Clear Minds

My Travel Writing Scholarship 2011 entry

cam2yogi — Wed, 26 Jan 2011 04:47:00 GMT

"Oshi, please. Uncle is waiting for us."

I am sitting in a renovated immigration hall experiencing way too much time.

"Oshi, please!"

The lines are getting smaller, people shuffling, waiting. A woman beside me shoos her young daughter away as she kneels on white marble, scribing black letters on an Arrival Card.

She finishes. Mother and daughter leave for an Uncle.

I’m in India; an India seemingly small compared to the first time I was arrived. Over a year ago, I was intimidated to be in this massive democracy, a planet unto itself with flavors, scents, terrain and more diversity. But today it appears minuscule after the other countries and cultures.

Planes unload their passengers. Paces quicken.

On my plane, there sat a young British woman from the Gatwick area of London. She was in India on work and explained she was part of a human resources company preparing a presentation at the University of Delhi. The company was recruiting employees and those hired would be trained in London before returning to work at their Delhi offices.

Lines fill again. Customs is full of Germans. Their voices drown out over the CD skipping through the speakers. Between the scratches, the music is something like an electronic Peruvian flute, and as time lingers, I see people moving to the rhythm. Germans sway. A woman in a purple sari trails her lace scarf. It catches a breath and flutters to the melody.

As she rounds a metal pole forming the orderly maze of security, her luggage follows closely. Suddenly, it cuts too close, rises over the aluminum base and tips over. The music stops.

Apparently Hong Kong arrived, but I see no Chinese. If the flight exists, I’m expecting to observe pairs of backpackers and hoards of tourist groups—name tags, color-coordinated luggage plates—walking in circles.

My plan is to catch a 7:20AM train, the 2031 Shabati Express to Amritsar. Currently, it’s 2:30AM and my desire to wander the New Delhi Railway Station at this hour is nonexistent. So this large room suites me well. I’ll stay until the uniformed workers decide to kick me out.

Hours later I discover the Shabati is booked. Next available train is on the seventh—four days. I forgo my plans; find a room and crash, sleeping for over twelve hours before checking out in the afternoon. I head to Paharganj of New Delhi and before I’m awake I’m on a bus to McLeod Ganj. The destination looms distant. It will take fourteen hours. I have no seat, only a front cabin bench beside the driver.

Sitting on top bags, my limbs quickly fall asleep as cold winter air flushes into a cracked window. One after another, the driver smokes his beedis as day turns to night. The bus climbs into the Himalayas and behind the blaring Indian music, I can hear the roar of the engine and passengers in the back vomiting out windows. Shortly, I join the ranks.

My Photo scholarship 2010 entry

cam2yogi — Fri, 15 Oct 2010 11:27:00 GMT

We were enveloped in a disruptive blackness. Somewhere, in the Horn of Africa, our carriage rested, while inside our bodies contorted uncomfortably on plastic benches. Supposedly, this was First Class: a 26 hour train ride from Dire Dawa, Ethiopia to Djibouti City, Djibouti. But our butts, backs and remaining body parts disagreed in Western fashion as the hours of darkness slowly ticked intermittently between quick slumbers of exhaustion. One person stirred, which caused a domino effect of passengers waking, rustling, and repositioning themselves into something vaguely tolerable. Outside was more of the same. Shouts of Afar and Somali traveled in chaotic yellow beams of flashlights that sliced into the night air. Above, the skies were clear as stars glistened in their full desert regalia. They encircled a waning moon that reflected what little light there was, forming silhouettes of the surrounding landscape. We were found in the middle of a moon-like terrain of barren rock cast across a few craggy knolls.

Haramara Retreat: Days-In-the-Life-Of

cam2yogi — Thu, 16 Apr 2009 04:25:00 GMT

It is dark outside. Maybe 10 o’clock, maybe 11. Who knows? For all I could guess it might be 3AM or how ‘bout 9PM. There are no clocks around me, only a lace of mosquito netting cascading over the large bed like a whale’s mouth around a school of fish. Everything manmade is mute. There’s not a sound except nature—roaring nature. I hear the ocean pummeling the shore; waves peeling atop barnacled rocks and round bulbous stones the size of Smart Cars. And there are crickets; humming and buzzing, strumming and rustling. It’s a full-force ensemble, but it does not bother. Instead, it soothes. It mellows. It drifts me back off to sleep as I roll over and spoon the naked body beside me.

Sometime, the sun will rise. The light of day will slowly weave through the netting and into the bed sheets to awaken me. I’ll then yawn, stretch, rotate in the covers and twist my spine. Cracking. Popping. I will then open the folds over the bed and look into the open, casting my gaze over the Pacific Ocean to what appears to be an infinite horizon. Then I’ll sit on the crapper with this same view—beautiful, Landing of the Fern Landing of the Fern incredible, delicious (never thought these words could describe a defecating experience)—and then proceed to shower without ever taking my eyesight off this panoramic scenery. Warmth washes over me before I shower, before I empty my bladder, before I open my eyes. Joy spreads across my wings simply because I’m in paradise in an open-aired casita with my lover on Valentine's Day. This is Haramara Retreat.

After the shower, after gazing for migrating humpback whales in the ocean, after brushing my teeth, after a morning snuggle and hug, after dressing; after all these wonderful things that happily make my morning routine, I will walk up the dirt path barefoot to the dining area for homemade ginger tea. And with the other yogis and yoginis I’ll settle my mind, body and soul into a two-hour yoga practice in a yoga palapa. Tough way to begin the day.

I never thought once of home, really. I never returned to the stresses of work, finances, goals & plans—the how-tos and what-ifs. No. Everything faded away into the ocean’s pulse, lost in the cricket-talk that vibrated the night air. And there couldn’t have been a better place to let this all Roots Beneath the Storm Roots Beneath the Storm go as part of YogaLife’s Yoga Bliss Retreat led by Laura DeFreitas and Michael Suzerris. Located at Haramara Retreat just south of Sayulita in the state of Nayarit, the eco-center is founded on principles of serenity, security and personal growth. The word haramara itself originates from the Huichol language, meaning “Grandmother Sea”.

So we’re nestled here, a vast landscape spread over the hillside, each inhabiting a traditional adobe hut with enough walls for privacy and otherwise open to the sea’s horizon. There is no electricity in any of the accommodations; only a bed, hammock, drawers, benches, a seat, sink, shower and the best toilet seat in the world. And the days for the 23 attendees are as peaceful and as simple, or as adventurous and arduous as each wish them to be. Two yoga sessions—one in the morning and one in the evening, with the instructors trading off respectively; breakfast of fruit, yogurt and granola; exploration, beaches, swimming, walking to Sayulita, reading, etc.; a three-course lunch; more lounging, exploring, etc.; and then another three-course meal for dinner after evening yoga. A day-in-the-life-of from Feb. 14th - 21st, 2009.

On the day’s arrival, Laura & I checked into Uniting An Aum Uniting An Aum our casita “Amethyst”. I couldn’t help draw my attention to the nature surrounding us. Butterflies were enchanting; each one a new design, a different color, varying sizes and flight patterns. One specifically resembled a monarch butterfly, but the oranges were replaced with a tie-dye splattering of green and yellow. It was large. It’s wings flapped rapidly like a sparring eagle. Then there were the unique types resembling no other. And one stood out from the rest. It was ethereal in its flight, eclectic in design. The small oval butterfly was all black except two discerning features. Running horizontal across its back was a thin yellow line as straight as a ruler, and on both wing-tips a vertical red stripe running perpendicular into the yellow, creating a long “H” with stubby legs. And it flew like a flag found at circuses and fairs, appearing as though it rolled over the crowds fast enough to form the illusion that the yellow and red lines never disappeared… like a animated book flipped with the fingers creating a visual story in motion.

At ground level, lizards ran full speed into the brush, stirring leaves as they scurried up hillsides. Doves cooed. Trogons A Quicky II A Quicky II sat still in the boughs leaning over the trails, while Imperial woodpeckers pounded hollow holes into trunks. Vultures spread their wings and swooped at eye level and even higher up the frigate drifted as if in a league of its own, aerodynamic like a descendent of the late Jurassic pterodactyl.

Off land and into the sea was a sense of the colossal. One morning we drove in a caravan south to Punta de Mita where we launched into the surf of Bahia de Banderas in long narrow fiberglass boats powered by a 75hp Yamaha Enduro. Upon the waters we sped in search of humpbacks and within ten minutes a spout of air shot from the surface, breaking the tension and releasing a vertical tower of water into the blue. Humpbacks. Whales. Swimming in the vastness of the sea. Twenty feet away. How small I felt. How human. Yet how connected. We followed the pod, gasping, shouting, pointing and exclaiming to each other at the same time when these water-based mammals broke the surface, exhumed blowholes and displayed their massive flukes. It was stunning to be so close. To hear their spouting. I wanted to lean my ear against the A Seclusion Left Behind A Seclusion Left Behind slapping waves. I wanted to dive in and swim along side, perhaps transform into Plankton from SpongeBob SquarePants and get sucked inside their mouths. Well…maybe not. I'm no Pinocchio. I was better on the boat with our Enduro humming, making our own Reiki whale songs and yoga dances (Is there a whale-god in the Hindu pantheon?).

Under the bright sun, we toured the Marietas Islands National Park where blue-footed boobies defiled the rocks with a wretched smell. We snorkeled and searched for schools of king angelfish, giant Pacific manta rays, friendly dolphins and of course, o’ whale where art thou. However, besides the abundant parrotfish, we froze in the cold ocean and sought secluded caves, coves and arches for relief, taking our time as we drank beers back on our boats. Then we were off to the mainland for more cervesas, guacamole, ceviche and margaritas.

The days were numberless. Time didn’t matter. We lounged on the private beach. We walked to and from Sayulita. And we read. One afternoon Michael led a yoga beach session, like a free-style jam where the entire Playa Carrizitos was ours. We practiced pranayama—a dynamic form of yogic breath-work—and we performed our Sun Against the Barking Path Against the Barking Path Salutations to the falling sun. I took photographs, explored new composition points and played with the warm glow of the late afternoon shine.

On another evening Laura led a 108 AUM workshop. She began the session by describing the meaning of AUM, its significance and the religious/spiritual auspiciousness this root seed-sound lives, breathes and vibrates. And so, with our malas in hand thumbing the 108 beads through our fingers, we began the verbal journey. The AUMs were rocky at the start; off key, disturbing, high to low, and disgruntled like a coughing senior. But within minutes, as the group sat in a circle with eyes closed and tuned into the harmony of this sacred sound (In the beginning was the AUM), the sound vibration rose and met a beautiful chorus of rhythm and movement. It aligned with the birdsongs. It merged with the sunrays of the setting star. It became us. Us became it. And thru-and-thru the sound shook. The feeling I felt inside was elation. It was an ecstatic peace running between my blood cells, pumping my veins and highlighting my vision. There was pressure build-up in my sacrum, my pelvis, my belly, chest, shoulders, neck and head; and with each AUM the force was freed, sent out into the ether like the humpback’s spray, like the butterflies loose flight-path, like the cricket song pulsing through each nighttime dream.

By the end of the 108 AUMs, albeit a mere 20 minutes of “tuning in and dropping out” I was spacious and could feel the mirror reflection in every other participant. Chanting AUM one hundred and eight times was a natural pattern. It resembled a vibration of thought, a cyclical nature of a plant, insect, beast or earthly season. There was the beginning. There was the middle momentum. And there was the ending, with a following silence before the next beginning when everything was still; just as the pause in a choir of crickets, just as the calm after a storm, just as the slack of a tide ebbing and flowing round the world’s seas. AUM mirrors the universal nature of life. It is the beginning. It is the middle. It is the end. And it’s everything betwixt the action of birth, movement and death.

AUM-ing, feasting, lounging, yoga-ing, meditation-ing, nidra-ing, whale-watching, photographing, reading, sleeping, exploring, living, breathing, loving…blah, blah, blah, AUM! And the in-betweens were equally Booby Sightings Make Man Happy Booby Sightings Make Man Happy enthralling, magical in their depths of peace, serenity and tranquility each enmeshed within the surroundings of Haramara. Yogis and yoginis walked to Sayulita. We shopped. Some surfed. Horseback rode. Others checked Internet and connections in a place called home so far removed from my sphere of experience. We wandered through jungle paths, discrete cemeteries on the edge of villages and drank coconut helados from roadside stands where iguanas dodged traffic into trees dry from a rainless season. All in all, the yoga retreat was exactly that: BLISS. It was divine, removing, surrendering and re-centering.

Internationally-acclaimed Power Vinyasa yoga instructor Rodney Yee sums up his experience: Coming to Haramara is like coming home. My body returns to the earth, my mind mesmerized by the rhythms of the ocean and my spirit flies in this magical place. Yoga is a way of life and Haramara Retreat is where we can reeducate ourselves to live in balance.

AUM. Namaste. And Amen yogis and yoginis, brothers and sisters. Amen.

Wishing to join the next yoga retreat voyage? Need no fear, the next one is in-country: Whitewater Rafting on the Salmon River in Idaho. Check it out and sign up for this Born For The Sea Born For The Sea upcoming August '09 adventure at www.lauranidra.com

Laura DeFreitas' Bali Yoga Retreat in full- August '08

cam2yogi — Fri, 6 Feb 2009 05:06:00 GMT

Day 1: The Danu Tour

It is morning over the rice fields. Expected sounds of roosters crowing and crickets singing spread across this valley. Small birds chirp as they hover over the sawah’s (the field’s) green carpet. Geckos skitter along patio walls. The daylight of Galungan is cast over Ubud, and amidst the silence of the hour, an elderly man acts as a human scarecrow. He barks tonal commands and guttural expressions. He swings a bamboo pole tied with plastic. This is his duty, and as the days continue and our presence remains, it becomes habitual. The man is protecting his family’s income, shooing away the flocks of feathers from eating their unhulled grains.

