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

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!

TV, Vampires, and the Lost Baby

09 Sep 2012 3 Comments

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

It’s early. I’ve just finished breakfast and I’m sitting on my balcony in that semi-dream state induced by a full tummy and tropical warmth. I’m startled out of my reverie by a distinctly surprised British accent echoing up from below. “What’s this black thing on the sidewalk?!” My curiosity piqued, I peer down and see my neighbor bent over looking at a small dark spot. Ketut joins her. In the next breath I hear the proclamation, “It’s a baby bat!” I race out my door, down the steps and, sure enough, the little guy is too young to fly but he is flopping about on the walk surrounded by enormous humans.

As we tower over the infant a discussion ensues. Where did he come from? I suddenly remember this morning seeing a woman with a knife enter the thick growth three feet from the path. An intense rustling and shaking of leaves ensued and I saw her exit the thicket with several large banana leaves. I report these facts to my friends. Now it makes sense to Ketut who explains that bats live and nest in the deep conical recesses formed by the huge leaves. “Woman cut banana leaf for ceremony, bat fall out,” he says.

We continue to fawn over the grotesque creature. What is it about babies? I hate bats. I don’t know if its tales of vampires or having my head dive-bombed by those shadowy specters after dark, but I have an extreme illogical fear of them. And yet, looking at that tiny, defenseless blob, struggling to fly on immature wings, terrified, I feel something almost like love. Perhaps it’s a semi-dormant maternal instinct kicking in. Ketut evidently feels it too. He disappears for a moment and returns with a piece of banana. Scooping up the struggling creature on a leaf, he offers the treat to a mouth that, for a baby, already displays an impressive array of razor sharp fangs. The bat doesn’t eat and eventually our interest wanes, but not before he is secured on a vine-covered rock under a makeshift banana leaf shelter.

Imagine a place where the business of living each day provides more entertainment than hours of canned programming. Imagine if you will, actually being involved in the unfolding stories, not as an observer, but as a participant. Imagine a setting where drama is played out without cameras rolling or sound bites recorded, where you don’t need to tune in to experience the pathos of daily existence unfolding before your eyes, where the news is mostly good, but when there is tragedy it is personal and people rally around those who are suffering. Welcome to my world where living requires 100% participation and there’s no time left for TV.

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.

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.

Kintamani, Mt. Batur, and the ride of my life!

14 Aug 2012 1 Comment

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

Kintamani. Even the name sounds magical, like Shangri-La, or Katmandu. Getting there was equally as perilous, or so it seemed on the back of Ketut’s motorbike. Kintamani is a village high on Mt. Batur overlooking a lake of the same name. We passed these spectacular terraced rice fields on the way.

Rice terraces

Farming the mountainside

The elevation of Mt. Batur is 5,600 ft., and the road up has the tightest switchbacks I’ve seen this side of Norway! As it happened, the road down did too. I so wanted to take a photo of the impossible curves but stopping would have meant instant death, and letting go of my stranglehold on Ketut to grab my camera and shoot from the back of the bike…well…that wasn’t gonna happen! I think I held my breath for 30 minutes. Then, suddenly, we rounded a curve and there it was!

Lake Batur

A flat, straight stretch of road in Kintamani

Behind me is a vast desert of lava from the eruption of Mt. Batur. At the left is a tomato garden. There are red onions, cabbages, and tomatoes in plots nestled among the outcroppings of volcanic rock.

There are two peaks, Mt. Batur and Mt. Abang, and between them is the caldera, the flat open land that resulted after a major eruption. The ground is jagged and lumpy where the bubbling, flowing lava solidified. It more closely resembles desert than tropical island! Bali has many faces.

Hot Springs

One of the advantages of an active volcano in your back yard is the occasional fissure in the earth that allows hot water to bubble out. There is a charge of 150,000 Rp or about $16 to use these pools.

Hot pools of varying different temperatures by Lake Batur.

There were three women in the far pool and while we watched a young man in a sarong served poolside drinks. I felt the water…it was HOT!

The view from the pools.

The sun was out and there was hardly a breeze, but the air up here is much, much cooler than the daily average temperature in Ubud. There were times on the motorbike when my polar fleece would have been a welcome addition!

Leaving Batur and Kintamani…

What a delightful day, and the icing on the cake was meeting Ketut’s parents! They don’t smile for photos, but they laugh and joke constantly the rest of the time.  I do love the Planet Hollywood t-shirt with the sarong!

The one time in my life I felt really really tall!

Then it was time to head back to the curves and swerves for the trip home. Ketut doesn’t drive slowly, but he is careful. I only screamed once. That’s really good for me.

Kamikaze Maniacs!

01 Aug 2012 1 Comment

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

I should have stopped with the first cup. I shouldn’t have drained the whole pot. Coffee. It gives me the jitters, and I did not need a panic attack perched on the back of Ketut’s motorbike in the midst of a traffic jam on Jalan Raya, the busy main street of Ubud central.

Days ago I had mentioned that sometime I would like to explore the area of Ubud that lies south of the palace. I’ve walked the village for a couple of miles in all directions, but I know there is more to see. Touring the streets by motorbike seemed a good idea. This morning when Ketut brought my breakfast he inquired, as he always does, “What is program for today?” I told him I was going to work hard, write-write, all day. “Oh…no program?” he asked. Obviously writing does not qualify for program status in his world. In the next moment he was making a circular gesture with his arm saying, “Go look Ubud?”

