Crystals, Ninjas, and Boho’s Booty

08 Oct 2012 1 Comment

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

I am deep in conversation with an intense Persian woman. We are at a book launch at 3 Monkeys Cafe and they have just delivered my small Bintang beer that looks much bigger than I remembered. I never liked beer, but in this climate I’m acquiring a taste. The author has arrived and is about to begin when a plump, Boho-hippie type with painfully tight blond curls plops into the chair beside me.

My Persian friend seems to know her. Boho confirms my suspicions and launches into a continuation of a conversation they evidently had at their last meeting. She acknowledges my presence by looking at me in a slanty way through half-closed eyelids never missing a syllable of her monologue. I steal a peak at Persia. She has an undefinable look on her face.

The emcee interrupts our one-sided conversation and the author, Sue McPherson, begins reading from her book. As book launches go, this one is brief, but I find myself wanting to read the story, Grace Beside Me. The applause has barely faded and Boho is speaking again. Soon we are deep in the voo-doo of crystals, energy transference, and ninjas. Yes, ninjas. I begin to suspect something isn’t quite right. After five minutes my flesh is crawling. I don’t even bother to glance at Persia who has become mute. I rise, excuse myself, and run.

Fast forward to the following night. It’s the Closing Celebration for the Ubud Writers Festival. The setting is the magnificent Antonio Blanco Museum. The entertainment is world class. Afronesia, is playing and people are dancing on the dais in front of me, blocking my view. I leave my seat and skirt the crowd to get a better look at the musicians and their exotic instruments. The music feels African with driving drums and a hypnotic beat.

Afronesia Photo by Miyoshi – 2012 Ubud Writers and Readers Festival

I get close and see a woman dancing on stage. Her shorts grab at her gelatinous cheeks and the V-plunge of her top reveals too much. It’s obvious she’s not a professional dancer and I wonder for a moment why this phenomenal group would hire a curly, blonde, floozy…I look more closely. Now she is harassing the lead guitar player, shaking her ample bosom in his face, mussing his hair, taunting him while her jiggling booty assaults the crowd. Then she turns. I watch aghast as her tongue darts lewdly in and out of her mouth and her pasty arms and legs flail wildly. My stomach lurches. It’s Boho.

Photo by Miyoshi, 2012 Ubud Writers and Readers Festival

I have to hand it to Afronesia. They don’t miss a beat. They don’t make horrified faces, like I am. They play their music with panache while Boho shamelessly upstages them. An emcee approaches her. Some words are exchanged and the offender is led off stage. I have about a half a minute of relief before I notice that, through the crowd, Boho is making her way directly toward me. Does she recognize me? I have a moment of sheer panic, then I do what I would do if I were face to face with a deadly animal. I turn ever-so-carefully away, avoiding eye contact. I force my legs to walk slowly into the crowd. When I have the exit firmly fixed in sight, I bolt and don’t look back.

Much later, safely at home, I scan my memory. Where did she say she was from? Seminyak? Sanur? It was an ‘S’ word. Note to self:  Avoid all towns in Bali starting with the letter ‘S.’ This is a very small island.

Ubud Writers Festival – Khairani Barokka

04 Oct 2012 1 Comment

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

I’m in writer’s heaven. Where else but Bali could I find 130 writers from all over the globe assembled in one place? And where else would I have the opportunity to ride with different ones to and from their speaking engagements and assist with their needs? I am one of about 200 volunteers who have the pleasure of working with these auspicious figures of the literary world. I am in awe of the superhuman effort that has been undertaken to produce an event of this magnitude. Let me tell you about today…

I awake before my 7:00 a.m. alarm. It wasn’t a peaceful night. There was a domestic quarrel taking place somewhere nearby at about 1 a.m. That never happens, but it did last night. I made sleepy note of the fact then fell back to sleep. About 4 a.m. a pounding rain hit. I love the sound of rain, even at 4 a.m. Again I observed, appreciated, and fell back to sleep. A little before 6 the roosters, doves, ducks, and who knows, monkeys, giraffes, hyenas…every living creature woke up talking. Who does that? The first fingers of morning were sneaking across the sky and once it’s light out there’s no more hope of sleep for me. I get up and send a message to Ketut’s phone, Tolong makan pagi 8 am, sama-sama. Translated: Please breakfast at 8, same as usual. In a minute there is a little beep on my phone. Message from Ketut: OK.