Morning—it is standard. Rise for Balinese kopi (coffee) and teh (tea) before an 8AM yoga practice with Laura DeFreitas. During the movement and stretch, I recall the day’s significance. For every religious local August 20th, 2008 is the first day of Galungan—a day of cultivating goodness to overcome evil. From a Western perspective it is equivalent to Christmas morning, and as the gamelan (the traditional Balinese orchestra) begins to play upon the streets, sounds of drums and cymbals echo through the coconut palms whilst

Ancient Boundaries

my body heats to the number of sun salutations. I become aware of the tension in my hips and hamstrings. I recognize my feelings, my drive to let go and surrender. I listen to my breath, the pulse of my heart-rate. I try to slow it down—all of it—to the pace of life around me, this Balinese life.

Then I sweat. I sweat bucks as my voluptuous glands drip strings of pearls down my cheeks and off my nose. My earlobes get slippery. My cracks and crevasses slide. I am cleansing. I am burning my body’s toxins along with the ill-tempered thoughts found within the mind. I breathe in Galungan, and as the practice finishes with savasana followed by a seated meditation, I jump into Ubud Aura’s swimming pool with anticipated relief. The cold water washes over me. The feeling of floating releases Earth’s dense gravity. I’m free and take my seat beside the group of nine yogis for a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, muesli, yoghurt and fresh fruits.

10:30— Judy Slattum, the leader of Danu Enterprises, greets us with the day’s activities underneath a long traditional bale—an open-air shelter with a table suitable for our

Dawn Days

Western seats. For an hour we learn basic Balinese conduct, the appropriate hand gestures and body language, and the cultural norms of the relaxed tropical civilization. We have a rundown of typical Indonesian phrases and learn simple historical facts past and present: with an archipelago consisting of 1300 islands, Indonesia is the world’s 4th largest country while the Indonesian tongue becomes the 4th most widely spoken language.

Outside the pavilion, a gentle mist settles over the verdant rice fields. I watch it descend with grace—soft and calming, a blanket of moisture. In the distance the same elder is attempting to frighten away the birds in his sawah. He’s pulling on a tethered rope that stretches across the plot. The rope is draped with rows of more plastic, and as the ensemble dances above the rice with each yank he cries “Haaaa ya! Whoooooop!” He howls with assertion like a loyal dog protecting his master. He observes his rice field like a shepherd entering wolf country. And back underneath the bale, surrounded by the daily sounds of rural Bali, we fidget in the humid air, examining last night’s mosquito bites.

Eventually the clouds part in time for our

Plumeria Lovers

Ubud exploration. The village is the cultural center of Bali, but on this day the streets are practically deserted. Signs with the word TUTUP hang behind glass doors—the shops almost all closed. On Galungan, the Balinese congregate at their ancestral village temples, making offerings in the morning hours to a pantheon of Hindu deities and animist spirits. To the culture, it is imperative to catch the gods before they depart this physical world in the latter part of day, when it is known they fly for the heavens.

So we waddle like a gaggle of ducks across the rice fields, we march like a colony of penguins through Ubud. In tow behind Judy, we learn about the ceremonial decorations: the penjor, a long bamboo pole adorned with palm fronds, banana leaves and coconuts with the tip curved over like a stressed fishing rod; the lamak, a woven palm leaf scroll with images of Dewi Sri—the goddess of rice; and the various boats of offerings placed on the street outside shops and family compounds to appease the lowly spirits. Inside these square plates made of young fronds are an assortment of red, yellow and coral-toned flowers; rice, fruits or

Sar-oooooong

Ritz crackers; and sticks of Copal incense.

“Don’t mind stepping on them,” Judy points out. “Once the offering is made, the offering has been made.”

The dogs know this well as they scrounge for leftovers.

We end up at Wardani, a fabric and textile shop on Monkey Forest Road. Here we are instructed to purchase two sarongs (pronounced sar-oongs) and temple scarves (kain). They are necessary codes of dress for entering temples throughout Bali. With a gifted 30% discount, a long hour of mayhem erupts as fabrics of batik and ikat fly from their folds. In the end, we are happy with our designs and fashion, ready for purification.

Twilight arrives and we find ourselves out in a small Balinese desa (village). In the local temple, we wear our day’s purchases, appearing like a circus of laundry cleaners after the drying machine blew up. Locals take notice, but only smile in our direction, happy and content with life and the sacred procession about to take place. The Barong—a ceremony with protective spirits residing in two distinct masks are paraded around the perimeters of the village. Their purpose is to advise the lowly

Barongs and Locals

spirits to stay away. It’s a symbol for defense, a pronouncement of “Our lives are sacred and we’ve got our backs covered.” Each wooden puppet is immaculately painted and costumed, and as Judy informs us, these specific barongs are two of the island’s most sanctified. Only eighteen other Balinese villages possess these sacred masks, which stamps on the emphasis of our fortune to be present and bare witness.

Day 2: Purifying Bali-Style

With a belly still full of nasi campur (a medley of rice and vegetarian cuisine Bali-style), Laura and I emerge for 7AM kopi dan teh (coffee and tea). The eight others on the retreat slowly trickle from their rooms, sleepy-eyed and jet-lagged, still adjusting and adapting to Bali time. Yet instead of yoga clothing, we are once more elegantly adorned in our temple raiment. Soon, breakfast sinks deep into our guts and the 8AM departure is precise.

Tirta Empul is the first stop, and along with Surya (Judy’s Balinese husband), we become purified in the popular holy waters. As a natural spring, the waters rise from beneath the ground and collect into an exquisitely clear pool. Dark fish, neon plant life and colorful algae

Bali Processions

(as well as a 4’ eel) thrive in its nutrients, which together pour out of fountains for locals to bathe under. It is here where we gather with many others, wrapped in our second sarong and ready for purification.

After a blessing by the local priest, praying to our inner guidance, we submerge our bodies into the cool waters and attempt to file through the queues. There are approximately 15 stone spigots, each with symbolic significance. We take turns beneath the pours, feeling the smooth pebbles beneath our feet as we shuffle to the front. And we mumble our individual hymns, splash handfuls of water from the fountain over our face and head before completely sinking into the fountain. It is divine, the clear fresh liquid, the calm reverence of the springs. Founded in AD 962 men, women and children of all ages take part in this ritual coming from all over the island. They laugh. They giggle. They smile. They chant mantras and converse with our horde of white tourists. They welcome us to their holy springs.

Next—Pura Tirta Empul, the site’s holy temple. Once dry we sit in the temple grounds as the high

Prayer Under Surya

priest chants and gives blessings, dousing us with more holy rose water, flowers and bindhis of rice.

Yes, there is no doubt—we feel thoroughly blessed, splashed with waters, pelted with grains of rice and showered with flowers. So we snack on the offerings, drink our holy water and feel like we’re floating. And like monkeys now crowned with halos, we load up and head to the elephant’s mouth.

Goa Gajah (goa - cave; gajah - elephant) is more stone, more water fountains and no elephants. Instead, the cave is garnished with a carving of a demon and inside there lays one symbol of Hindu lore: the lingam. Actually there are three of them. Three stone-hard phallic erections representing the trinity of gods Brahma, Shiva and Vishnu with a representative yoni—the female Shakti energy. Within the dark cave, the air is moist and stale, exuding an 11th century origin. Shuffling around to the opposite corner, we find the elephant Ganesha. As son of Shiva, the elephant-headed Remover of Obstacles is depicted with the soles of his feet together. This is Bali-style, Surya explains. If we were in India his legs would be crossed and seated in meditation.

Emralds Within Thought

We step back out into the Indonesian sun, wander to the vans, and pass out before lunch. I retire poolside back at Ubud Aura and do a little more chlorinated purification. There’s 4PM yoga with the Luscious Lorikeet followed by a delicious one-hour massage at Jelatik Esthetic. Each yogi is scheduled for the first of two free massages.

Eventually, under the heavy clouds shading a waning moon, Laura and I melt back into bed as the lotus flowers begin to blossom. We are loaded with a sumptuous Balinese dinner and now turn to a pirated film, flying off to space with Pixar’s Wall-E.

Day 3: Bargaining Into Retreat

A hard bargain to beat—morning coffee, tea and breakfast in Bali. At the table there’s an assortment of weary eyes detached from their bones. This is us—Laura’s retreat group—most of whom are still jetlagged, hovering above hot drinks with susu dan gula (milk and sugar). With a little more flare and color, there arrives the papaya, watermelon, pineapple, honey melon, and lime squeezed over white plates like morning clouds above the rice paddies. With sustenance we wake, smile and laugh. Off to yoga led by Laura

Opening the Elephant Beast

DeFreitas at The Yoga Barn.

We work out the caffeine and sugar. We further stretch our bodies with Laura’s adjustments and loosen our minds into pending freedom. The roosters crow beyond the coconut palms. The birds flutter above the grasses. Crickets sound a choir in their reeds. No music, no sound. Just Bali. We’re in Bali and we’ve flown over the Pacific and China Sea for this—we want all of Bali. Nothing else seems to matter but this one practice at this one specific location. So we let go with the help of Laura’s guidance, deepening our breath into the tropic air.

A swim and breakfast replenishes, and a 10:30 workshop with Judy Slattum of Danu Enterprises enlightens: The Art of Bargaining. Jack the great American explorer—the wanderer of Bali living a dream of sun, waves and arbitrary adventures—initially informed Laura and me about bargaining: “Offer half price and then go from there,” he advised. “It’s their game. They love to bargain with a courageous foreigner.”

“Yes,” Judy confirms. “Bargaining is a way to get to know a shopper. They want to know who you are, where you’re from, where you’re staying, and more.

And Determination

They come to know you and are happy to sell their merchandise at the bargained price. It’s a social interaction,” she assures. “So shoot for harga pagi, or morning price.”

Laura and I had previous experience. Having been in Bali for two and a half weeks prior to the retreat, we shopped our way through Kuta, Legian and bits of Ubud. And now we were receiving the full cultural index. Judy continued, “When the shop owner returns home at the end of the day, according to their custom, it’s an honor to be able to share your details with their family. They want to talk about you as if they know you as a friend, and to them… they do. You’ve made that connection by being open and friendly and sharing whether or not you’re married.”

By noon we hit the streets of Ubud ready to give away our secrets to any shopkeeper. The weather is overcast: hot, muggy, humid. It’s November weather, the locals say. The weather changes every year; these days it’s as unpredictable as your neighbor. By the time we reach our first shop along Jalan Hanoman, the first thick drops of rain

Friends & Gossip

splatter the cracked sidewalks, which resemble a war-ravaged pathway. Chunks of concrete, cement and tile rise like a mountain range causing us to focus on our feet to avoid landing face down in the offerings. Hati hati, or danger signs, are posted over massive holes where tributaries of run-off rush below. The sidewalks are waiting graves of broken ankles and cracked shins, not because of a lack of care or funding, but in fact, it’s done with purpose. When the heavy rains bring torrential streams the streets become blocked. Offerings, trash, Bali dogs, plastic bags and bottles clog the flow like busy beavers. Therefore, they tear up the walkways, scoop the trash into the passageways below, and habis (finished). The holes are left for the future passerby.

We make it to Gemala Jewelry without any missing persons. Inside we’re introduced to the tedious skill of the silversmith (in which the roadwork obviously lacks). We have an insider’s look at the melting, molding, meddling, and making of fine silver. The fire torch blows. The solid silver liquefies. Compressors roar and flatten. The mallet hammers and the tweezers tune with perfection. I’m amazed at the minute details and the steadiness

Firing Gemala

of the hands required for creation. And together, we huddle over a fluorescent tube light, staring as the artisan tweeds and twiddles the silver pieces into jewelry. Then, with new appreciation, we descend the stairs into an air-conditioned hall like honeybees to stacks of display cases.

Sizing, purchases, gifts and individual embellishments—back outside the rain passes, but the thick humidity resides. We truck further down the streets and discover more artistic luxuries inside the Agung Rai Museum of Art (where a current exposition of Walter Spies hangs), as well as a local weaving shop. But the day has just begun. We put our bargaining skills to the test.

Judy Slattum’s skill is Balinese culture. It’s why we’re here—all ten of us. But her supreme specialty is the Balinese mask. Inside the vans, we pull into a palatial compound in the Ubud region. Like all other family compounds, it’s a simple walled property with a main bale, the family shrines, a raucous dog whom I befriend, and various rooms for sleeping. But what’s unique is the art adorning its red brick walls. Here we stand inside the home of the island’s most renowned maker of sacred masks.

Statues of Chinta

The details are astonishing. The complexities too vast to grasp in the course the hour we spend listening to Judy’s rundown, sitting as I hang on to my camera’s lens searching for composition. But in short, the mask (topeng) of Balinese culture is in another realm of this physical world. They’re theatrical, used in processions, ceremonies and dances. They depict the good and the bad, spirits and witches, deities and characters of the great Hindu epics: The Ramayana and The Mahabharata. My minds is full and expansive.

As we careen homeward on our own epic adventure, tired with our bodies, sluggish in our full brains, the group makes one final stop at a painter’s home. Then rest and relaxation. Night comes and our group schedule reads: Legong. The Legong is a traditional dance with a bewitching tune struck by the gamelan. Therefore, in the back alleys of Ubud we find ourselves observing those detailed masks (both demonic and serene), admiring the elaborate costumes in motion, watching frangipani petals fall from women’s hair, and refreshing our souls with a few large Bintangs.

Day 4: Offering Routine

I’m hungry with last night’s beer on my breath.

A Far Off Shore

It’s 7AM. The order proceeds:

Breakfast is a duo of Balinese delicacies—pancakes made of rice flour (lak-lak) and rice balls with a stuffing of palm sugar syrup rolled in coconut shreds. Both are died with green pandan leaves, which create a presentation of an eerie Halloween treat unsuitable for the sugar-crazed child and hypersensitive mother.

Of course, I indulge in these little secrets. I’m talking about the sugary green coco rounds oozing with brown syrup! I gorge myself as others fork their balls and shoot their juice at one other as if shouldering culinary Super Soakers. I quaff my sugary coffee and think little of my spiking blood sugar. Keep chowin’.

Thankfully, Judy shows up for our workshop—the last of our language lesson. This slows down my appetite, yet I’m giddy in my seat, feeling the full effects of caffeine and sucrose enveloping my attention span. The others notice. They gawk at my impassable sweet tooth. And oddly, they choose without hesitation to continue supplying me my juice.

