I lay corpse-like, head sweating and hair plastered across my eyes and lips. “Enough already! I’ve had it! I’m done with this game. Go ahead, run over my face, see if I care!” I fling off the offending headcovering and lay listening once again. Still nothing. It takes me about two and a half seconds to fall asleep.

The morning alarm blasts through a dream. I return to my home in Ubud and Pasek greets me full of excitement. The new kitchen has been finished in my absence. He proudly leads me to it. It looks a bit like this, windows crooked, everything cartoonish.

I tell Ketut about the nightmare. “Oh,” says the wise one, “Bad dream mean kitchen good.” He thinks for a minute then adds, “If good dream, then maybe kitchen bad.” Yin yang. Balance. I thank him and suggest that he check on things. He has to go back to Ubud for a few hours today. I’m staying behind to avoid the three hour round trip on the motorbike. He says he will check.

The morning routine is the same as yesterday, but after breakfast, a woman with a box of footed red offering plates wheels in on a motorbike. She’s followed by a virtual army of others, arms full of supplies, long palm fronds, baskets full of flowers, fruits, moss, and a myriad assortment of necessities. Soon they’re thirty strong sitting on the low tables under the blue tarp. Their fingers fly.

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In another corner the bloody business of butchering chickens is hidden from view. Unlike a pig slaughter, chickens are silent martyrs and the men are experts. Short work is made of the slim neck. Then the bird is held over a bowl to collect the blood and flung, still fully feathered, into a big, blue bucket. When it’s filled, the bucket moves to the next crew and the bird is neatly denuded. Rows of plucked bodies are strung on long skewers ready for the barbecue pit.

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I pick my way through woodchips and bits and discover another enclave of men gathered around chopping blocks. These fellows are cutting up the onions and garlic that I, and hosts of others, spent hours peeling yesterday. But it’s not just garlic, onions, and chilies. There are warty roots, I’m guessing ginger, maybe turmeric, and medicinal looking leaves going into the mix. I smile, shoot a photo, and follow a basin of the chopped mix up the stairs. It’s dumped into a stone bowl and a tall, lean gent commences pulverizing it with a mallet.

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The man and woman power represented here to prepare for a child’s birthday party, makes anything a normal family in the States might do look downright skimpy.

In mid-afternoon Ketut returns with a story that my dream was right. The kitchen is completed. “Wait you look-look,” he says with an evil grin. We both know that isn’t possible. I have a good laugh with Ketut at his wry, Balinese humor.

The women are finished. A buffet lunch is spread on outdoor tables. They fill their plates and relax, laughing and joking with each other. When the last bite is consumed, they file out of the compound and head home.

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About this time a bucket of fish goes by. They’re dumped out on boards and heads, fins, and tails get the axe. But that’s it. The bones are left in as the body of the fish is chopped into mush by serious looking knives. Minced bones and flesh are now united with the herb and spice mixture and fresh grated coconut to make the spicy satays that I love.

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When the last stick of satays is roasted to a turn, the men are fed and they go home.

I’m summoned into the small room that has been decked out for the ceremony. Already a holy man is seated on the platform. Draped fabrics in red, purple and gold create the backdrop for the plates and mounds of offerings that I watched being made just hours ago. This is where I need my sarong but the borrowed one from Komang works fine. One size fits all when it’s just a two meter length of fabric!

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The ceremony takes less than an hour. Children come in to stare for a few minutes then leave. Incense fills the room. The holy man rings the bell in a continual clanging and chants prayers as Komang and Ketut perform the rituals they’ve been taught from birth.

I have so many thoughts. First in mind, I’m embarrassed to admit, is the problem of having so much food in one’s bedroom. On the plus side, the critter that visited me the past two nights probably won’t bother when presented with this smorgasbord! But the ants? The sweet kue will attract hoards of them. And what about flies?

I banish those unholy imaginings and soak in the magnitude of the past three days. Ketut appears. “Finished?” I ask. He looks happy.

“Until tomorrow,” he says.

“What happens tomorrow?” Fair question, right?

“Oh, again for my brother, but this time dance.”

“Huh?”

“Ya. Brother’s baby six month ceremony tomorrow but holy man say have dance.”

“Tomorrow?” I repeat, seeing this wilderness vacation stretching on endlessly before me.

“Ya. Gamelan, like before.” As he speaks we walk toward a light and voices. “Can stay?” he asks.

We round a corner and there are Ketut’s brothers and their wives seated under the bare light bulb with a lone bottle of beer in the center of their small circle. They’re woodcarvers and though they’ve worked constantly all day long preparing for the ceremony, the job that makes money is carving.

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I happen to know that neither Ketut nor his brothers drink alcohol. It’s expensive, and as Ketut tells me, “Too strong.” But a guest brought several bottles to the gathering today and the carvers are sharing one.

We leave the jovial group and I tell Ketut that of course I want to stay for his brother’s ceremony and the dance. What a privilege, what an honor, what an exquisite glimpse into a time and place that most Western eyes have never seen.

My roommate appears and we enter our little house together. She drops to the floor, rolls in her blanket, and is asleep. I turn off the light, grope for my sleepwear with one ear tuned for the scratch-scratch, and slide into bed. As I suspected, the ferreting varmint has better pickings elsewhere and I’m left in peace. Sleep descends.

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