At 8:45 I am astride Ketut’s motorbike on blissfully empty streets speeding toward Casa Luna, the venue for the workshop I am assisting today. The staff there is amazing and I introduce myself to Made, my contact “go-to” person. He takes me through the first level, then down a marble staircase, through the second level, down another marble staircase, through the third level (the restaurant hugs the side of a river gorge) across a marble bridge and into a lovely room. No projector. Whoops! It’s all supposed to be here. Well, that’s why they have 200 volunteers and why I am here an hour before showtime.

About 9:30 Khairani Barokka, the writer, arrives. Still no projector. Ms. Barokka, fondly known as Okka, registers mild concern and is assured that it is coming. I secretly hope this is accurate information.

At 9:45 the group, 14 students and two teachers from the Jakarta International School, arrive and begin their descent to ‘the room.’ To my intense delight a very tall man with a huge projector screen is bringing up the rear. I begin to breathe.

At 10:05 all systems are go. Okka starts her presentation. She is amazing, delightful, and we all listen, mesmerized.

At 10:15 the room goes dark. I leap from my chair and make a mad dash to find Made. Across the bridge, up one flight, two flights, but he’s nowhere to be found. Down one flight, two flights, across the bridge…the lights have come on in my absence. I tiptoe to my chair.

At 10:20 Okka fires up the projector that is linked to a computer where she has downloaded videos of spoken word poetry. Once again I forget to breathe. Nothing happens. The screen is dark. She shoots me a questioning look. I leap from my chair…

Let me tell you about Okka. She is a true performer, a tribute to her kind who, in the face of difficulty know that THE SHOW MUST GO ON. This amazing woman doesn’t miss a beat. Without hesitation she whips out her laptop all the while explaining to the group that since the video is not available she will do a live spoken word performance for them. And what a performance. She is brilliant. I am secretly glad, as I clap until my palms vibrate, for the mysterious electrical snaffu that made her improvisation necessary.

At noon it’s over. I’ve actually been breathing for about an hour. Pre-arranged vehicles arrive to ferry the students back to their hotel. I  sms Ketut. He’s here in a heartbeat and I gratefully sink into the comfort of the now familiar bike seat and sweaty hot helmet. There are three more Festival days to go. Note to self: BREATHE.

Khairani Barokka, Indonesia

Khairani Barokka is a writer, performer, producer, artist and researcher. Okka has performed in the US and Indonesia, including livestreamed the @atamerica Jakarta show. She has a Masters from ITP at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts, as a Tisch Departmental Fellow, and was the first Indonesian writer-in-residence at Vermont Studio Centre.

Why Bali?

29 Sep 2012 3 Comments

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

Why Bali? What is it that takes me thousands of miles from family and friends and holds me captive? What powerful force grips my mind and weaves it’s spell?

I’ve asked myself those questions. If I were running away from unbearable family matters, or painful memories, or anything at all, Bali would be a lovely place to run to. But I’m not. My family relationships are wonderfully close and loving. My memories are compartmentalized. I store the good ones in front for easy access and I have a convenient habit of forgetting the rest. I am not running from. I am running to.

The back of a motorbike is conducive to thinking. It was on the hour and a half ride back from Kintamani that I suddenly knew the answers to those questions. Perched behind Ketut, winding down the tight switch-backs as twilight and fog shrouded the mountains around us, my too-full heart began leaking from my eyes.

A brief stop on the way to Kintamani

I had spent the afternoon with Ketut’s family. Upon arrival I was welcomed, seated in a place of honor, fed and entertained. But they had work to do. So after an appropriate length of time, I was sitting like a distant queen watching her subjects. That wasn’t working for me. I abdicated my throne, walked over to the family, sat down on the ground beside them and began shelling beans. There was a flurry of activity, a stool was brought in consideration of my…age? Delicate white bum? Whatever. I politely declined in my best pidgin Indonesian. My effort was accompanied by uproarious laughter that left me wondering just what exactly I had said. The attempt to elevate me was abandoned and we settled into the business of work.

The beans have been shelled. I am sitting by Ketut’s ibu (mother) and Ketut is on my left.