Time passes. Judy departs. We

Behind the Desa

have downtime to swim, refresh, scrape the sugar from my gums and shower. By 1:30 we gather back under the bale for a workshop about offerings. Together we learn to make the square baskets seen outside every home and shop, along every street and shrine. Woven with palm fronds, the canang is filled with raw rice and an assortment of flowers—plumeria, frangipani and hydrangea.

Next, with parting clouds and giggly words, we leap for the lounge chairs. The day passes without further schedule—only swimming, lounging, reading and independent exploration. 7PM: Laura and I steal away for a luxurious dinner at Lamak.

Day 5: The Scree & Sunrise of Gunung Agung

It’s pitch black. My knees ache. My legs are loose, wobbling with each unstable step. This is not helping in the least bit. The scree beneath my feet, the chalky volcanic rock, crumbles with the slightest pressure. I grip my flashlight in my mouth, clenching the jaws to take a large step over an ice-less crevasse. I then reach out for the boulder opposite, quickly feeling for its handholds. Up ahead, as a streak of light breaks the horizon, there’s a tussle. Irregular noises catch my

Cataclysmic

attention as a chorus of stones ring down the mountainside. A voice sounds alarm. Someone has gone down. I quickly pull the light from my teeth and look into darkness.

It isn’t long after dinner when Laura & I are in bed that I find myself rising again. It’s midnight. I rollover, throw off the sheets, and step onto the balcony. Above, the sky is clear for the first time in days. Stars dance. Their gaseous movements twitch and sparkle like a giant punch bowl of chilled champagne.

I wince. More than half of me wants rain—lots of rain. I want a storm to blow in so I have the excuse to retreat back into the bed next to that warm naked body. I don’t want to get dressed. I don’t want to shoulder my pack and prepare for the ardor ahead. No. This isn’t very enticing.

I look back into the room at the white silhouette beneath the sheets. Laura is sound asleep. Damn, I think. I wish I were joining her upon our drifting cloud.

But the night sky is clear. Gorgeous, in fact. So I dress, slip on my boardshorts,

Rainbows

pull the synthetic layers over my head and cinch a pair of Keens to my feet. Perfect attire for a volcanic ascent.

Gunung Agung—Bali’s highest peak at 3142m (10,308ft) is a sacred volcanic abode suitable for only the gods whom last spit their fire upon the lesser humanity in 1963. To be exact, it was March 17th when the smoke and ash turned to searing lava, killing more than 1000 Balinese. The volcano is revered among locals. It has a spirit of its own, they say, and carries an energy deep and profound. Even cows can feel it, apparently sacrificing themselves into the 700m cauldron above. Respect.

With a 12AM wakeup call, five of us from Laura DeFreitas’ yoga retreat leave the cool confines of our rooms and meet a fellow Yankee by the name of Karen. Karen is a true Yank. She comes from New York and has a quick wit to fire and a sharp mouth to follow. At her first sight of the mountain after a two-hour drive to the trailhead of Pura Pasar Agung, Karen shouts, “Shit, that’s one mofo!”

Gunung Agung is a mofo, and I keep this thought

Lost Horizons

to myself. Local legend tells of tigers and jaguars descending from the jungled slopes, claiming the lives of victims who showed ignorance to the mount’s powers. Hmm… Balinese tigers. I swallow hard as we begin the ascent, climbing steep temple steps before entering a slick dirt trail as dark as an ebony flame.

It’s a slow pace for us yogis. Despite the early morn, our joints feel loose, our muscles warm, bones stable and flexing. An erratic line of flashlights casts a menagerie of drunken spotlights on the foliage surrounding. Large green leaves, stringy vines, and stiff trunks leading to a tall canopy envelop us as we climb, one foot in front of the other. Before too long, the canopy disappears and the ground flora turns arid like a hillside in Mojave Desert. We move above the treeline and witness the vast spectrum of land and sky.

Our guide informs us of a little tall tale. On a sacred day, the priests and guides of the mountain wrapped imaginary yellow tape around the whole mound in respect to the gods and spirits. Gunung Agung was closed off, shut down to the tourist trap it induces (one

Appease Me Mere Mortals

that I was inevitably caught in). It was to be a day of offerings and religious duties at the temple, giving thanks and praise among other things. Climbers were turned back, asked to stay away. The mountain would be back another day.

But of course, mankind is indifferent to others’ needs. An Italian came along. He wanted to climb. I mean, shit, I can relate. He didn’t wake up at midnight and drive so many hours for nothing! But the local priests wouldn’t have it. No one was going to take him up at any cost. There was too much danger on the slopes. They all advised the man to turn back.

The Italian however did not listen. He heard only his own head clamoring away inside his rigid body. So he climbed, a solo ascent of Gunung. The morning passed. The sun rose, winds howled and the clouds hovered in the skies. Soon it was noon, next came evening, and before the climber returned it was dark again. Days passed. The wife worried. A search team lost patience. And eventually with days gone by, the helicopter was called off. However, there were remnants. One day,

Frontal II

a party found his jacket and one of his possessions—a flashlight or a shoe with laces undone. The locals shrugged, for they each knew the inevitable outcome of a man who disrespects the mountain.

Damn, I was happy we were out of the trees. On the open slope with dry brush and rocky ground, footing is more predictable, tigers less conceivable. So we climb upward, stopping to catch our breath, drink to rehydrate and gaze at the southern island below.

It is a beautiful sight. Standing above treeline on par with the clouds’ highways. In the early darkness of predawn, the wind moans against the terrain. It sings a low choir of remorse. I hear loneliness, a loss of a loved one. I feel its desires to sweep away mortals, taking victims off ground and into its constant stream of movement to be kept for personal company. This sound is hollow, desolate but calm like a siren trapped on a cliff. Above the melody, stars gaze upon our heads and a half moon rises over Gunung’s summit like the Northern Star.

We climb, stop, climb, stop. There are four of us feeling antsy. We

Rock Faces

want to move faster. We need a quicker pace in order to keep energized, in order to reach the summit before sunrise. So, the self-nominated four tag onto another passing guide who leads a French couple. We wish our two fellow climbers and guide a safe ascent and begin the scramble. Eventually we are a mere 300 meters from the top.

This is when it gets hairy. The terrain is steep. The rock loose and unstable. Pathways undefined, indeterminable. In a way, it’s a guessing game, and consumed by the dark it’s often a stampede on all fours. I’m in the rear, shining a light ahead to help illuminate the trail. Suddenly the rocks break free and voices rise.

I rush around a large boulder and come to a small canyon of stone. A member of our group lays on the ground. Her back rests against her pack; her pack rests against the slope. It’s Abbey, and with help, she slowly raises herself back on her feet. A flush of dizziness sweeps through her body. She reaches out for stabilization.

“I’m alright,” she affirms. “My handhold came loose.”

We look at where

Viewpointing

she points, following the line with our flashlights, and then trace them back down to the ground, measuring the five-foot freefall.

Abbey’s shin is bashed and blood leaks from her ankles and foot. It’s apparent her Chacos aren’t sufficient for mountain climbing.

“Take your time,” I remind her. “We’re in no rush. We’ll make it.” And smaller steps, I tell everyone. When climbing a hill, a knoll, a mountain, or a Stairmaster, the smaller the steps the better. Keeping the body’s center of gravity over the two feet is key to energy conservation and balance. There’s no need to count up the number of splits on the US Open tennis courts.

We continue, inhaling and exhaling, dropping flashlights, retrieving them, replacing batteries , and all the while navigating an impassable terrain in pitch-blackness. I think this is absurd at times. In the States or Europe, this degree of climbing would require harnesses, ropes and a level of training. We would be wearing hard hats and headlamps with requirements in regards to boot type. But this is Bali—Indonesia to be more specific—and the safety measures are each to their own. Before long, our guide drops us

Closer Than The Sun

on the very pinnacle of all of Bali.

It’s 6AM and we’re the first to summit. At 6:30 as our bones shiver, our muscles spasm and our teeth chatter, the sun makes its grandiose entry like a virtuoso walking on stage. It’s 10 degrees Celsius, feels more like -78. Our adopted guide shares his kopi dan pisang goreng (coffee and fried banana). We snap photographs. We gape at the beauty of such great heights. And then we descend like wildfire.

Four hours up, two hours down. Each of our knees are blowing out as we reach lower altitudes. Our thighs quake. Our calves pinch us with monkey wrenches. We slip down the loose gradient and chase the clouds until eventually entering its blanket where only the sunrays pierce through.

Back at the car we meet our other comrades. They’re safe and happy, content with their efforts. Karen whips out a homemade loaf of date and nut bread smothered with a cream cheese lemon curd. Holy shit, my taste buds explode greater then the ’63 eruption! However there are no deaths, only victories.

No, we did not conquer the great Gunung Agung. We gallantly

Perempuan

convinced our minds we could do it, therein granting us a rite of passage by the spirits of the summit. So, with taste buds lavishing and stomachs churning, we commence our return and fall to sleeping. It’s 9:30 on a Sunday morning.

Day 5: An Afternoon Continuation

I return from the volcano high with accomplishment, bloated with pride. And I return from the volcano defeated, physically pummeled with exhaustion as my knees and toes struggle to support my body above. We rose at midnight in the earliest of morning hours, drove two hours and proceeded to climb four hours through jungle, brush and scree until summiting at sunrise. Then all downhill. The knees faltering. The shoulders bouncing. Toes crunching at the forefront of my Keens.

Back in Ubud after the drive down the mountain, five yogis unload from our friend’s Acura SUV and stumble into Ubud Aura. I go up to my room searching for the Lioness, find the den empty, cold like a windowless cave as humanity’s pumping air-conditioner roars, and quickly exit donning boardshorts and towel.

At the pool I sleep, drifting in and out betwixt my pages of reading. Time passes as

Young Coconuts

others come and go; to the pool, into rooms and beds, in search of Balinese treasures and the nourishment of their victuals.

Time is of insignificance in Bali. Only yoga times and food times; and schedules of culture, dance, art and exploration—but these are the luxuries. Sometime passed noon, Laura emerges and the varied forms of hunger come with her. In search of food, we leave with Zoe and Francis to a warung setup as a sort of medicinal meeting grounds for progressive herbalists and neophyte spiritualists. Call it Wayan’s Warung (warung being the common term for food stall). Made famous by Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love, Dra Ni Wayan is the healer the author befriended for her wise words of health, love and life.

Navigating the torn sidewalks and dogging the quiet traffic of Ubud, we stroll to Jalan Jembawan and sit at a sturdy hardwood table upon chairs of equal comfort.

“Feed us,” our mere presence exclaims. Drinks of fresh grated turmeric and limejuice sweetened with honey cleanses our blood and strengthens our bodies. Twenty minutes later the full spread. We’re served seaweed with spicy coconut (vitamin E for healthy skin/hair), water spinach

Young Blood

with ginseng (iron for strengthened power), sautéed bean sprouts (protein for the vegetarian), grilled coconut (rheumatism prevention), an array of tofu & tempeh (calcium + protein), papaya (aiding digestion), a tomato chutney (vitamin K… strong eyes…), and a red rice (for strong heart). Each dish is provided with a tag describing its health benefits while Wayan circles the table like a disciplining schoolmaster making sure we could read and appreciate our spiritual nutrition. It’s exceedingly refreshing, exotic and intensely simple. And it packs deliciousness.

Shortly, with a satiated belly and the necessary ingredients for full-body rejuvenation, exhaustion creeps back and my mood sinks. I am Grouch, a fury tempered mongrel with downcast eyes that hang to my eye-sockets like a stretched Slinky. I need sleep. So, disappearing into my own realms of recovering low blood sugar and lack of sleep, I find the room and allow the rest of the afternoon to slip away, along with Laura DeFreitas’ restorative yoga class from 6:30 - 8pm.

Day 6: Monday August 25th, 2008

We dine for breakfast, skip the morning yoga practice and meet Judy Slattum at 9AM for more Balinese lessons. By 9:30 we’re out on the

Your Side of Rice

streets, loading into our two vans and departing for the State Temple of Mengwi.

The drive north is from out of a movie. Protected in our metal domes of vehicular transport, the outer Bali passes untouched. Traffic is to a minimum despite the narrow lanes, which are perceptively quant for one-way streets. And yet both ways flow steadily, even as we come upon large gaping holes where workers toil and perspire. They dig at the earth in tandem, using a method I’ve only witnessed in worlds without Western modernity. One worker mans the shovel, the wooden rod in hands; the legs, back, shoulders and arms heaving the blade into the soil. As the palate fills with earth, the second man assists with strength, tugging on a rope attached to the metal shaft where the shovel’s blade and its wooden rod meet. They heave and pull together, working like children on a teeter-totter.

The vans roll on, through large swaths of open land. Greenery. The vibrancy of chartreuse and neon. These are the sawah-sawah, or rice fields, lush and dense with the thickest sheen of verdancy. Each plot looks like a laying of shag carpet with small

Out of the Wake

lice crawling around its hairs, picking, scything, harvesting the paddies. More workers bend over at the waist. The pictures remind me of rural scenes along the Vietnamese railways: palm trees and fruit trees, banyan and bamboo forests looming in the distance as strands of line hang over the rice with plastic bags tied in array. A rainproof scarecrow.

In through the farmland, and as if around the block, we enter back into civilization. The State Temple of Mengwi. Architecture from a deepened Hindu faith. Layered with stone and rusty red brick. Cats roaming the grounds. Dogs guarding its gates. We wander among other tourists, following Judy’s lead, absorbing her words like chicken feed. Like a stroll through a park, we gaze at lotuses and lily pads, counting the meru (or multi-layered thatched-roofs) ascending each shrine. Then we drive north between the mountains.

Large open valleys terraced with a burning ember of green and more palms, wooden housing and bamboo walls. Low clouds cling to the sides of slopes. The outline of a hilltop temple; mysterious, out of reach, reclusive. And then, pulling through small hillside towns we climb into the white ether, passing trucks loaded with jackfruit, durian,

Subtle Spots

melons and corn. Soon we arrive at Pura Ulun Danu Bratan with sweaters stretched over our heads. As a Buddhist/Hindu temple, Ulun Danu is a shrine to Danu, the goddess of water. Therefore, locals pilgrimage to the site for important ceremonies to ensure a sufficient rainfall for the island’s agriculture.

