For thirty years I’ve been digging around in my psyche, excavating fascinating beliefs about myself lodged there, some true, many not.
By my 70th birthday, in my opinion, I’d achieved a decent level of awareness, had banished the more bothersome demons, and was living my dream life in paradise.
Then Covid hit. I quickly discovered what I didn’t know that I didn’t know about me. I didn’t know that overnight, trauma would erase the progress I’d made and send me careening back thirty-plus years to my un-awakened past.
In that state, I made impulsive decisions based on fears I thought I’d overcome.
Now, seven months later, the more progressed me has been restored and I’m in awe of human resilience – our ability to adapt to bizarre circumstances that defy imagination.
I automatically don the mask when I leave my house and have gotten accustomed, here in Bali, to seeing almost everyone’s nose and mouth covered, some more creatively than others.
I think twice before I meet with a friend if I’ve been in contact with anyone other than Ketut whose village still has no cases of the virus. I don’t want to be the one responsible for spreading this plague.
Even in my own house compulsive hand-washing has become second-nature.
I’ve reached a level of contentment just to be in the present with the way things are because the way things are isn’t 100% bad.
This was recently made clear to me during meditation – that I must accept and unify the dualities in life. Every circumstance has it’s positives and negatives, pros and cons, gifts and challenges.
Acceptance. Allowing what is to just be, without judging it as bad or good, without assigning blame, without getting attached to one outcome or another. Acceptance without expectation. Acceptance with gratitude.
Adopting that attitude creates a peaceful heart.
But for me, there’s a ramp-up mechanism that goes beyond peace and takes me straight to the next level – joy. I heard it in operation this morning.
Hack.
Hack.
Hack.
I ignored it for a while, then curiosity got the best of me and I looked out the window toward the back garden. In the far righthand corner I could see the shivering tops of a two-story cluster of bamboo.
I dashed downstairs, picked my way through stacks of downed trees, and there it was. There HE was. Ketut. The ramp-up mechanism himself,
Uh-huh. See what I mean? What man, woman, or beast could resist THAT FACE? He radiates pure joy and it’s highly contagious, especially without a mask.
It was a bold move. The prospect of six-plus hours on the back of a motorbike at any age is a long day. But neither Ketut nor I had explored the northwest quadrant of Bali. We plotted our route and made plans.
The corridor along the coast from Singaraja to Denpasar is a thoroughfare for industrial trucks barreling their goods from Java to Bali through the port of entry at Gilimanuk. Those drivers are notorious for passing motorbikes within a hair’s breadth of contact. But the deserted back roads are potholed and tend to disappear in the most inconvenient places – like at the bank of a river that has no bridge. With corona protocol requiring an expensive test before truckers are admitted to the island, I thought there might be significantly fewer of them on the road. Ketut agreed that now would be a good time to go.
We set out at 8:00 a.m. The weather app showed pure sunshine for our entire route.
“Ayo!” I whooped as we left our narrow gang. And we were off.
By 9:30 we’d reached the western coast of the island. I was ready to stretch my legs and fill my lungs with the humid saltiness of sea breezes. Ketut swerved off the highway at a sign that said Soka Beach. With the exception of two fishermen and a group of men landing a boat, we had the place to ourselves. After a short stroll we bought coffee at a tiny warung and contemplated the next leg of the trip.
My first long outing on the back of Ketut’s motorbike nine years ago took us to Balian Beach. It was a hidden stretch of sand with interesting rock formations and cows grazing in the background. I was eager to revisit that enchanted spot.
“Do you think you can find it again? Remember that old sign and the rocky path to the water?” Ketut remembered and assured me he could find it.
What a difference nine years makes. An entire town had sprung up where none used to be.
“Where’s the beach, Ketut?” I kept asking and he finally spoke my fears.
“No more beach, only hotels.”
I processed for a while, wistfully, as we sped along beside the water. Progress. Growth. Change. I’ve changed, too. The whole world has changed.
With that I let it go.
Everything ahead of us was new territory. The flat land rolling past alternated between groves of stately palms and glistening paddy fields. Mesmerized, I drifted into a meditative trance and was jerked awake when the bike stopped. “Famous statue,” Ketut said.
Towering over us was Patung Makepung depicting the water buffalo races held every year in this area of Bali. Winter surf broiled onto the rocky stretch as far as the eye could see.