All this was stewing in my mind with the hypnotic hum of the motorbike. Then the knowing dropped into my consciousness without effort. Here there is no pretense. These people are completely who they are and that allows me to be who I am. My roots are in the earth. I’ve shelled thousands of beans and peas, husked hundreds of ears of corn, picked berries, pulled weeds, baled hay. I spent my adult life in the city trying not to be a farm girl. But at my core I am that simple creature. Here, quiet respect is valued. Pushy aggression has no place. Humility is honored and the person who boasts or brags is secretly scorned.

One Balinese businessman I know was phoned and asked if he would host a large gathering at his place of business. He requested a meeting to discuss particulars. The date was set, then changed, then re-set, then cancelled. Another phone conversation ensued and the clients wanted to settle the matter over the phone. The Balinese businessman again requested a meeting. Later he told me, “I wanted to see their eyes.” Although it would have been an easy matter to arrange things via the telephone, the man held firm to his principles. The group went elsewhere.

And why is that important? It’s integrity. It’s knowing who you are and not compromising. It’s a set of values that doesn’t bow to the dollar. It feels like my childhood, the farm, the close-knit community of people who helped each other and didn’t feel the need for power suits or slick marketing gimmicks. And that’s why I was glad of the soft darkness as we rolled into Ubud at sunset. Nobody noticed my heart leaking.

Sundown in Ubud

Making Peace with Good and Evil

17 Sep 2012 1 Comment

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

Good and evil, yin and yang, are balanced today in the village of Bakbakan.  It isn’t easy to maintain harmony with these energies. The level of sensory intensity in the ritual prayers, dances, and offerings that are required to keep peace between the sacred and the profane is unparalleled by anything I’ve seen before.

My friend Wayan invited Nancy (who is visiting from the U.S.) and me to attend the temple ceremony as guests of her family. The village of Bakbakan is about 30 minutes from Ubud. I arranged with Pasek and Ketut for motorbike transport. After a sidesaddle ride, which Nancy accomplished with impressive decorum, we were delivered to our destination and welcomed warmly by Wayan and Komang in ceremonial dress.

A group of women had already congregated. They were stunning. They looked like brides, all in white with a colorful sash at their waists. We had a few minutes to visit and then a line started forming. The row of towering pyramids of fruit, cakes, whole baked chickens, and colorful confections were retrieved by the woman who created them and placed on their heads.

This woman’s husband helps her with her 4′ tall, over 30 pound offering.

I cannot comprehend this feat of balance and strength.  It’s a challenge for me to balance a book on my head for more than a few steps. How on earth do they do it? The stately procession was followed by the gamelan musicians. Nancy and I walked alongside the men, snapping photos as discreetly as possible.

A stunning parade, at least 50 women all in white, carried their towering offerings the 1/2 mile to the temple.

The temple complex has three areas. Those who cannot enter wait in the least sacred area outside the entrance. If a relative has died recently the family cannot enter the temple. If a woman is menstruating she must not enter. At we approached Komang politely asked if Nancy or I were menstruating. There are very few bodily functions that register as taboos in Bali. Community life is an open book. There is no embarrassment around such things. I assured him we were both well past that age. He smiled and motioned us to the holy water where we were sprinkled. Then we passed through the gate and entered a magical realm. All was in readiness for the evening festivities as we passed through this second area.

Stepping through the last gate into the most sacred portion of the temple a riot of color and commotion assailed us. The air vibrated with expectation and the hum of voices. We were urged onto a platform, a seat of honor, and woven bamboo mats were quickly spread for our delicate foreign bottoms. Nancy and I sat by Wayan while Ary slept peacefully in her arms.

Komang’s cousin, Made, appointed himself our teacher and began explaining the events that would take place. His English was excellent and I learned more about Balinese Hinduism in the 30 minutes with him than I have in 5 months of reading and asking questions. We sat and chatted while other friends and family came and went.

The gamelan began, signaling time for prayer. We sat on the ground in family groups. Each family brought, in addition to the 4’ high offering tower, a basket of flowers and incense which Komang’s mother placed in front of us. Prayers were chanted in unison as the intricate rituals were performed. I tried to chant. I’m pretty good at following along with most melodies, but this wasn’t exactly a melody. When we got to the end I recognized the words and gave it my all, Om Shanti, Shanti, Shanti, Om.