Exploring, observing, taking in the temple that perches on different islands off the lakeshore. There’s a couple that stand out—a woman and a man—garbed in white dress and sleek suit. It’s their marriage setting with pictures taken, smiles bright, and a future unbeknown. It’s strange to see this Western style so far from home with the elegance and demeanor absorbing attention. I think to myself: It should be the two lovers solely transfixed on their union. It takes me in my head and back out as I pause my shutter and listen to my jumbling thoughts. I turn to Iris by the pathway. Watching its beauty, the lackadaisical petals, the bright yellows and the speckled jaguar spots of fiery orange—it’s simple, modest. An expression of love without the fine details. It just is, and in the flower’s simplicity, it celebrates to those who stop and breathe.

From up

Desk No. 1

off my haunches, I wander with the others back to the vans, load like shepherded sheep and drive into the neighboring town of Bedugal. There we leap into a full-frenzied market. Locals with woven baskets balancing on their skulls and tourists totting plastic sacks and backpacks slung with cameras mesh into the produce market. And spices like a color palate. Tables are lined with square bags. Maroons of saffron. Cocoa browns of coffee beans. Oranges of curries. Greens of peppers. Rich tans of cacao powder. It’s local, fresh. The long strands of vanilla. The hardened lumps of cardamom and Muscat. We make our deals, think of home, the ridiculous prices, and Homeland Security at customs. And then there are fruits, heaps and heaps stacked like pyramidal representations of an ancient time. Mangosteens, strawberries, bananas, watermelons and grapes, mangos and jackfruits. Sacks loaded, photos snapped, locals and tourists laughing with the exchange of money. And then homeward.

4:30-6:30PM yoga. Sweating, rejuvenating. Downloading the months away and the journey’s nearing end. Some yogis choose to visit the guru of Ubud Aura. Laura and I disappear into the sawah, creep through the rain and into the dim streetlights in search of pirated

Stacked Wit Da Juice

films and large bottles of Bintang.

Day 7: Morning Unto One’s Own

7:30 yoga. The usual routine with cowboy coffees, sugars and creams, breakfast and dispersal. Few take a cooking class at Bumbu. I vanish and exchange a book, indulge my tired feet in an hour’s reflexology, lounge poolside and fall into the consuming world of the Internet—a connection to home.

4:30PM rolls lazily towards my consciousness and before I comprehend the transition of nothingness to activity, Laura DeFreitas’ yoga retreat finds itself at the Heron Preserve in Petulu. We sit. We scour the sky for birds at the canopy’s height where spindly boughs of foliage hang from dense trunks. Heady palms freeze in the stale air. Monotone clouds drift with faint recognition. Then a bird. Two. Three. White herons, what appear to be similar to the snow egret, swoop from the far shores and settle on the branches. They come and go each day for unknown reasons. Like clockwork they arrive at 5PM. And like clockwork they depart.

We watch and then we walk, strolling through the rural fields of central Bali back to Ubud. It’s a good 3-5 miles, long and winding

Flight of Dewi Sri

stretches where fields of football enliven crowds of varying age, and men herd their ducks into the rice to devour scouring insects and drop their feces; pest control and fertilizer in one. Women bathe nude in the streams beneath bridges. Dogs snarl and yap. Scarecrows saunter in the still atmosphere. And old men pass on rusty bicycles. Bali today as it was years ago.

The gaggle of yogis halt at Terazo—a chic, out-of-place establishment serving a fine fare of International cuisine. Laura, myself and others feast, taking to three courses that starts with a fresh tossing of greens before an entrée of pepes ikan (white fish cooked in banana leaves & Balinese spices) sided with a chocolate martini. Dessert tops a sated tongue. The belly fusses. I squeeze and make room like a jackrabbit digging deeper into the rabbit hole. Tonight it’s a ganache served with a regrettable selection of Jacob’s white and cherry brandy. Night falls into an oblivion of dreamscape & poetry:

Boundaries & parapets—
The borders of a guardian prince.
In the majestic night,
Tantalized by a streaming of crickets & whirls of bats,
Forces unseen creep into my nostrils.
I sense a

The Sawah Storms

smell—
The oily burn of dirt & diesel,
A flame that falters within the machine of common order.
The invisible brings this all down.
The untouchable leeches with an absorbed imagination.
And these shadows,
Set the fields swaying,
Informing the frogs to jibe—
The snakes to slither below.
Coconut fronds stand still to this darkened tune,
While surrounding villages set lights to midnight—
Temples empty of offerings,
And their wild packs of daylight.
I’m all-alone in this world,
Above the scene,
Below the gusts,
Yet mysteriously filled with the breath of Balinese magic.

Day 8: Balinese Habits

Routine sleep hounded by the silence of cricket song, frog croaks, and the deep dark of night. Then arise; a new day in Bali, a new face, a new dream, a new way of life to recreate, destroy and create again. A call upon a dawn-swim in order to wipe the sleep off my body. Next—breakfast with kopi dan gula (coffee & sugar). Then further departures.

We leave for Batubulan at 9AM for another dance, another Barong (or mythical lion-dog creature assembled with a virtuoso’s touch). The costumes at the dance shimmer in the morning light, clear and crisp.

Blushing Barong

And the artists follow the gamelan’s tempo; moving, slowing, speeding and twitching the hands, the head, neck & shoulders. With the underground beat, each footstep is precise, representative of a higher purpose. Toes perk up like alert dog-ears, and then there are the fingers. Each dancer twists, turns and contorts the palms and their worm-like phalanges as if they’re silly putty in the hands of a young Beethoven who lost his way within the medium of sculpture. Stunning, etheric, their motions otherworldly, with a complex storyline of love, betrayal and the common battle of Deities vs. Man.

Afterwards we proceed into the capital of Bali. Our caravans arrive in Denpasar at the Anthropological Museum. Hawkers check our sides as we check our pockets and bags. The heat of the exchanges thicken while the humidity of the city feels denser, more exhausting then the spurting traffic which heaves fumes of carbon monoxide in your vents. Inside, the air is just as stale and the hawkers continue to lurk. They make me feel guilty when I deny their items. They make me feel as though I have enough to purchase their works whether I like them or not. I try

Durga's Pet

not to take pity on them. I fight my conscience to not ignore them, push them away farther from their dreams. So we strike a conversation.

What affects me the most is the last word the Balinese chooses: world. It’s as though America is the center of the universe. It’s as if the president of the US of A decides the fate of humanity… and I pause, reflect… and continue to realize he is half correct. And this is what causes my stress.

Yes. It’s true. The President of the United States of America has a major hand in the state of the world. The President (and/or the puppeteers) make the choices for themselves, which in turn effect others

Across The Stage

on the opposite side of the globe; the government makes decisions on its own best interests despite the effects it might have on minute countries and their failing economies.

“Obama,” I say with conviction. “Obama,” we chant in unison.

This strikes a deeper memory, one found at the start of the presidential campaign. Obama stands before a crowd gathered to listen for change, hope and a brighter future and speaks (as I paraphrase): The United States will elect the future president that they deserve.

The thought is poignant, raw, unreserved and disarmed from the war-games of politics.

Then as we all look at each other, American/Balinese—Balinese/American, I see the importance of Obama’s statement. I wake to the importance of this Balinese’s word-choice: world. They are one-and-the-same when striped of race, ethnicity, gender and age. Humanity is humanity. Period.

Lunch. Yum! Fantastic homemade Balinese lunch. We’re served at Surya’s house, partner to our tour leader—the American-born Judy Slattum. Inside the 400 year-old family compound, we explore the grounds, laugh with the family and feast upon the incredible delicacies of Bali’s cultural cuisine.

Time ticks, our energies within the tropical heat dwindle, and we spin off;

Crossed

one van to pick-up mask purchases and paintings, while I load down into the other bound for home. Swim, nap, nap, and swim before a 4PM yoga session next door at The Yoga Barn with Laura DeFreitas. The end of the day creeps over us. Lotuses in their ponds begin transforming, bats begin circulating, and us yogis soon rise with renewed energy. It’s the night of the Arak Attack!

Slowly, not too fast, sip it. Sip the arak—the Greek’s ouzo in Bali. Tasting like firewater, the liquor is made from fermented palm fruits. Goes down smooth. Comes out spittin’.

So we cruise into the night, feeling the need for celebration as fellow yogini and Gunung Agung mountaineer, Abby Bange, is to leave us the next day. Therefore, why not drown ourselves in illusion and let go of all defensives the way society knows best.

Shortly, as Monkey Forest Road wakes with languid nightlife, Napi Orti appears with the ambiance calling for reggae. We climb the stairs, settle in the highest alcove, and call for drinks.

A Lost History

And then they come, and come, and come again. The smart ones in the crowd choose to eat pizza. I on the other hand stick with the all-you-can-eat peanut dish and pay the price.

Time passes. People come and go. Things begin to blur. I’m seriously done for. After donning a local’s motto helmet, taking snap shots, laughing, taking more shots, and peeing countless times, I throw in the towel… habis.

Soon I find myself trekking solo back to my room. Emotions come up after all the joy and unhidden glee found in my drunkenness, before I know it I’m cursing under my breath. A bamboo rod makes it into my hands and I begin swinging. I swat at the pavement. I slash at signs. And I flatten blades of rice, quickly discovering myself inconsolably crying to the sheer terror of a passing local. Yes, I am on my own; alone with repressed emotions freed by intoxication in a world far far away from familiarity, comfort and understanding. With nothing else to do, I spit them out—these emotions; the anger,

Cocks of Man

the shame, the confusion and disappointment, the failures and losses. I tell my story to Mr. Toilet Bowl, too. He hears me as I hold him and heave my chest, spewing out the toxins, then before settling back into more wailing at the balcony’s banister. I’m pulling at it, putting my force into the metal, trying to rip it out of me. Sleep creeps into my body. It zaps me like a lightning bolt and tucks me deep into a fathomless rest.

Day 9: The Hangover & The Balian’s Cure

Dawn arises with pain and discomfort. Classic hangover amidst tropic humidity: weighty, dank and stale with arak and puke on the breath. At the breakfast I choose not to attend, stories are told. A group of yogis walked into Monkey Forest at 2AM and chanted the Gyatri Mantra for one hour. Others swam nude in the pool, lounged in a room, and sobered each other with their talk. I keep my secrets to myself and leave the unspoken for the balian.

A balian is a traditional Balinese healer. Typically a man, he is revered for his insights, intuition, and the use of his hands on the

Colors & Liquids

body’s meridians points for diagnosis. Everyone arrives excited, cheery, interested in the healer’s methods and what our predicted ailments might be. I can only hope for the best, dreaming of an immunity elixir to every present and future hangover.

Under an open-air shelter we sit on cool tiles before an elderly man, not decrepit or feeble, but short, thin and oddly powerful in presence. He goes by Jaya, or so I recall, and he’s sitting on his little chair in his modest healing room tending to other guests; Balinese, French and Americans turning up in streams. We wait, admiring him, speaking in hushed tones about what to expect. Surya, our guide for the day, gives us the background check.

Jaya was born on the isle of Java and worked as an automotive repairman until something shifted. He felt different, drawn another direction. He began communicating more clearly and seeing people in a different light: All of humanity suddenly obtained a compass, a blueprint of where they’ve been that forms their present circumstance. By healing the blockages found within this blueprint of the past, one can alter their present situation to better equip themselves for the journey

Testing Eva II

ahead. Each of us has this imprint from the past in our consciousness. Each of us carries the map of the future in our hands. We just need the keys to access their energies. Jaya found that key in some greasy shop in Jakarta, taken not from a rickety motorbike with a blown gasket, but from his own purposeful will.

Jaya is a balian: calm, serene, peaceful & shining a fierce smile that aligns with his gentle humor. He is much like how I picture an Indian guru: present and confident, humble and willing.

We each take our turns and sit on the floor between his legs. With large brown hands, weathered as a horse’s hooves, he touches our heads; he grasps our neck, rubs over our shoulders and digs into our collarbones. Scouring into the upper body, Jaya uses pressure points to feel where energy is blocked. He seems to read the pulses and our responses at his pointed touch, somatically revealing what part of our physical, mental, emotional and spiritual lives are either whole, missing, damaged or incomplete. Each of us take turns under his hands before he lays us out on a matt

Brown Stone, White Light

to prod our toes. With use of a small eroded wooden stick, he uses acupressure to press the toe-tips and the crevasses in between. With Surya translating, Jaya explains that each toe and each point betwixt these root phalanges there rests a meridian corresponding to our internal organs. And with the right pressure he can determine whether the organ is in stress or ailing based on the response of the patient. After his upper and lower body assessments he then moves across the whole body applying the necessary adjustments, whether with further acupressure, massage or sorcery. Some of us receive tinctures, oils and an alchemy of mixed herbs complete with detailed instruction.

He reaches my turn. Rising from the cool floor, I move over to where Jaya sits on his chair and lower again to rest my back against his legs. His hands feel massive, as if they’re the sun and moon combined bearing down upon me. I relax, feel him glide over me like a hurried card dealer, and then he presses. He digs into meridians in the scalp, behind the ears and underneath my shoulders. I breathe, wince and wait; relaxing my twisted stomach, attempting to

In The Swah III

assist the clearing of toxins loaded inside my liver. Jaya reaches the crown of my head and uses his thumb with force, then speaks. Surya translates:

Quickly he rubs me down, covering all areas. He pats my shoulders, then lifts his hands from my body. Finished. I’m in the clear with only a faint doubt in my mind about an unforeseen past. I breathe in the humid air of the Balinese culture and feel the queasiness of my hangover return.

Later that afternoon after lunch break, we depart and ride back to Ubud: Afternoon yoga, a full-body massage, followed by a free evening to our liking. Laura and I stay in with room service of nasi campur dan jaruk nipis (rice with an assortment of cooked spicy vegetables and orange juice) in front of a selection of pirated films.

Day 10: True Vacations in a Land of

Out of Mud
Pamper & Pleasure

August 29th, 2008—the final day in Ubud. After two thick pots of kopi (Balinese cowboy coffee), the group of yogis and yoginis follow Laura DeFreitas to the neighboring Yoga Barn for 8AM practice. We ease our calming muscles into deeper elongation, stretch our tendons and relax our joints through various twists and salutations. After ten days of yoga practiced often twice a day in the tropical paradise of Bali, we’re significantly more limber. We have the routine, the flow of LauraNidra’s practice. And we love it. In more ways then one, we open our eyes, breathe in the life of the yogi and become aware of our innate gift. This is ananda: the bliss of pure consciousness.