A few hours later I climbed on behind Ketut, fastened a death-grip around his waist, and we were off. Okay, this is why I am determined to learn Indonesian. I pictured a leisurely weaving back and forth through narrow streets just south of the palace, up one, down the other, and getting a general lay of the land. I had also mentioned finding the large Delta Dewata Supermarket and the Seniwati Art Gallery, all well within the general area of my frame of reference.

As we pulled into the congested flow on Monkey Forest Road Ketut hollered something about did I want to see Bintang Supermarket too…big big? “Sure!” I hollered back. A big big supermarket would be fun…right? We rounded the corner onto Jalan Raya and were absorbed into the teeming sea of motorbikes, tourist buses, mini-vans, bicycles, and clueless tourist pedestrians. It isn’t a total free-for-all like the kamikaze maniac drivers in Sicily, but it is cause for hyperventilation if you’ve had too much coffee.

For what seemed like hours we squeezed through openings that I would have sworn on my life were impassable. We challenged tour buses for our right to the road…I would have slunk, cowering behind them, sucking up the noxious fumes, grateful to be alive. Not so Ketut! Then, suddenly we were free, speeding along an open road, breathing great gulps of clean air. And on we went, and on, and on…. After several more miles I asked Ketut, “Are we still in Ubud?” “Yes, yes, very good area,” he assured me. And on…and on….

The landscape began to look rural, and as we rounded a tight curve I gasped…”Stop!” Before us were rice terraces, those ethereal masterpieces of agriculture that seared their beauty into my memory when I first beheld them in Bali three years ago. “I take pictures, Ketut!” I explained as I clambered off the motorbike fishing for my camera.

My heartbeat triples its cadence whenever I see the terraces. I don’t know what it is about them but to me they are the essence of prayers.

Ketut and my chariot patiently waited. Then I resumed my perch and off we went. Bintang Supermarket is huge compared to CoCo’s and small compared to Sam’s Club or Costco in the U.S. I took a quick swing through, didn’t see anything I couldn’t live without, and was back in the saddle in no time, still headed farther away. Then, without explanation or apology, the road made a giant loop and, yes! We were going back toward Ubud!

Upon re-entering the part of the city I recognize (I used to call it a village…it has today, in my mind, graduated to city status) we finally began the weaving process I had originally imagined. But it wasn’t easy. There are north-south streets but very, very few east-west connectors. And sometimes what begins innocently enough as a road, ends as a trail through the rice paddies.

The road above with no warning became the trail below.

We turned down a street. It became a bumpy lane, then a cart path, then the trail you see here, and then…we turned around. With expert maneuvering Ketut got us to Delta Dewata, but today Seniwati Gallery was nowhere to be found. It was totally my fault for not having an address.

Our adventure had taken two hours. Where were we? I have no idea. But I saw new sights, took some great photos, bonded with Ketut and the motorbike, and made it, once again, safely home. What could possibly be better than that?

What do Dylan Thomas and pigs have in common?

25 Jul 2012 2 Comments

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

I awakened about 4 a.m. to an ungodly racket. Not frogs this time. What on earth??? Struggling up through layers of sleep I tried to make sense of the sounds. Then it hit me. Pigs. They are slaughtering pigs for the huge cremation ceremony scheduled for Saturday. A prince died and the preparations have been ongoing for weeks. Hundreds of people will have to be fed. I am reminded of a poem by Dylan Thomas:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

The pigs do not go gently…

So, here I am, awake, sitting on my balcony, drinking coffee in the soft pink of sunrise when my dove alights in the potted bougainvillea that sits on the southeast corner of my balcony, the corner nearest The Naked Tree. A moment later, his faithful partner flutters in beside him. I’m only seven feet away and I freeze, my cup midway to my mouth. I observe in awe as they coo and examine the bush, it’s delicate white and salmon-colored blooms, and it’s very sparse leaf cover. As quickly as she came, Mrs. Dove leaves. Unsatisfactory home, dear, it simply won’t do…her message is clear to me, but Mr. Dove remains.

Potted Bougainvillea

The next moment he flies up to the pendant lamp hanging just above my head. Oh my! No place to perch there, so he flits down to the railing of the balcony. My heart stops. To what do I owe this blessed visitation? Then to the arm of the chair. Now he is within three feet of my still frozen cup. I watch him and observe the extraordinary feather collar of black with white polka-dots at his neck, the intelligent eye trained on my face, the dove-gray body and shocking pink feet. Oh sweet and beautiful friend! I wish I could help. There are many lovely trees in this garden. Surely one will make a suitable home?

The railing, the arm of the chair, the coffee…

We assess each other for some time then, with several gallant bobs in my direction, he takes his leave. I sit, stunned, unmoving. Coffee, cool now, still has not reached my lips.

Would I have had this enchantment had I not been up at dawn? Had the pigs not been slaughtered and their cries wakened me would I have missed this holy communion? I owe a debt of gratitude to the pigs. I won’t be partaking of their flesh, but this morning they bestowed the gift of a timely awakening so I could keep a sacred appointment with the doves.

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