A buzz of excitement rippled through the crowd at this point and almost as a unit the we moved to the perimeter creating a center space. A cloth was spread on the ground and offerings were placed there. These were different. Some appeared to have been slightly burned. There were a couple of smaller, colorful ones but the rest were almost scary looking. Made explained that there would be a dance and prayers now to balance good and evil energies. A row of holy men in white sat behind the dark offerings. Incense was lighted that did not have the sweet fragrance we had been experiencing all night. This odor was acrid and harsh. The gamelan musicians began again. Then a grandmother appeared moving to the rhythm. Another grandmother joined her and soon a group of elder women were dancing in front of the offerings and the holy men. We had been told earlier that this would be a trance dance. It was eerie. The women appeared to be doing battle with the dark energies. I watched, mesmerized.

The solemnity of the prayers and trance dance complete, food suddenly appeared. Wayan handed us a tangerine, some beautiful little striped crackers, and a lacy confection of shredded coconut glazed with palm sugar. Yum! We ate, visited, and anticipated the beginning of the evening’s entertainment. People started moving into the performance area and Komang hustled us into position at the front. What followed were three traditional Balinese dances, each one more spectacular than the one before.

The first dance, Penyembrahma, was brilliantly colorful.

That was followed by the spectacular, twirling Bird of Paradise dance.

The costumes in deep maroon with gold were absolutely gorgeous.

Bird of Paradise was followed by a brilliantly costumed trio. I missed the name of this performance and it moved quickly so photo ops were difficult. It was hard to keep my eyes behind the camera when I really just wanted to absorb myself completely in the moment!

It was 9 p.m. by the time the dancers finished. We were told that there would be another performance starting soon, but this was a ritual dance and it would be dangerous for us to leave in the middle. It again had to do with balance of good and evil. Once we started watching we would have to stay until the end at about 2 a.m. As much as my curiosity, my heart, and my mind wanted to stay, my body was in protest. Komang graciously escorted us to the street. Pasek and Ketut had returned and were waiting for us. We exchanged sweet farewells and started home. The cool night air brushed by as we zipped through dark, quiet streets. I was overwhelmed once again with immense gratitude for the opportunity to live this kind of life, a life I have created for myself knowing what I need, what I want, and what I love. It is a life that fits me like skin.

The Night Market at Mas

13 Sep 2012 Leave a comment

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

Question:  What do you get when you cross a Hindu ceremony with a Balinese all night market?  Answer: Sensory overload!

When Ketut asked, “You want to go to different market?” and I responded “What is different?” I was operating on the assumption it would be the same kind of market in a different location. Assumptions. Ketut expanded, “Night time, whole night, by temple, big football field.” I sought further clarification, “You mean all night? 24/7? No close?” Yes, that is exactly what he meant.

Of course I want to go, and my friend, Nancy, who is visiting me from the U.S., wants to go too. I picture a series of small shops around the perimeter of a large open area beside a temple. Why does my mind do that? Why do I presume to know what to expect? I do it every time and every time I’m astonished by something so utterly and completely unexpected it blows my tiny mind.

At 6:00 p.m. we’re ready. We have our sarongs in a bag to tie on when necessary. Ketut arrives, takes one look and says, “Pasek already sarong.” Okay, we need to wear our sarongs. At 6:30 we are still struggling to wrap the 2 meters of fabric in a semi secure fashion that doesn’t include an unsightly bulge around the mid-section. We both look about 8 months pregnant. It isn’t working. Finally, sweating bullets and laughing because it beats crying, we agree to quit trying to make it perfect and just go. I’m packaged like a tootsie-roll pop. Walking is a challenge.

I start to mount the motorbike (sidesaddle of course) and Ketut patiently repositions me. Since they drive on the left side of the road it is less likely my protruding knees will snag a passing vehicle if they stick out on the left. (Yes, the oncoming traffic is THAT CLOSE!) I glance at Nancy. She has hiked up her much more loosely wrapped sarong and is straddling the back of of Pasek’s bike. She’s taking no chances.

My first clue that the Mas Night Market may be a cut above the norm is the traffic jam. Suddenly every motorbike in creation has converged on this point. As we inch our way forward I notice a temporary toll booth of sorts. It is a chair in the middle of the road with a sign on it. The attendant standing beside it collects the fee. And then I see them…rows upon rows of motorbikes lined up two deep as far as the eye can see on both sides of the street. Ketut and Pasek make a few adjustments to the arrangement and we’re parked. We join the throngs. The flowing sea of humanity reminds me of Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Here however, out of literally hundreds of people, Nancy and I are the ONLY tourists.