Laura and I decide to linger further into this ananda with a day of ridiculous pampering. Next door to Ubud Aura we check in at Zen Spa. And for the next 4 ½ hours we discover the meaning of bodily pleasure (in at least one form). First a massage, body scrub and a milk bath garlanded with fragrant rose petals. Then a facial with a brutal extraction of blackheads (not part of the pleasure), a manicure, a

Burning & Yearning For The Beloved

pedicure, refreshments of apple juice and sweets, followed by a finale with an avocado hair treatment and a seated massage to arrive full circle.

That’s $35 please. We are at the front desk leaning against the counter to support our bodily jellification.

Come again?

$35 each.

$35 each? That’s it? Wow… I open my wallet, hand over some plastic, sign and cruise out. Pampered. Pleasured. Bali.

4PM yoga. Easiest, most fluid yoga session ever. Then a 7:30 group dinner at NoMad. Thank you Ubud and goodbye.

Day 11: The Sawah to The Sea

Waking on the final morning, we yoga at 7AM, pack, breakfast and depart all by 9:30. To the eastern seaboard. Our destination for the last two nights of Laura DeFreitas’ Bali Yoga Retreat led by Danu Tours is Candidasa, a lazy fisherman’s village found three decades earlier. But we arrive to discover a metropolis of small hotels, seafood chain-restaurants and a gray solemn beach. Sand? No. Forget about sand. To construct these buildings, which would cater to Bali’s burgeoning tourism industry of the 1970’s, locals needed lime to mix into cement. They used what they could—the offshore coral—crushing it

Double Ikat

to extinction. As a result the ebb and flow of the ocean’s currents entered the shallows and swept away the miniscule grains we love to squish beneath our toes and hate to find in our sandwiches.

And we drive passed. Turning off the highway and heading west back into the highlands. No, we aren’t leaving quite yet. Our first stop of the day is Tenganan, the walled village of the wealthy Bali Aga peoples. These people are the original descendents of the Balinese, extending their inhabitance upon the isle back before the Majapahit (late thirteenth century). And here, one of the few places throughout humanity, the Bali Aga weave the complex double ikat where both warp threads (those stretched on the loom) and weft threads (those woven across and into the loom) design detailed geometric cloth of varying color. The colors come from local plant pigments and are traditionally dyed and arranged in like tone.

We take to the common tourist wonderment and weave ourselves through the lines of stone housing with Judy Slattum in lead, listening to the history, the descriptions and the unique culture of Tenganan. All around us there exists the silence of

Multiples of Infinity

a georgic land. No cars. No motorbikes. Only large beefy water buffalos lounging under trees, chickens and roosters caged under a chess match of reed baskets and sun… hot sun.

In route, our group of ten carries cameras, tote bags and limber bodies. And we’re tan. We look clean, yet weathered. From the outside, it appears we are on a worldly route—young Aussies off for a 12-month venture round the planet. We’re slow, not too talkative, absorbing the humid environment and the thick history of Tenganan. Judy explains the demographics of the Aga:

Conservative and resistant to modern change, the people inside the wall are rich. Due to their double ikat specialization, as well as their virtuosity of the lontar (palm leaf books), the Agas have a history. It is believed they acquired their present land not by regular means of payment, or pillaging, or simple ways of inheritance. Instead, they preferred wit. Back in some unrecorded era, a King lost his horse. The people of Tenganan found it, however, it was not to their Majesty’s liking. It was the carcass. But the King was kindhearted and offered them a reward. The villagers gathered under the

Ramayana Scriptural

bale banjar (common meeting shelter) and put their heads together suggesting to receive the land where the horse was found, including wherever the rotting flesh could be smelled. The King agreed and dispatched a man with incontestable nasal talents. He began sniffing the land, walking with the village chief, trying not to hurl. The scent was everywhere, far and wide from where the carcass originally lay. So the King’s man with the impeccable nose returned, his shoulders up to his ears. He was confused because the rancid scent was everywhere he walked. The King couldn’t repel his promise and so granted the villagers of Tenganan a vast landscape. Meanwhile, the chief of the village returned to his banjar and pulled from his pants a chunk of rotting horse meat. I imagine they had a good chuckle.

I like the Bali Aga. I like them a lot, especially one man with a character akin to a giant fluffy bear. Picture the live mammal, one full of joy, excitement, creativity and unconditional love—a Hollywood bear. Now, strip him of his fury coat and about 300 pounds and you would have this man, whose name escapes me. However, he has reputation.

Floatation

In all the land… no! In all the world, this bear-like hominid is a master of the lontar, which is the construction of the booklet of palm leaves requiring a degree in fine art. Made of the rontal palm, the leaves are first dried, then soaked in water, cleaned, steamed, dried again, flattened and finally dyed and cut into thin strips. Next, the artist gets detailed, inscribing a story with words and/or pictures with a fine point or sharpened blade. Afterwards, the whole strip is rubbed with a black resin that’s then wiped clean. The resin sticks in the artist’s grooves, bringing the words and pictures to life. After completing the story, the book is then stacked, strung together and held at each end by a carved bamboo cover. Not only is this nameless man a virtuoso of the lontar, inscribing the entire Ramayana in both scripture and picture, but he is also a musician and a puppet-maker with the greatest smile and the bushiest white eyebrows.

Staring with googlely eyes, laughing, absorbing the talented history of Tenganan, we depart through the wall. Lunch at The Watergarden back in Candidasa until unloading at The Lotus Bungalows. The sea breeze

Gateways of Gold

and an infinity pool; they go hand-in-hand. Trust me.

By 4:15 we’re gone again, loading back into the vans like shepherded monkeys off to a trance dance called The Battle of the Gods, which is celebrated nowhere else. It went like this:

➢ Long procession to a river temple
➢ Invitation of the Gods into the palanquins
➢ Palanquins carried back up hill in even longer procession
➢ Full-on trance frolicking
➢ Kris (or knife) dancers running amok!
➢ One hour of trance with sweaty moshpit of young Balinese holding palanquins

Then… pizza dinner with our appetites fully awake!

Day 12: Goodbye Durga

End of the line. 8AM final yoga by the sea with breakfast and breezes, swimming and a Bali Dog photo shoot with varying vanity poses. 12:30PM quickly arrives and we all depart our separate ways, some staying extra days, others directly to the airport or to the armpit of Kuta Beach. This is a yoga retreat and a cultural exploration upon the island of Bali, Indonesia.

And reflections? All-and-all, after spending an entire month on Bali I was not ready for departure. In total Laura and I received 15 massages

In the Hands of the Kris

each. That’s one massage every other day! We also ate the best fresh fruits, drank the freshest fruit drinks, bathed under outdoor showers, practiced yoga every day, and learned a mouthful of Balinese language. However, there were activities we missed and I’d do in a heartbeat upon returning in… March 2010??

➢ Scuba dive
➢ More surfing and then some
➢ Travel to Lombok
➢ Rent a scooter in Candidasa and ride northward along the coast
➢ Visit the north and northwestern parts of the island
➢ Learn more Balinese
➢ Spend less time in Kuta
➢ Get a massage every day
➢ Find a home and live there for the rest of my life

So, that’s Bali via yoga with Laura DeFreitas and Danu Tours. And, if there are any interests in the next adventure, tune into March 2010 by following these websites. Come and join us for yoga and culture on the island of Bali!

Seattle-based yoga professional Laura DeFreitas: www.lauranidra.com
Judy Slattum of Danu Tours: www.danutours.com

Suspect to Youth

Gallery: Bali Yoga Retreat

cam2yogi — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 05:13:00 GMT

Yoga Retreat lead by Seattle's Laura DeFreitas

Balinese Hangovers & The Balian’s Cure

cam2yogi — Sun, 31 Aug 2008 09:44:00 GMT

Day 9: Balinese Hangovers & The Balian’s Cure

Dawn arose with pain and discomfort. Classic hangover amidst tropic humidity: weighty, dank and stale with arak and puke on the breath. At the breakfast I chose not to attend, stories were told. A group of yogis walked into Monkey Forest at 2AM and chanted the Gyatri Mantra for one hour. Others swam nude in the pool, lounged in a room, and then sobered each other with their words. I kept my secrets to myself and left the unspoken for the balian.

A balian is a traditional Balinese healer. Typically a man, he is revered for his insights, intuition, and the use of his hands on the meridians points of the body for diagnosis. Everyone arrived excited, cheery, interested in the healer’s methods and what our predicted ailments might be. I hoped for the best, dreaming of an immunity elixir to every present and future hangover.

Under an open-air shelter we sat on cool tiles before an elderly man, not decrepit or feeble, but short, thin and oddly powerful in presence. He went by Jaya, or so I recall, and he was sitting on his little chair in

The Poise of Woman

his modest healing room tending to other guests; Balinese, French and Americans turning up in streams. We waited, admiring him, speaking in hushed tones about what to expect. Surya, our guide for the day, gave us a background of this balian.

Jaya was born on the isle of Java and worked as an automotive repairman until something shifted. He felt different, drawn another direction. He began communicating more clearly and seeing people in a different light: All of humanity suddenly obtained a compass, a blueprint of where they’ve been that forms their present circumstance, and by healing the errors of the past, one can alter their present situation to better equip themselves for the journey ahead. Each of us has this imprint from the past in our consciousness. Each of us carries the map of the future in our hands. We just need the keys to access their energies. Jaya found that key in some greasy shop in Jakarta, taken not from a rickety motorbike with a blown gasket, but from his own purposeful will.

Jaya is a balian: calm, serene, peaceful & shines a fierce smile that aligns with his gentle humor. He is much

Lost Horizons

like how I pictured an Indian guru: present and confident, humble and willing.

We each took our turns and sat on the floor between his legs. With large brown hands, weathered as a horse’s hooves, he touched our heads; he grasped our neck, rubbed over our shoulders and dug into our collarbones. Scouring into the upper body, Jaya used pressure points to feel where energy was blocked. He seemed to read the pulses and our responses to his pointed touch, somatically revealing what part of our physical, mental, emotional and spiritual lives are either whole, missing, damaged or incomplete. Each of us took turns under his hands before he laid us out on a matt where he prodded our toes. With use of a tool, a small eroded wooden stick, he used acupressure to press the toe-tips and the crevasses in between. With Surya translating, Jaya explained that each toe and each point betwixt these root phalanges there rests a meridian corresponding to our internal organs. And with the right pressure he can determine whether the organ is in stress or ailing based on the response of the patient. After his upper and lower body assessments he moved

Jaya Balian

across the whole body applying the necessary adjustments, whether with further acupressure, massage or sorcery. Some of us received tinctures, oils and an alchemy of mixed herbs complete with specific instruction.

He reached my turn. Rising from the cool floor, I moved over to where Jaya sat on his chair and lowered again to rest my back against his legs. His hands felt massive, as if they were the sun and moon combined bearing down upon me. I relaxed, felt him glide over me like a hurried card dealer, and then he pressed. He dug into meridians in the scalp, behind the ears and underneath my shoulders. I breathed, winced and waited, relaxing my twisted stomach and tried to clear the toxins loaded inside my liver. Jaya reached the crown of my head and used his thumb with force, then spoke. Surya translated:

Quickly he rubbed

Bali Dogs Down

me down, covering all areas. He patted my shoulders, then lifted his hands from my body. Finished. I was in the clear with only a faint doubt in my mind about an unforeseen past. I breathed in the humid air of the Balinese culture and felt the queasiness of my hangover return.

Later that afternoon with a lunch break in between, we departed and rode back to Ubud: Afternoon yoga, a full-body massage, followed by a free evening to our liking. Laura and I stayed in with room service of nasi campur dan jaruk nipis (rice with an assortment of cooked spicy vegetables and orange juice) in front of a couple pirated films.

Day 10: True Vacations in a Land of Pamper & Pleasure

August 29th, 2008—the final day in Ubud. After two thick pots of kopi (Balinese cowboy coffee), the group of yogis and yoginis followed Laura DeFreitas to the neighboring Yoga Barn for 8AM practice. We eased our calming muscles into deeper elongation, stretched our tendons and relaxed our joints through various twists and salutations. After ten days of yoga practiced often twice a day in the tropical paradise of Bali, we were significantly

Black Lion, White Mane

more limber. We had the routine, the flow of LauraNidra’s practice. And we loved it. In more ways then one, we opened our eyes, breathed in the life of the yogi and became aware of our innate gift. This was ananda: the bliss of pure consciousness.

Laura and I decided to lingered further into this ananda with a day of ridiculous pampering. Next door to Ubud Aura we checked in at Zen Spa. And for the next 4 ½ hours we discovered the meaning of bodily pleasure (in at least one form). First a massage, body scrub and a milk bath garlanded with fragrant rose petals. Then a facial with a brutal extraction of black heads (not part of the pleasure), a manicure, a pedicure, refreshments of apple juice and sweets, followed by a finale with an avocado hair treatment and a seated massage to come full circle.

That’s $35 please. We were at the front desk leaning against the counter to support our bodily jellification.

Come again?

$35 each.

$35 each? That’s it? Wow… I opened up my wallet, handed over some plastic, signed and cruised out. Pampered. Pleasured. Bali.

4PM

Currents of Movement

yoga. Easiest most fluid yoga session ever. Then a 7:30PM group dinner at NoMad. Thank you Ubud and goodbye.

Day 11: The Sawah to The Sea

Waking on the final morning, we yoga-ed at 7AM, packed, breakfasted and departed all by 9:30AM. To the eastern seaboard. Our destination for the last two nights of Laura DeFreitas’ Bali Yoga Retreat led by Danu Tours was Candidasa, a lazy fisherman’s village found three decades earlier. But we arrived to discover a metropolis of small hotels, seafood chain-restaurants and a gray solemn beach. Sand? No. Forget about sand. To construct these buildings, which would cater to Bali’s burgeoning tourism industry of the 1970’s, locals needed lime to mix into cement. They used what they could—the offshore coral—crushing it to extinction. As a result the ebb and flow of the ocean’s currents entered the shallows and swept away the miniscule grains we love to squish beneath our toes and hate to find in our sandwiches.