“Where are we?” The wind grabbed the name he spoke and blew it away. “What?” I shouted. He pointed to a row of rocks behind me. Red paint spelled out Pantai YEHLEH. Yehleh Beach. I checked Google maps. At 10:30 we were barely one-quarter of the way into our journey. I did the math. What was supposed to take a total of under seven hours, according to Google, by my calculations added up to ten. With no stops.
I sorted through a flurry of thoughts. Could my back, neck and bottom take another 7.5 hours on the motorbike? Would Ketut’s energy hold through the mountains still ahead? With the COVID shutdowns, would we be able to find lodging for the night if that was necessary? Should we alter our route while we still could? By now we were back at the bike, putting on our helmets.
“It’s still far, Ketut. Do you think we can do this?”
“You okay?” he asked, trying to peer through my sunglasses, mask, visor…
“I’m okay. You?”
“Ya. Good. No trucks.”
“That’s great! Okay! Let’s go!”
I have to admit, there was a driving force beyond my insatiable desire for adventure. That morning I’d been reading Indonesian news and up popped an ad for Rumah Gemuk. Translated that means Fat House. But the picture was a piece of enchantment so tantalizing it cancelled out my negative response to the name. Rumah Gemuk, I discovered, was a restaurant on the side of the mountain overlooking Lake Beratan. It offered picnics on the grounds or you could dine inside a glass mansion amid the clouds. It had amassed five stars. The reviews were inspiring and the pictures, magical. I was hooked.
And it was directly on our path home.
At Bubunan village we took a sharp right and started climbing. I’d never seen the mountainous area around Munduk, home of one of Bali’s famous waterfalls. Nor had Ketut. Nor had his aging motorbike. We labored up the switchbacks, higher and higher. When we reached a plateau Ketut breathed a sigh. “Already the top,” he said. Around the next curve the road went into a near vertical incline. “Whaaaat?”
Ketut can make that word sound funnier than any joke. As we continued to climb I lost track of the times the scene was repeated. Already the top…Whaaaat?…Now the top…Whaaaaat? I don’t love heights and there were moments, looking over an unprotected edge to the bottomless plunge below, that were gasp-worthy.
I can’t even begin to describe the views. The images I did capture were embarrassingly inadequate. We caught glimpses of Lakes Tamblingan and Buyan as we traveled the northern ridge above them.
I’d been tracking our progress on my phone but service kept dropping out. I wanted to save enough juice for a few more photos. I knew we were getting close.
“My battery’s almost dead, Ketut. If I turn my phone off can you watch for a sign for Rumah Gemuk? It’s before – you know that water temple – Ulun Danu Beratan?”
He knew.
We slowed to a crawl, both of us straining to read the litter of signage lining the street. Suddenly he took a hard right onto a strip of blacktop that wasn’t much more than a path.
“Where are you going?”
“This is it,” he said.
“How do you know?” I couldn’t believe a grand glass mansion would have such an understated approach.
“The sign,” he said. I hadn’t seen a sign. I was primed to argue when right in front of us, towering over a huge parking area, was THE crystal palace.
“It’s there! There it is! Wow Ketut! How did you know?”
“The sign,” he said – again.
Bless Ketut. Bless, bless, bless, Ketut. Every day. Every hour. What a gem.
I took a minute to comb the snarls out of 8 ½ hours of helmet hair, twisted it up in a topknot, and hoped I looked less wildebeest than I felt. “Salon,” Ketut said, and laughed.
After the host introduced us to the dining options available, I snapped his photo and accepted his offer to do the same for us.
I was being silly – so relieved to be off that motorbike!
We proceeded up the outside stairway to the second floor and entered dreamland. Why had I never heard of this place? For the next thirty minutes my mouth hung open and my camera clicked.
There were only a few people there, domestic tourists I guessed, from other parts of Indonesia. “All young,” Ketut observed and I realized that he was probably older at thirty-seven, than any of them, the wait staff included.
I finally calmed down enough to look at the menu. There was something for everyone. Ketut ordered fried rice with chicken and I had the vegan burger and fries. The subtly sweet sauce on the tempe gave extra pizzaz to the mouthwatering meal.
It was one of those exquisite moments that I never wanted to end. But Ketut, the voice of reason, said we had 2 ½ hours of riding to get home and the sun would set long before then. It was time to go.
From Bedugul it was all downhill to Ubud – or so it seemed. Time flew and so did we. Twice Ketut did his, Whaaaat? reversed the bike, and retraced to where he’d made a wrong turn. How anyone can find their way on unmarked roads in the ink-blackness of Bali nighttime, I don’t know. Even with a couple of backtracks, the 2 1/2 hour trip took two hours.