Nancy pauses outside the huge stone entrance to the temple area and Pasek waits just inside the gate

Pasek on the left, Nancy on the right and in the background a parade of people, all in ceremonial dress, bring  their offerings into the temple

In another area of the temple people sit amid flower petals praying

This altar is adorned with rich fabrics and loaded with offerings

I still hesitate to take photos in the temples during ceremonies. It feels intrusive and disrespectful. The Balinese are always gracious and invite snoopy folks to photograph whatever they want. So it may be just me. But I cringe when I see some guy in shorts with a telephoto lens as long as Pinocchio’s nose, climbing on whatever is handy however sacred it might be, shooting, shooting, shooting. At the very least wear a sarong…try! Fortunately there were none of those types around on this particular night.

We leave the other-worldliness of the temple and are thrust into the earthly business of buying and selling. Carried along with the flow, we pass blankets spread on the ground with mounds of lace fabrics. Women are pulling out colors they like and looking through the merchandise just as I would around a bargain table in the U.S. There are wind-up toys, watches, jeans, t-shirts, underwear, jewelry, sarongs, balloons, tennis shoes, sandals, motorbike parts, and food…lots and lots of food. The aroma from this particular warung cannot to be ignored. We try three different kinds of satays.

Making and selling satays in the Mas Night Market

And they are delicious…smokey, spicy, mouth wateringly delicious!

I’m lovin’ this fish satay. Pasek is being his stoic, patient self. He’s a saint!

I notice a stall where that beautiful feminine undergarment of torture, the corset, is on display in abundance. I need one. I have the sarong and the lacy kebaya, but to be 100% correct I need the strapless push-up-pull-in-rib-crushing corset to complete the look. In spite of the human current pushing me I slow way down. Pasek, a few steps ahead but ever-vigilant lest he lose one of us, is immediately beside me. “You want to buy?” Somehow the vision of one of those adorable little Balinese girls strapping me into the most intimate of undergarments in front of the gods, and Pasek, and everybody gives me pause. A corset that doesn’t fit is worse than no corset at all, and the retelling of the story of me being sausaged into one would provide enough entertainment in the village for weeks to come. What am I thinking!? Common sense surfaces and we move on.

There must be something about greasy fried food that triggers a neural response. The warungs selling heaps of piseng goreng (banana fritters) and other deep fat fried bready foods are like magnets. We cave to our salivating taste buds. I point to one heaping mound and two handfuls of the stuff goes into a bag. Before I can ask the price two heaping handfuls of something else goes into the bag. I started to speak but STOP!!! doesn’t seem appropriate so I watch in fascinated horror while the bag is filled with two or three handfuls of everything. It comes to a dollar.

We agree it is time to head back to the peaceful sanity of Ubud. The motorbikes are located and the Polisi directing traffic gets us safely on our way.

Leaving the night market

The ride home is uneventful in the best possible sense of the word. Pasek and Ketut join Nancy and me on the balcony for tea and mounds of greasy delights. I forgot to mention that each deep-fried handful was accompanied by two or three whole green chilies.  And what do you know…a bite of fritter and a bite of chili when chewed up together in the same mouthful…bliss!

Oh what a night!

A Mermaid, a Demon, and Fish Satays

04 Sep 2012 5 Comments

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

The fish satays from the local warung in Ubud are good. But the fish satays hot off the fire in the seaside village of Lebih…oh baby, oh baby! I awoke this morning adventure-lust tugging at my feet and a craving for salt air. Upon consulting my guru, Ketut, it appeared that today was an auspicious day for travel. Then again, he’s happy as a clam tooling me around the island on his motorbike just about any day short of a monsoon. So off we went.

Major intersections in the larger towns often sport breathtaking statuary at their centers. Usually the traffic snarls around these things at such a pace that a photo-op is out of the question. But I was lucky. This may be the only street in Ubud with a traffic light and today it happened to be red. So here’s the warrior Arjuna from the back of Ketut’s motorbike. If you will notice, less is not more in Balinese art!

Sculpture of Arjuna, finest archer and peerless warrior in the Hindu epic Mahabharata

The trail out of Ubud winds through rice paddies and over a bottomless river gorge toward the town of Gianyar. Roughly the same size as Ubud, Gianyar’s streets are equally as congested. But there are fewer tourists here. There was a lull in traffic as we passed these three massive statues. “Want photo?” Ketut asked as he pulled off to the side so I could capture the fantastic images.