And we drove passed. Turned off the highway and headed west back into the highlands. No, we weren’t leaving quite yet. Our first stop of the day was Tenganan, the walled village of the wealthy

Double Ikat

Bali Aga peoples. These people are the original descendents of the Balinese, extending their inhabitance upon the isle back before the Majapahit (late thirteenth century). And here, one of the few places throughout humanity, the Bali Aga weave the complex double ikat where both warp threads (those stretched on the loom) and weft threads (those woven across and into the loom) design detailed geometric cloth of varying color. The colors come from local plant pigments and are traditionally dyed and arranged in like tone.

We wandered and wove through the lines of stone housing with Judy Slattum in lead, listening to the history, the descriptions and the unique culture of Tenganan. All around us was the silence of a georgic land. No cars. No motorbikes. Only large beefy water buffalos lounging under trees, chickens and roosters caged under a chess match of reed baskets and sun… hot sun.

In route, our group of ten carried cameras, tote bags and limber bodies. We were tan. We looked clean, yet weathered. From the outside, it would appear we were on a worldly route—young Aussies off for a 12-month venture round the planet. We were slow, not too talkative,

Floatation

absorbing the humid environment and the thick history of Tenganan. Judy explained the demographics of the Aga:

Conservative and resistant to modern change, the people inside the wall are rich. Due to their double ikat specialization, as well as their virtuosity in the lontar (palm leave books), the Agas have a history. It is believed they acquired their present land not by regular means of payment, or pillaging, or simple ways of inheritance. Instead, they preferred wit. Back in some unrecorded era, a King lost his horse. The people of Tenganan found it, however it was not to their Majesty’s liking. It was the carcass. But the King was kindhearted and offered them reward. The villagers gathered under the bale banjar (common meeting shelter) and put their heads together suggesting to receive the land where the horse was found, including wherever the rotting flesh could be smelled. The King dispatched a man with incontestable nasal talents. He began sniffing the land, walking with the village chief, trying not to hurl. The scent was everywhere, far and wide from where the carcass originally lay. So the King’s man with the impeccable nose returned with his shoulders up to his

Folding Ikat

ears. He was confused. The rancid scent was everywhere he walked. The King couldn’t repel his promise and so granted the villagers of Tenganan a vast landscape. Meanwhile, the chief returned to his banjar and pulled from out of his pants a chunk of rotting horse meat. I imagine they had a good chuckle.

I liked the Bali Aga. I liked them a lot, especially one man with a character akin to a giant fluffy bear. Picture the live mammal, one full of joy, excitement, creativity and unconditional love. Now, strip him of his fury coat and about 300 pounds and you would have (?). This was a master of the lontar, which is a booklet of palm leaves that requires a degree in art. Made of the rontal palm, the leaves are first dried, then soaked in water, cleaned, steamed, dried again, flattened and finally dyed and cut into thin strips. Next, the artist gets detailed, inscribing a story with words and/or pictures with a fine point or sharp blade. Afterwards, the whole strip is rubbed with a black resin then wiped clean. The resin sticks in the artist’s grooves, bringing the words and pictures to greater

Friends & Gossip

life. After completing the story, the book is then stacked, strung together and held at each end by a carved bamboo cover. Not only was this man a virtuoso of the lontar, inscribing the entire Ramayana in both scripture and picture, but also he was a musician and a puppet maker with the greatest smile and the bushiest white eyebrows.

Staring with googlely eyes, laughing, absorbing the talented history of Tenganan, we depart through the wall. Lunch at The Watergarden back in Candidasa until unloading at The Lotus Bungalows. The sea breeze and an infinity pool; they go hand-in-hand. Trust me.

By 4:15PM we were gone, loaded back into the vans like shepherded monkeys off to a trance dance called The Battle of the Gods, which is celebrated nowhere else. It went like this:

➢ Long procession to a river temple
➢ Invitation of the Gods into the palanquins
➢ Palanquins carried back up hill in even longer procession
➢ Full-on trance frolicking
➢ Kris (or knife) dancers running amok!
➢ One hour of trance with sweaty moshpit of young Balinese holding palanquins

Then… a pizza dinner with our appetites fully awake!

Day 12:

Hardwood
Goodbye Durga

End of the line. 8AM final yoga by the sea with breakfast and breezes, swimming and a Bali Dog photo shoot with varying vanity poses. 12:30PM quickly arrived and we all departed our separate ways, some staying extra days, others directly to the airport or to the armpit of Kuta Beach. This was a yoga retreat and a cultural exploration upon the island of Bali, Indonesia.

And reflections? All-and-all, after spending an entire month on Bali I was not ready for departure. In total Laura and I received 15 massages each. That’s one massage every other day! We also ate the best fresh fruits, drank the freshest fruit drinks, bathed under outdoor showers, practiced yoga every day, and learned a mouthful of Balinese language. However, there were activities we missed and I’d do in a heartbeat upon returning in… March 2010??

➢ Scuba dive
➢ More surfing and then some
➢ Travel to Lombok
➢ Rent a scooter in Candidasa and ride northward along the coast
➢ Visit the north and northwest parts of the island
➢ Learn more Balinese
➢ Spend less time in Kuta
➢ Get a massage every day
➢ Find a

Her Vibrancy

home and live there for the rest of my life

So, that’s Bali via yoga with Laura DeFreitas and Danu Tours. And, if there are any interests in the next adventure, tune into March 2010 by following these websites. Come and join!

Seattle-based yoga professional Laura DeFreitas: www.lauranidra.com
Judy Slattum of Danu Tours: www.danutours.com

Continuing Thru Bali

cam2yogi — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 04:21:00 GMT

Burning & Yearning For The Beloved

...Continued having left you in Bali, Indo after a long delay. Welcome back to A Balinese Yoga Festival!

Day 5: An Afternoon Continuation

Now, some 45 days later, something is rekindled. I think back to Bali, at Gunung Agung where I left my Self, where I left my readers. The retreat feels like ages ago, a distant dream savored and succored for its warmth, peace and fragility. And it was—ages passed with the interim of change, adaptation, new faces and new places.

But today, October 20th, 2008, there is a revival of story. Back in a seemingly familiar culture, with familiar faces, familiar places, and the familiar routines—the unknown apparently lost to the untrained eye. Day-by-day I strive for that unfamiliarity received while traveling. It is a space completely unbeknown to agendas, responsibilities based on others’ expectations, and business affairs ranging from monetary needs to social rendezvous. Therefore, in place of its absence, a deep yearning arises: to return to that magical isle with its gentle people emitting an air of hospitality akin to the maître de accompanying two lovers: It’s their moment. So, I invite you back to this terraced land—layered with greens, nudged in the

Cataclysmic

Indonesia archipelago—to a time in history where the advent of yogis & yoginis take on a culture imbued with ease.

I remember returning from the volcano high with accomplishment, bloated with pride. And I remember returning from the volcano defeated, physically pummeled with exhaustion as my knees and toes struggled to support. We had risen at midnight in the earliest of morning hours, drove two hours and proceeded to climb four hours through jungle, brush and scree until summiting at sunrise. Then downhill. The knees faltering. The shoulders bouncing. Toes crunching at the forefront of my Keens.

In Ubud after the drive back, five yogis unloaded from our friend’s Acura SUV and stumbled into Ubud Aura. I went up to my room searching for the Lioness, found the den empty, cold like a windowless cave as the air-conditioner droned, and quickly exited donning boardshorts and towel.

At the pool I slept, drifted in and out betwixt pages of reading. Time passed as others came and went; to the pool, into rooms and beds, in search of Balinese treasures and the nourishment of their victuals.

Time was of insignificance in Bali. Only yoga times and

Blushing Barong

food times; and schedules of culture, dance, art and exploration—but these were the luxuries. Sometime passed noon, Laura emerged and the varied forms of hunger came with her. In search of food, we left with Zoe and Francis to a warung setup as a sort of medicinal meeting ground for progressive herbalists and neophyte spiritualists. Call it Wayan’s Warung (warung being the common term for food stall). Made famous by Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love, Dra Ni Wayan is the healer the author befriended for her wise words of health, love and life.

Navigating the torn sidewalks and dogging the quiet traffic of Ubud, we strolled to Jalan Jembawan and sat at a sturdy hardwood table upon chairs of equal comfort.

“Feed us,” our mere presence exclaimed. Drinks of fresh grated turmeric and lime juice sweetened with honey cleansed our blood and strengthened our bodies. Twenty minutes later the full spread. We were served seaweed with spicy coconut (vitamin E for healthy skin/hair), water spinach with ginseng (iron for strengthened power), sautéed bean sprouts (protein for the vegetarian), grilled coconut (rheumatism prevention), an array of tofu & tempeh (calcium + protein), papaya (aiding digestion), a tomato

Infusion

chutney (vitamin K… strong eyes…), and a red rice (for strong heart). Each dish was provided with a tag describing its health benefits while Wayan circled the table like a schoolmaster making sure we could read and appreciate our spiritual nutrition. It was refreshing, exotic and intensely simple, packing flavor.

Shortly, with a satiated belly and the necessary ingredients for full-body rejuvenation, exhaustion crept back and my mood sunk. I was Grouch, a fury temper with downcast eyes that hung to my eye-sockets like a stretched Slinky. I needed sleep. So, disappearing into my own realms of recovering low blood-sugar and lack of sleep, I found the room and allowed the rest of the afternoon to slip away, along with Laura DeFreitas restorative yoga class from 6:30 - 8pm.

Day 6: Monday August 25th, 2008

We dined for breakfast, skipped the morning yoga practice and met Judy Slattum at 9AM for a final Balinese language lesson. By 9:30 we were out in the streets, loading into our two vans and departing for the State Temple of Mengwi.

The drive north was from out of a movie. Protected in our metal domes of vehicular transport,

Double Dare

the outer Bali passed untouched. Traffic was to a minimum despite the narrow lanes, quaint for one-way streets. And yet both ways flowed steadily as we came upon large gaping holes where workers toiled and perspired. They dug at the earth in tandem, using a method I’ve only witnessed in worlds without Western modernity. One worker manned the shovel, the wooden rod in hands; the legs, back, shoulders and arms heaving the blade into the soil. As the palate filled with earth, the second man assisted with strength, tugging on a rope attached to the metal shaft where the shovel’s blade and its wooden rod met. They heaved and pulled together, working like children on a teeter-totter.

The vans rolled on through large swaths of open land. Greenery. The vibrancy of chartreuse and neon. These were the sawah-sawah, or rice fields, lush and dense with the thickest verdancy. Each plot looked like a laying of shag carpet with small lice crawling around in its hairs, picking, scything, harvesting the paddies. More workers bent over at the waist. The pictures reminded me of rural scenes along the Vietnamese railways: palm trees and fruit trees, banyan and bamboo forests looming

Buried Deep Beneath a Field

in the distance as strands of line hung over the rice. Plastic bags tied in a medley. Rainproof scarecrows.

Through the farmland, and as if around the block, we entered back into civilization. The State Temple of Mengwi. Architecture from a deepened Hindu faith. Layered with stone and rusty red brick. Cats roaming the grounds. Dogs guarding gates. We wandered among other tourists, following Judy’s lead, absorbing her words like chicken feed. Like a stroll through a park, we gazed at lotuses and lily pads, counting the meru (or multi-layered thatched-roofs) ascending each shrine. Then we drove north between the mountains.

Scenes were stunning. Large open valleys terraced with a burning ember of green. More palms, wooden housings and bamboo walls. Low clouds clung to the sides of slopes. The outline of a hilltop temple; mysterious, out of reach, reclusive. And then, pulling through small hillside towns we climbed into the white ether, passing trucks loaded with jackfruit, durian, melons and corn. Soon we arrived at Pura Ulun Danu Bratan with sweaters stretched over our heads. As a Buddhist/Hindu temple, Ulun Danu is a shrine to Danu, the goddess of water. Therefore, locals pilgrimage to the site for

Aging Verdancy

important ceremonies to ensure a sufficient rainfall for the island’s agriculture.

Exploring, observing, taking in the temple that perches on different islands off the lakeshore. There was a couple—a woman and a man—garbed in white dress and sleek suit. It was their marriage setting, pictures taken, smiles bright, yet a future uncertain. It was strange to see this Western style so far from home. The elegance and demeanor absorbing the attention instead of two lovers transfixed solely on their union. It took me out of my head, paused my shutter and the jumbling words in my head. I turned to an iris by the pathway. Watching its beauty, the lackadaisical petals, the bright yellows and the speckled jaguar spots a fiery orange—it was simple, modest. An expression of love without the fine details. It just was, and in its simplicity, it celebrated to those who could stop and breathe.

Up off my haunches, I wandered with the others back to the vans, loaded like shepherded sheep and drove into the neighboring town of Bedugal. There we lept into a full-frenzied market. Locals with woven baskets balancing on their skulls and tourists totting plastic sacks and backpacks slung with

And Determination

cameras wandered the produce market. And the spices like a color palate. Tables were lined with square bags of vibrant hues. Maroons of saffron. Cocoa browns of coffee beans. Oranges of curries. Greens of peppers. Rich tans of cacao powder. It was local, fresh. The long strands of vanilla. The hardened lumps of cardamom and Muscat. We made our deals, thought of home, the ridiculous prices, and Homeland Security at customs. And there were fruits, heaps and heaps stacked like pyramidal representations from an ancient time.
Mangosteens, strawberries, bananas, watermelons and grapes, mangos and jackfruits. Sacks loaded, photos snapped, locals and tourists laughing with the exchange of money. And then homeward.

4:30-6:30pm yoga. Sweating, rejuvenating. Downloading the months away and the journey’s nearing end. Some yogis chose to visit the guru of Ubud Aura. Laura and I disappeared into the sawah, crept through the rain and into the dim streetlights in search of pirated films and large bottles of Bintang.

Day 7: Morning Unto One’s Own

7:30AM yoga. The usual routine with cowboy coffees, sugars and creams, breakfast and dispersal. Few took a cooking class at Bumbu. I vanished and exchanged a book, indulged my tired feet

Before The Sun

with an hour’s reflexology, lounged poolside and fell into the consuming world of the Internet—a connection to home.