We pulled into the yard. I hauled myself off the bike, thanked Ketut, told him to sleep all day tomorrow because I intended to, and dragged myself upstairs to my cozy nest. I shed the helmet, mask, scarf, and checked the time. 7:08. We’d been gone eleven hours. At least nine of those had been on the motorbike.
In the bathroom I found the hotter-than-sin Kapak oil and massaged it into my body from the base of my skull to the bottom of my butt cheeks. As the hot/cold sting seeped into my muscles I smiled. Even if I can’t walk tomorrow, this day was perfect. It was the last thought before I drifted off to sleep.
I was about due for another Ketut Surprise, and yesterday I got it. “You want go dance?” he asked. That was a bold move for Ketut and it posed a serious threat to my perception of our relationship. But I’ve learned not to jump to conclusions.
“Where?” I ask. He tells me Jembawan Street, “You know Jazz Café?” he looks at me, his eyebrows raised, questioning. Now I’m really confused. There are places where local Balinese go and hang out with the tourist crowd but Jazz Café is not one of them. I am about to seek further clarification when he continues. “Ceremony for cemetery.” he says. “Dance many-many.”
Relief.
According to Ketut there are two cremation sites in Ubud with a road running between them. Evidently the road wreaks havoc with the supernatural, so every six months a ‘balancing’ ceremony must take place to pacify the restless spirits. The ceremonial dances act out the battle between good and evil and bring them symbolically to a draw. Neither side wins, they simply depart peacefully.
He has already been to Jembawan Street to scope out the site. He tells me it starts at 8 p.m. and lasts until 2 a.m. I don’t doubt it. At 7:50 my phone signals an incoming text. “Pergi sekarang?” (Go now?) I shoot back a quick, “OK,” and I’m out the door. The night air is delicious on the back of a motorbike. As we approach, men in black and white checked sarongs are directing traffic. Finding a spot, Ketut parks and we head toward the sound of gamelan.
Suddenly there are people everywhere, close to 500 would be my guess. As usual, I am stunned with the magnitude of the event. A high-tech sound system has been set up at one end of a long structure. Palm decorations that look like fish skeletons with giant fresh marigolds woven into the design hang from the ceiling beams. It’s beautiful. And there are Balinese families everywhere. Babies that have passed their 3-month birthday are held. Until they are 3 months they cannot leave the family compound. Toddlers sit, well behaved and mesmerized. Teens do what teens do, they roam about. I glance around for other foreign folk like myself. I see one. By the time we leave at midnight there are 5. Although this event is in the middle of a familiar street and is an amazing peek into authentic Balinese ritual, the tourists don’t know about it.
The gamelan orchestra is stunning in white uniforms with red and gold head gear. Their music is the foundation of every dance. It is non-stop, sometimes a bright sound, light and tinkly, sometimes a crashing cacophony as the dancers reach the climactic point of the performance.
The Barong comes on first. He seems almost shy. His long body drips with shaggy hair reminiscent of an Afghan Hound. The luxurious tail usually has a bell attached. His face wears a frightening mask with a mouth that opens and shuts making a dreadful clacking noise. It’s hard to know whether to watch the head with it’s snapping jaws or the twitching, hypnotizing tail. I’m told the black beard holds strong magic.
When the evil Rangda makes her appearance the energy ramps up. She is a powerful witch. Every time I see her she is almost completely enveloped by her own dreadlocks. They reach nearly to the floor. The babuten, in a trance state, challenge her with their spiraled kris swords. Naked to the waist and dressed for combat, their sarongs are drawn up between their legs and tucked in back. When Rangda waves her white cloth at them they turn their swords on themselves. For way too long they gyrate wildly, bending forward and backward, trying to pierce their sweat drenched chests with the wicked instruments. Finally, all at once, they fall to the ground. Holy water is rushed onto the stage and they are sprinkled and prayed over. Some have to be carried away.
In Bali there’s a ritual for everything, literally. When a woman is pregnant but won’t reveal the name of the baby’s father, a ceremony ensues. Offerings are made and a surrogate husband is found for her. It may be an animal, a stick figure, or any number of other possibilities depending upon the village. Once these steps have been taken, the matter is settled. The woman is considered married.
We left the dancers at midnight, still going strong. The dancers were going strong…I was exhausted. The combination of four hours of gamelan and the intense battling in the spirit realm is a bit of a drain. “Go home?” Ketut says as we pull away from the curb. “Go home.” I reply, then add, “Thanks for the dance.”
writing for self-discovery 
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