This may be a sculpture of Surya, the sun god riding in his chariot, or maybe Krishna…? Can any of my Indonesian friends tell me?

Sculpture of Raksasa, the monster in the story of Ramayana

Sculpture of Sovann Macha, mermaid daughter of Demon Ravana in the epic tale of Ramayana. She is special having both feet AND a tail.

We glided safely past a mermaid, a god, and a demon and headed into the countryside. As soon as the congestion of Gianyar was behind us the breezes became humid with a saline tang. A few miles more and we approached the road that follows the coast. Lebih is across the intersection and down a short, dirt path. Ketut parked the bike and I extracted my head from the helmet which I have finally learned to do without assistance…a major accomplishment and an important step toward independence and personal dignity.

Colorful fishing boats were lined up like pretty toys, three deep after the morning catch.

A gossamer haze veils the mountains.

A group of men from the shore help haul this late fishing boat out of the sea

A new brick path has been completed atop the rocky rip rap that keeps the ocean from devouring the coast.

The covered platform is a restful spot for a shore lunch

The beach here is black volcanic sand. Bali has both, the pristine white and the dramatic, sparkling black. I walked along the hard-packed shore as the waves rolled and crashed beside me. Ketut shot this photo BEFORE I got wet!

Walking on the beach at Lebih

After scoring a snack of mouth-watering satays, I spent some time sitting like a happy turtle on a sun-warmed rock lost in the hypnotic motion of the sea. It was one of those delicious moments when I didn’t wish I had brought a writing tablet, sketch pad, or laptop. I was content to be a motionless lump on a warm rock doing absolutely nothing at all.

Miracle of The Naked Tree

31 Aug 2012 1 Comment

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

It looms grotesque, a daily reminder of botanical brutality. The Naked Tree. After Ketut’s failed attempt to hack it down for firewood, a task that left an open wound encircling the trunk, I have tried to ignore its unsettling presence. For weeks I expected any day he would come with a saw, a tool more suitable for a tree trunk than his machete, and removing the offending corpse. But time passed to no avail.

The Naked Tree’s Wound

Mrs. Dove and her devoted mate recovered from the loss of their primary residence and are now firmly ensconced in a lovely, leafy home within arm’s reach at the other end of my balcony. In the early light of morning, however, as my eyelids flutter open, the first sight I behold is the pair of them side by side on a bare branch in The Naked Tree.

Mr. and Mrs. D in The Naked Tree at dawn

So the other day when Ketut was in a particularly jovial mood (I had just asked if he would be my body-guard  and accompany me out dancing to ward off the amorous Frenchman that seems to be blind to the fact that I am old enough to be his granny) I pointed to The Naked Tree and shrugged my shoulders in that universal gesture that says, “And your plan is….?” That made him double over with gut busting mirth. I was serious. With righteous indignation I said, “But Ketut…it’s dead! And it’s ugly! You can’t just leave it there.” When he had composed himself, with laugh-tears still wet on his cheeks, he said “No, not dead! See? Leaf!” I gave him a look (again universal language) that implied, “Yeah, you’re crazy Ketut.” Struggling to contain another outburst of hilarity he shook his head, “Not dead, see?” He pointed. I looked. Then I really looked and sure enough, tiny green sprouts have begun to emerge from the impossibly compromised Naked Tree branches. Now the expression on my face was one of shock and awe. “Seriously Ketut?! How can this be? You cut all the way around the trunk. It’s impossible!” By then he had assumed the countenance of patient longsuffering that has become all too familiar and summed it up, “In Bali, okay, many-many.”

Miraculous New Life Appearing

Silly me. In Bali, of course, the natural laws are simply suggestions that may or may not apply. Slap an orchid on the trunk of a coconut  palm and Wallah! you have orchids growing out of a tree trunk. Stick a white bougainvillea branch, and a coral bougainvillea branch on a pink bougainvillea bush and Presto! you have a profusion of pink, white, and coral flowers blossoming from the same stem.

There is a saying here, Plant a rock in Bali and it will grow. It isn’t far from the truth. I apologized to Ketut. Once again I was the clueless foreigner trying to put Bali into my midwestern, Minnesotan-frame-of-reference box. In my realm of possibility, spontaneous regeneration would be cataloged under miracles. In beautiful, equatorial Bali it is biasa hidup, normal life.