4:30PM rolls lazily towards my consciousness and before I comprehended the transition of nothingness to activity, Laura DeFreitas' yoga retreat found itself at the Heron Preserve in Petulu. We sat. We scoured for birds at the canopy’s height where spindly boughs of foliage hung from dense trunks. Heady palms froze in the stale air. Monotone clouds drifted with faint recognition. Then a bird. Two. Three. White herons, what appeared to be similar to the snow egret, swooped from the far shores and settled on branches. They come and go each day for unknown reasons. Like clockwork they depart. And like clockwork they arrive between 4-5PM.

We watched and then we walked, wandering through the rural fields of central Bali back to Ubud. It was a good 3-5 miles, long and winding stretches where fields of football enlivened crowds and men herded their ducks into the rice to devour the scouring insects, ritualistically dropping their turds - pest control and fertilizer in one. Women bathed nude in the streams beneath bridges. Dogs snarled and yapped. Scarecrows sauntered in the

Brown Stone, White Light

still atmosphere. And old men passed on rusty bicycles. Bali as it was years ago. Bali as it is today.

The gaggle of yogis halted at Terazo—a chic, out of place establishment serving a fine fare of International cuisine. Laura, myself and others indulged, taking to three course meals starting with a fresh tossing of greens before an entrée of pepes ikan (white fish cooked in banana leaves with Balinese spices) sided with a chocolate martini. Dessert topped a sated tongue. The belly fussed. I squeezed and made room, like a jackrabbit digging deeper into its hole. Dessert was a ganache served with a regrettable selection of Jacob’s white and cherry brandy… yoga retreat?? Night fell into the oblivion of dreamscape & poetry:

Boundaries & parapets—
Borders of a guardian prince.
In the majestic night,
Tantalized by streaming crickets & whirling bats,
Forces unseen creep into my nostrils.
I sense a smell—
An oily burn of dirt & diesel,
Flames that falter within the machine of common order.
The invisible brings this all down.
The untouchable leeches with absorbed imagination.
And these shadows,
Set these fields swaying,
Informing the frogs to jibe—
And snakes to

Cocks of Man
slither.
Coconut fronds stand still in this darkened tune,
While surrounding villages set their lights to midnight—
Temples empty of offerings,
And their wild packs of daylight.
I’m all alone in this world,
Above the scene,
Below the gusts,
Mysteriously filled with the breath of Balinese magic.

Day 8: Balinese Habits

Routine sleep hounded by the silence of cricket song, frog croaks, and the deep dark of night. Then risen; a new day in Bali, a new face, a new dream, a new way of life to recreate, destroy and create again. I called upon a dawn swim to wipe the sleep off my body. Next—breakfast with kopi dan gula (coffee & sugar). Then further departures. We left for Batubulan at 9AM for another dance, another Barong (or mythical lion-dog creature assembled with a virtuoso’s touch). The costumes at the dance shimmered in morning light, clear and crisp, and the artists followed the gamelan’s tempo; moving, slowing, speeding and twitching hands, heads, necks & shoulders. With the underground beat, each footstep was precise, representative of higher purpose. Toes perked like two dog-ears, and then there were the fingers. Each dancer twisted, turned and contorted the palms and their

Desk No. 1

worm-like phalanges as if silly putty. Stunning, etheric, their motions otherworldly with a complex storyline of love, betrayal and the common battle of Deities vs. Man.

Afterwards we proceeded into the capital of Bali. Our caravans arrived in Denpasar at the Anthropological Museum. Hawkers checked our sides as we checked our pockets and bags. The heat of the exchanges thick while the humidity of the city dense, denser then spurting traffic which heaved fumes of exhaust at our sucking lungs. Inside, the air was just as stale as the hawkers continued to lurk. They made me feel guilty when I denied their items. They made me feel as though I had enough to purchase their works whether I liked to or not. I tried not to take pity on them. I fought my conscience to not ignore them, push them away farther from their own dreams. So we struck a conversation.

“All from USA?” they queried.

“Yes, and we come to Bali for yoga.”

“Yoga! Oh, very strong, very good. And you go back to America?”

“Soon,” I replied. “But too soon.”

“Then what of your future president?”

Exoticism

One man probed our thoughts.

I shrugged, tired of the thought, the rallying and the garble fit for politics.

The man looked at those who were listening. “Obama is president. Obama is good choice for the world.”

What affects me the most is the last word this Balinese man chose: world. It’s as though America is the center of the universe. It’s as if the president of the US of A decides the fate of humanity… and I pause, reflect… and continue to realize he is half correct. And this is what causes my stress.

Yes. It is true. The President of the United States of America has a major hand in the state of the world. The President (and/or the puppeteers) make the choices for themselves, which in turn effect others on the opposite side of the globe; the government makes decisions on its own best interests despite the effects it might have on minute countries with their falling economies.

“Obama,” I said with conviction. “Obama,” we said.

It strikes a deeper memory, one founded at the start of the presidential campaign. Obama stood before the crowd gathered to listen for

Hardwood

change, hope and a brighter future. He spoke (I paraphrase): The United States will elect the future president that they deserve.

The thought is poignant, raw, unreserved and disarmed from the war-games of politics.

Then as we all looked at each other, American/Balinese—Balinese/American, I saw the importance of Obama’s statement. I awoke to the importance of this Balinese’s word choice: world. They were one and the same when striped of race, ethnicity, gender and age. Humanity is humanity. Period.

Lunch. Fantastic homemade Balinese lunch. We were served at Surya’s house, partner to our tour leader, the American-born Judy Slattum. Inside his 400 year-old family compound, we wandered the grounds, laughed with the family and feasted upon the incredible delicacies of cultural cuisine.

Time ticked, our energies within the tropical heat dwindled, and we spun off; one van to pick-up mask purchases and paintings, while I loaded into the other bound for home. Swim, nap, nap, swim before 4PM yoga at the Yoga Barn with Laura DeFreitas. The end of the day crept over us. Lotuses in their ponds began closing, the bats began circulating, and us yogis soon awoke with renewed energy. It was the night

Harsh Underworlds

of the Arak Attack!

Slowly, not too fast, sip it. Sip the arak—the Greek’s ouzo in Bali. Tasting like firewater, the liquor is made from fermented palm fruits. Goes down smooth. Comes out spittin’.

So we cruised into the night, feeling the need for celebration as fellow yogini and Gunung Agung mountaineer, Abby Bange, was to leave the following day. Therefore, why not drown ourselves in illusion and let go all defenses the way society knows best.

Shortly, as Monkey Forest Road woke with languid nightlife, Napi Orti appeared with the ambiance calling for reggae. We climbed the stairs, settled in the highest alcove, and called for drinks.

“What you want?” the bartender cried.

“What you have?”

“Arak Attack!”

“Iraq what!?” We looked at each other with suspicion.

“Our drink—arak. It will attack you.”

Our heads bobbed simultaneously. “A round, please.”

And then they came, and came, and came again. The smart ones in the crowd chose to eat pizza. I on the other hand stuck with the all-you-can-eat peanut dish and paid the price.

Time passed. People came

In the Heat of the Night

and went. Things began to blur. I was done for. After donning a local’s motto helmet, taking snap shots, laughing, taking more shots, and peeing countless times, I threw in the towel… alone.

I found myself wandering solo back to the room. Emotions came up after all the joy and unhidden glee of drunkenness, and soon, before I knew it, I was cursing under my breath. A bamboo rod made it into my hands and I began swinging. I swatted at the pavement. I slashed at signs. And I flattened blades of rice, discovering myself inconsolably crying to the sheer terror of a passing local. Yes, I was on my own, alone with repressed emotions freed by intoxication a world away from familiarity, comfort and understanding. So I spat them out—those emotions; the anger, the shame, the confusion and disappointment, the failures and losses. I told my story to Mr. Toilet Bowl, too. He heard me as I held him and heaved my chest, spewing out the toxins before settling back into more wailing at the balcony’s banister, pulling at it, putting my force into the metal, trying to ripe it out of me. Sleep crept to my

LauraNidra

body. It zapped me like a lightning bolt and tucked me deep into fathomless rest.

To be continued...

Layers of Rice

Mengwi

Out of the Wake

Pondering the Death of the King

The Scree & Sunrise of Gunung Agung

cam2yogi — Mon, 25 Aug 2008 02:58:00 GMT

Day 5: Gunung Agung

It’s pitch black. My knees ache. My legs are loose, wobbling with each unstable step. This is not helping in the least bit. The scree beneath my feet, the chalky volcanic rock, crumbles with the slightest pressure. I grip a flashlight in my mouth with clenched jaws and take a large step over an ice-less crevasse, then reach out for the boulder opposite, quickly feeling for handholds. Up ahead, as a streak of light breaks the horizon, there is a tussle. Irregular noises catch my attention as a chorus of stone ring down the mountainside. A voice sounds alarm. Someone has gone down. I quickly pull the light from my teeth and look into the darkness.

It isn’t long after dinner when Laura & I are in bed that I find myself rising again. It is midnight. I rollover, throw off the sheets, and step onto the balcony. Above, the sky is clear for the first time in days. Stars dance. Their gaseous movements twitch and sparkle like a giant punch bowl of chilled champagne.

I wince. More than half of me wants rain—lots of rain. I want a storm to blow in so

Closer Than The Sun

I have the excuse to retreat back into the bed next to that hot naked body. I don’t want to get dressed, or shoulder my pack and prepare for the ardor ahead. No. This is not very enticing.

I look back into the room at the white silhouette beneath the sheets. Laura is sound asleep. Damn, I wish I was joining her upon our drifting cloud.

But the night sky is clear. Gorgeous, in fact. So I dress, slipping on my boardshorts, pulling synthetic layers over my head and cinching a pair of Keens to my feet. Perfect attire for a volcanic ascent.

Gunung Agung—Bali’s highest peak at 3142m (10,308ft), a sacred volcanic abode for the gods that last spit its fire upon the lesser humanity back in 1963. To be exact, it was March 17th when the smoke and ash turned to searing lava, killing more than 1000 Balinese. The volcano is revered among the locals. It has a spirit of its own, they say, and carries an energy deep and profound. Even cows can feel it, apparently sacrificing themselves into the 700m cauldron at will. Respect…

With a 12AM wakeup call, five of us

The Darkside of the Cauldron

from Laura DeFreitas’ yoga retreat leave the cool confines of our rooms and meet a fellow Yankee by the name of Karen out on the streets of Ubud. Karen is a true Yank. She comes from New York and has a quick wit to fire and sharp mouth to follow. At her first sight of the mountain at the end of our two-hour drive to the trailhead beginning at Pura Pasar Agung, she exclaims, “Shit, that’s one mofo!”

Respect. Gunung Agung is a mofo, and I keep this thought to myself. Local legend tells of tigers and jaguars descending from the jungled slopes, claiming the lives of victims who showed ignorance to the mount’s powers. Hmm… Balinese tigers. I swallow hard as we begin the ascent, climbing steep temple steps before entering a slick dirt trail as dark as an ebony flame.

It is a slow pace for us yogis. Despite the early morn, our joints feel loose, our muscles warm, bones stable and flexible. An erratic line of flashlights cast a menagerie of drunken spotlights on the foliage surrounding. Large green leaves, stringy vines, and stiff trunks leading to a tall canopy envelop us as we climb,

Breaking Light

one foot in front of the other. Before too long, the canopy disappears and the ground flora turns arid like a hillside in Mojave Desert. We move above the treeline and witness the vast spectrum of land and sky.

Our guide informs us of a little tall tale. On a sacred day, the priests and guides of the mountain wrapped imaginary yellow tape around the whole mound in respect to the gods and spirits. Gunung Agung was closed off, shut down to the tourist trap it induces (one that I was inevitably caught in). It was to be a day of offerings and religious duties at the temple, giving thanks and praise among other things. Climbers were turned back, asked to stay away and not climb the trail. The mountain would be back another day.

But of course, mankind is indifferent to others’ needs. An Italian came along. He wanted to climb. I mean, shit, I can relate. He didn’t wake up at midnight and drive so many hours for nothing! But the local priests wouldn’t have it. No one was going to take him up at any cost. There was too much danger on the slopes. They

Down Comfort

all advised the man to turn back.

The Italian did not listen. He heard only his own head clamoring away inside his ridge body. So he climbed, a solo ascent of Gunung. The morning passed. The sun rose, the winds howled and the clouds hovered in the skies. Soon it was noon, next came evening, and before the climber returned it was dark again. Days passed. The wife worried. The search team lost patience. And eventually with days gone by, the helicopter was called off. However, there were remnants. One day, a party found his jacket and one of his possessions—a flashlight or a shoe with laces undone. The locals shrugged, for they each knew the inevitable outcome to a man who disrespects the mountain.

Damn, I was happy we were out of the trees. On the open slope with dry brush and rocky ground, footing is more predictable, tigers less conceivable. So we climb upward, stopping to catch our breath, drink to rehydrate and gaze at the southern island below.

It is a beautiful sight. Standing above treeline on par with the clouds’ highways. In the morning in early darkness of predawn, the wind moans against

Viewpointing

the terrain. It sings a low choir of remorse. I hear loneliness, a loss of a loved one. I feel its desires to sweep away mortals, taking us off ground and into its constant stream of movement to be kept for company, for love. It is a hollow sound, desolate but calm like a siren trapped on a cliff. Above the melody, stars gaze upon our heads and a half moon rises over Gunung’s summit like the Northern Star.

We climb, stop, climb, stop. There are four of us feeling antsy. We want to move faster. We need a quicker pace in order to keep energized, in order to reach the summit before sunrise. So, the self-nominated four tag on with another passing guide who leads a French couple. We wish our two fellow climbers and elder guide a safe ascent and begin the scramble. Eventually we are a mere 300 meters from the top.

This is when it gets hairy. The terrain is steep. The rock is loose and unstable. The pathway undefined, indeterminable. In a way, it is a guessing game, and consumed by the dark it is often a stampede on all fours. I’m in

The Crag

the rear, shining a light ahead to help present the trail. Suddenly the rocks break free. The voices rise.

I rush around a large boulder and come to a small canyon of stone. A member of our group lays on the ground. Her back rests against her pack; her pack rests against the slope. It’s Abby, and with help, she slowly raises herself back on her feet. A flush of dizziness sweeps through her body. She reaches out for stabilization.