The Elegance of the Balinese Penjor

30 Aug 2012 4 Comments

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

If I thought Bali was beautiful before, I had no idea what was in the works for the ten day Galungan celebration. Every Balinese friend I talked to spoke excitedly about Galungan and the penjor. The words had no meaning for me. So although their excitement was contagious, and even though they attempted to explain, I was clueless. As the day drew closer the energy of the island intensified. Then I got an invitation. Pasek, the manager of several properties including my house, invited me to his village for the temple ceremonies and the first day of Galungan. His village is high in the mountains and if there is a beaten track his home is significantly beyond that. I was deeply honored to be included in the special time for his family. So even though it meant another very long motorbike ride (over an hour one way) and subjecting myself to the roads that snake their way to the top shrinking ever smaller as they ascend, I eagerly accepted.

Pasek in his family temple with a few of the many many offerings

Pasek with his wife, his father, and his three children in the traditional Balinese ceremonial dress.

The experience was profoundly personal and I am grateful to have been so generously welcomed to share in the ancient practices still alive today.

On the ride to Pasek’s village on Mt. Batur, we passed thousands of penjor. I am not exaggerating…thousands! I kept exclaiming to the wind rushing past my ears, “Oh! Wow! Beautiful! Oh! Look at that one! Wow!” etc. etc.  That was yesterday. Today I straddled Ketut’s motorbike and off we went on a penjor photo adventure! He took me through village after village and stopped, waiting patiently while I walked from one glorious creation to the next, shooting, shooting, shooting.  Just by way of a quick explanation, penjor is synonymous with Mt. Agung, the highest and holiest mountain on Bali. Every single one of these gracefully arched, fancifully decorated bamboo poles is different. They are made by the family who owns the property abutting the street. There are offerings attached and there is often a little temple beside the penjor.

Penjors line the village streets

Another village…

And another…

At about 9 feet from the ground, the first work of art manifests. The following are a few examples of once again, thousands of variations on the theme.

The entire penjor is made from items occurring in nature and basic to Balinese life.

The tassels waving in the breezes high above the street are also marvelous and diverse creations.

The poles themselves are completely covered from top to bottom with exquisite woven, fringed, and looped designs that defy verbal explanation.

This one deserved a close-up…

Some of the penjors had a woven strip forming a ramp to the offering. Ketut told me these special weavings signify a family wedding.

These amazing displays remain in place for the 10 days of Galungan, then they are gone and next year, in the 11th month of their 210 day calendar, it happens all over again. The closest thing to it in the U.S. are the street decorations at Christmas. I won’t shove it down your throat, you can draw your own conclusions, but it doesn’t seem quite the same…

I’ve given you a small taste, a sweet one I hope, of the elegance of the penjor.

Garden on Steroids

25 Aug 2012 6 Comments

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

“Want to see garden?” Ketut, the master of understatement, asked. We had just finished up a quick errand and I was planning to get back to my neglected writing. But who can resist a lovely garden as long as it belongs to someone else? I grew up pulling weeds, picking beans, shelling peas and not loving it. I revisited gardening once as an adult and quickly realized I did not inherit my father’s green thumb. “Sure,” was my immediate reply and off we went.

A few miles down the road Ketut pulled into a parking area and I read the sign, Botanic Garden Ubud. Of course I started laughing. My assumption versus Ketut’s reality is always off by about 180 degrees. I thought we might stroll for a few minutes through a temple garden or a pretty landscape. But the extravaganza of flora and fauna that awaited me was beyond my imagining. Two hours and thirty minutes later we emerged from an adventure that neither of us had anticipated. There were stone paths through groves of bamboo. There were steep staircases beside a bottomless river gorge. There was a temple meditation area and deep in the heart of that jungle garden, a rainforest. I think I must have said, “Oh wow!” a thousand times. So, want to see a garden?  Come with me!

The journey begins in the Orchid House where some ordinary, and some very rare orchids are raised for sale commercially.

The Orchid House

The Orchid House

The Orchid House

The Orchid House

Leaving The Orchid House

We left the Orchid House and descended a broad staircase into incredible layers of green.

The Path and Benches

Here and there a bench, free-form and organic, offered a place to rest and gaze. The path surfaces varied from tight, smooth pebbles to lumpy rock, to asphalt, to dirt and in one area, beautiful mosaic. You want to wear hiking sandals for optimum enjoyment of the walk.

Heliconia Hill

Heliconia

The Fern Garden

Entrance to Meditation Area

The Bamboo Grove

More of The Bamboo Grove

Small Waterfall Approaching Deep Gorge and Rainforest

The photos of the rainforest do not come close to doing justice to the magnificence. There was a river somewhere far below the dense jungle growth. All I could see through the layers was blackness.

Rainforest and River Gorge

Mother-in-law’s Tongue

I had to photograph this for my mother. She has a pot of Mother-in-law’s Tongue (I’m sure the name comes from the fact that the leaf is sharp and pointed!) in her living room that is from a plant that my grandmother brought with her on the boat from Norway in the early 1900’s.

Rainforest, green upon green upon green!

Approach to Lotus Ponds

Mosaic Lotus Motif in Path

The Maze

It was much darker than it looks. Don’t go in if you are even slightly claustrophobic. The paths twist and turn and YOU WILL GET LOST! I thought I was on my way out, turned a corner…dead end. It’s a good way to get the heart rate elevated without strenuous exercise.

The Palm Hill

Sculpture Garden and view of Orchid Houses

As we emerged from the intense density of jungle into this airy, open space at the end of the trail I had just a momentary flash of what it might have been like for those first adventurers. They wouldn’t have had the luxury of paths. Nor would they have had the little signs to tell them what they were looking at. There would have been no bamboo rail to warn them of the edge of the cliff that drops into nothingness. There might have been snakes. I was jolted back into the now by Ketut. “Go home?” he asked. “Yes, go home. This was a good adventure Ketut!” (We like that word.) He laughed then said, “What you want to eat?”

Reggae with Fredi Marley at Napi Orti

21 Aug 2012 3 Comments

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

I climb the stairway that thumbs its nose at every building code ever written.  At the top, in the dim light of Napi Orti, I find some benches around a rough plank table. We sit then, five of us, one from Italy, one from Qatar, one English, one Balinese, and me. At the other end of the table is a group of seven young men and women from Spain. My eyes do a quick scan of the decor…they always do that. My years of interior design just won’t die. The ceiling vaults up to a peak where a fan slowly stirs the air. Art is mounted at a slant following the pitch of the ceiling. At about ten feet there’s a stunning black and white drawing of a bare-breasted woman. There are posters, landscapes, and dozens of origami fish skeletons hanging overhead.

I am here at Julie’s invitation to hear reggae music. But not just any reggae, tonight Fredi Marley and his band are performing. I hope that he will play Bali Holiday. Julie wrote the lyrics of that song. Fredi put music to her words and it’s on his latest album. My eyes continue their scan. It’s a mellow crowd and none of them look like Minnesota. I’m okay with that. The low hum of many languages confirms the international flavor.

Then he’s there, in front, and the first chords of his guitar vibrate through my soul. “Don’t worry…about a thing…’cause every little thing’s…gonna be all right…” Oh Fredi! How did you know that is my very favorite reggae song in the whole universe? Fredi and his backup guitarist harmonize on the vocals and pump out a perfect blend of fabulous. The djembe drummer in his blaze orange t-shirt and black mafia fedora nails the beat and the place rocks. There is no way to sit still to reggae. The body does something involuntary and it doesn’t matter what. A slim Japanese man, shirt unbuttoned and all in white, does tai chi on the dance floor. A round-faced Chinese fellow whirls a willing woman in a version of East Coast Swing.

performance
Fredi Marley

The crowd adores and Fredi delivers. Then Julie is clapping excitedly, “This is it! This is Bali Holiday!” (Click to listen) Suddenly it was like I was sitting next to a celebrity. Fredi’s voice is compelling, “Thirty days are not enough…60 days are not enough…90 days are not enough…still not enough…”  The message is one that speaks to me. No matter how long I am in Bali, it is never long enough. The band takes a break and Fredi walks over to our little group. He is glad I like his music, he says. Like every other Indonesian person I’ve met, he is warm and engaging. He shakes my hand. In a few minutes he’s back at his guitar for another round of irresistible sounds and rhythms.

The clock strikes midnight and the magic ends. However many hours it has been, it’s not enough. But Napi Orti is only about a block from my house. Fredi plays there often. I will go back.

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