“I’m alright,” she affirms. “My handhold came loose.”

We look at where she points, following the line with our flashlights, and then trace them back down to the ground, measuring the five-foot freefall.

Abby’s shin is bashed and blood leaks from her ankles and foot. It is apparent her Chacos aren’t sufficient for mountain climbing.

“Take your time,” I remind her. “We’re in no rush. We’ll make it.” And smaller steps, I tell everyone. When climbing a hill, a knoll, a mountain, or a Stairmaster, the smaller the steps the better. Keeping the body’s center of gravity over the two feet is key to energy conservation and balance. There is no need to count up

Higher Reflections
Hannah Kettler on top

the number of splits on the tennis courts of the US Open.

We continue, inhaling and exhaling, dropping flashlights, retrieving them, replacing batteries while navigating an impassable terrain in pitch black. I think this is absurd at times. In the States or Europe, this degree of climbing would have us harnessed and roped in. We would be wearing hard hats and headlamps with requirements in regards to boot type. But this is Bali—Indonesia to be more specific in terms of safety measures. And before long, our guide drops us on the very pinnacle summit of all of Bali.

It is 6AM and we are the first to summit. At 6:30AM as our bones shiver, our muscles spasm and our teeth chatter, the sun makes its grandiose entry like a virtuoso walking on stage to the piano. It’s 10 degrees Celsius, feels more like -78. Our adopted guide shares his kopi dan pisang goreng (coffee and fried banana). We snap photographs. We gape at the beauty of such great heights. And then we descend like wild fire.

Four hours up, two hours down. Each of our knees are blowing out as we reach lower altitudes. Our thighs quake.

Panning The Spectrum
The top of Lombok just behind the crag

Our calves pinch us with a monkey wrench. We slip down the loose gradient and chase the clouds until eventually entering its blanket where the sun’s rays pierce through.

Back at the car we meet our other comrades. They’re safe and happy, content with their efforts. Karen whips out a homemade loaf of date and nut bread smothered with a cream cheese lemon curd. Holy shit, my taste buds explode greater then the ’63 eruption! However there are no deaths, only victories.

No, we did not conquer the great Gunung Agung. We gallantly convinced our minds we could do it, therein granting us a rite of passage by the spirits of the summit. So, with taste buds lavishing and stomachs churning, we commence our return and fall to sleeping. It is 9:30 on a Sunday morning.

To be continued...

Golden Eye

Appeasement
Offerings of incense and flowers on the top of Bali

A Balinese Yoga Festival Part II

cam2yogi — Sun, 24 Aug 2008 05:46:00 GMT

Day 3: Bargaining Into Retreat

A hard bargain to beat—morning coffee, tea and breakfast in Bali. At the table there is an assortment of weary eyes detached from their bones. This is us—Laura’s retreat group—most still jetlagged, hovering above hot drinks with susu dan gula (milk and sugar). Then with a little more flare and color, there is papaya, watermelon, pineapple, honey melon, and lime squeezed over white plates like morning clouds over the rice paddies. With sustenance, we wake, smile and laugh. Off to yoga led by Laura DeFreitas at The Yoga Barn next door.

We work out the caffeine and sugar. We further stretch our bodies with Laura’s adjustments and loosen our minds into pending freedom. The roosters crow beyond the coconut palms. The birds flutter above the grasses. Crickets sound a choir in the reeds. No music, no sound. Just Bali. We are in Bali and we have flown over the Pacific and China Sea for this—we want all of Bali. Nothing else seems to matter but this one practice at this one place. And we let go with Laura’s guidance, deepening our breath into the tropic air.

A swim and breakfast replenishes, and a

Touching Durga

10:30AM workshop with Judy Slattum of Danu Enterprises enlightens us: The art of bargaining. Jack the great American explorer—the wanderer of Bali living a dream of sun, waves and arbitrary adventures—initially informed Laura and me about bargaining: “Offer half price,” he said. “And go from there. It’s their game. They love to bargain with a courageous foreigner.”

“Yes,” Judy confirms. “It is a way to get to know the shopper. The Balinese want to know who you are, where you’re from, where you’re staying, and more. They come to know you and are happy to sell their merchandise at a bargained price. It’s a social interaction, so shoot for harga pagi, or morning price.”

Laura and I had previous experience. Having been in Bali for two and a half weeks prior to the retreat, we shopped our way through Kuta, Legian and bits of Ubud. And now we were receiving the full cultural index. Judy continued, “When the shop owner returns home at the end of the day, according to their custom, it’s an honor to be able to share your details with their family. They want to talk about you as if they know you as a

Crossed

friend, and to them… you are. You’ve made that connection by being open and friendly and sharing whether or not you’re married.”

By noon we hit the streets of Ubud ready to give away our secrets to any shopkeeper. The weather is overcast: hot, muggy, humid. It’s November weather, the locals say. The weather changes every year; these days it’s as unpredictable as your neighbor. By the time we reach our first shop along Jalan Hanoman, the first thick drops splatter on the cracked sidewalks, which resemble a war-ravaged pathway. Chunks of concrete, cement and tile rise like a mountain range causing us to focus on our feet to avoid landing face down in the offerings. Hati hati, or danger signs, are posted over massive holes where tributaries of run-off sweep below. The sidewalks are awaiting graves of broken ankles and cracked shins, not because of a lack of care and funding, but in fact, it is done with purpose. When the heavy rains bring torrential streams the streets become blocked. Offerings, trash, Bali dogs, plastic bags and bottles clog the flow like busy beavers. Therefore, they tear up the walkways, scoop the trash into the passageways below, and

From The Shields

habis (finished). The holes are left for the future passerby.

We make it to Gemala Jewelry without any missing persons. Inside we are introduced to the tedious skill of the silversmith (in which the roadwork obviously lacks). We have an insider’s look at the melting, molding, meddling, and making of fine silver. The fire torch blows. The solid silver liquefies. The compressors roar and flatten. The mallet hammers and the tweezers tune with perfection. We are amazed at the minute details and the steadiness of the hands required for creation. So we huddle over a fluorescent tube light and stare as the artisan tweeds and twiddles the silver pieces into jewelry. Then, with new appreciation, we descend downstairs into the air-conditioned hall like honeybees to the stacks of display cases.

Sizing, purchases, gifts and individual embellishments—outside the rain passes, but thick humidity resides. We truck down the streets and discover more artistic luxuries inside the Agung Rai Museum of Art (where a current exposition of Walter Spies hangs) as well as a local weaving shop. But the day has just begun. We put our bargaining skills to the test.

Judy Slattum’s skill is Balinese culture. It is

A Cock On The Walk

why we are here—all ten of us. But her supreme specialty is the Balinese mask. Inside the vans, we pull into a palatial compound in the Ubud region. Like all other family compounds, it is a simple walled property with a main bale, the family shrines, a raucous dog whom I befriend, and various rooms for sleeping. But what is unique is the art adorning its red brick walls. Here we stand inside the home of the island’s most renowned maker of sacred masks.

The details are astonishing. The complexities too vast to grasp in the hour we spend listening to Judy’s rundown, sitting as I hang on to my camera’s lens searching for composition. But in short, the mask (topeng) of Balinese culture is in another realm of this physical world. They are theatrical, used in processions, ceremonies and dances. They depict the good and the bad, spirits and witches, deities and characters of the great Hindu epics: The Ramayana and The Mahabharata.

As we careen homeward on our own epic adventure, tired with our bodies, sluggish in our full brains, the group makes one final stop at a painter’s home. Then rest and relaxation. Night comes

Firing Gemala

and the schedule reads: Legong. It is a traditional dance with a bewitching tune struck by the gamelan. Therefore, in the back alleys of Ubud we find ourselves observing those detailed masks (both demonic and serene), admiring the elaborate costumes in motion, watching frangipani petals fall from women’s hair, refreshing our souls with a few large Bintangs.

Day 4: Offering Routine

I’m hungry with last night’s beer on my breath. It is 7AM. The order proceeds:

Patios

spiking blood sugar levels. Keep chowin’.

Thankfully, Judy shows up for our workshop—the last of our language lesson. This slows down my appetite, yet I’m giddy in my seat, feeling the full effects of caffeine and sucrose enveloping my attention span. The others notice. They gawk at my impassable sweet tooth. And oddly, they choose without hesitation to continue supplying me my juice.

Time passes. Judy departs. We have downtime to swim, refresh, scrape the sugar from my gums and shower. By 1:30PM we gather back under the bale for a workshop in offerings. Together we learn to make the square baskets we see outside every home and shop and along every street and shrine. Woven with palm fronds, the canang is then filled with raw rice and an assortment of flowers—plumeria, frangipani, and hydrangea.

Next, with parting clouds and giggly words, we leap for the lounge chairs. The day passes without further schedule—only swimming, lounging, reading and independent exploration. 7PM: Laura and I steal away for a luxurious dinner at Lamak.

To be continued...

Bali Ride

D&G Outlet

Golden Spirits

Laura, Durga & The Maker

A Balinese Yoga Festival

cam2yogi — Fri, 22 Aug 2008 20:11:00 GMT

Day 1: The Yoga Retreat w/Laura DeFreitas (& Danu Enterprises)

It is morning over the rice fields. Expected sounds of roosters crowing and crickets singing spread across the valley. Small birds chirp as they hover over the green carpet and geckos skitter along patio walls. The daylight of Galungan is cast over Ubud, and amidst the silence of the hour, an elderly man acts as a human scarecrow. He barks tonal commands and guttural expressions. He swings a bamboo pole tied with plastic. This is his duty, and as the days continue and our presence remains, it becomes habitual. The man is protecting his family’s income, shooing away the flocks of feathers from eating their unhulled grains.

Morning—it is standard. Rise for Balinese kopi (coffee) and teh (tea) before an 8AM yoga practice with Laura DeFreitas. During the movement and stretch, I recall the day’s significance. For every religious local August 20th, 2008 is the first day of Galungan—a day of cultivating goodness to overcome evil. From a Western perspective it is equivalent to Christmas morning, and as the gamelan (the traditional Balinese orchestra) begins to play upon the streets, sounds of drums and cymbals echo through the

Bali-Style Processions

coconut trees whilst my body heats to a number of sun salutations. I become aware of the tension in my hips and hamstrings. I recognize my feelings, my drive to let go and take in. I listen to my breath, the pulse of my heart race. I try to slow it down—all of it—to the pace of life around me, this Balinese life.

Then, I sweat. I sweat bucks as my voluptuous glands drip strings of pearls down my cheeks and off my nose. My earlobes get slippery. My cracks and crevasses slide. I am cleansing. I am burning my body’s toxins along with the ill-tempered thoughts found within the mind. I breathe in Galungan, and as the practice finishes with sivasana followed by seated meditation, I jump into Ubud Aura’s swimming pool with anticipated relief. The cold water washes over me. The feeling of floating releases Earth’s dense gravity. I’m free and sit beside the group of nine yogis for a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, muesli, yoghurt and fresh fruits.

10:30— Judy Slattum, the leader of Danu Enterprises, greets us with the day’s activities underneath a long traditional bale—an open-air shelter with a table suitable

Plots

for our Western seats. For an hour we learn basic Balinese conduct, the appropriate hand gestures and body language, and the cultural norms of the relaxed tropical civilization. We have a rundown of typical Indonesian phrases and learn simple historical facts of past and present: with an archipelago consisting of 1300 islands, Indonesia is the world’s 4th largest country as the Indonesian tongue becomes the 4th most widely spoken language.

Outside the pavilion, a gentle mist settles over the verdant rice fields. I watch it descend with grace—soft and calming, a blanket of moisture. In the distance the same elder is attempting to frighten away the birds of his sawah. He’s pulling on a tethered rope that stretches across the plot. It is draped with rows of more plastic, and as the ensemble dances above the rice with each yank he cries “Haaaa ya! Whoooooop!” He howls with assertion like a loyal dog protecting his master. He observes his rice fields like a shepherd entering wolf country. Back underneath the bale, surrounded by the daily sounds of rural Bali, we fidget in the humid air, examining last night’s mosquito bites.

Eventually the clouds part in time for

Offering Galungan

our Ubud exploration. The village is the cultural center of Bali, but on this day the streets are practically deserted. Signs with the word TUTUP hang behind glass doors—the shops almost all closed. On Galungan, the Balinese congregate at their ancestral and village temples, making offerings in the morning hours to a pantheon of Hindu deities and animist spirits. To the culture, it is imperative to catch the gods before they depart this physical world in the latter part of day. In afternoons it is known they fly for the heavens.

So we waddle like a gaggle of ducks in the rice fields, we march like a colony of penguins through Ubud. In tow behind Judy, we learn about the ceremonial decorations: the penjor, a long bamboo pole adorned with palm fronds, banana leaves and coconuts with the tip curved over like a stressed fishing rod; the lamak, a woven palm leaf scroll with images of Dewi Sri—the goddess of rice; and the various boats of offerings placed on the street outside shops and family compounds to appease the lowly spirits and be granted protection. Inside the square plates made of young fronds are an assortment of red,

Young Blood

yellow and coral-toned flowers; rice, fruits or Ritz crackers; and sticks of Copal incense.

“Don’t mind stepping on them,” Judy points out. “Once the offering is made, the offering has been made.”

The dogs know this well as they scrounge for leftovers.

We end up at Wardani, a fabric and textile shop on Monkey Forest Road. Here we are instructed to purchase two sarongs (pronounced sar-oongs) and temple scarves (kain). They are necessary codes of dress for entering temples throughout Bali. With a gifted 30% discount, a long hour of mayhem erupts as fabrics of batik and ikat fly from their folds. In the end, we are all happy with our designs and fashion, ready for purification.

As twilight arrives we find ourselves out in a small Balinese desa (village). In the local temple, we wear our recent purchases, appearing like a circus of laundry cleaners after the drying machine blew up. Locals take notice, but only smile at our direction, happy and content with life and the sacred procession about to take place. It is a Barong—a ceremony with protective spirits residing in two distinct masks that are paraded around the

After The Dogs Came

perimeters of the village. Their purpose: to advise the lowly spirits to stay away. It’s a symbol for defense, a pronouncement of “Our lives are sacred and we’ve got our backs covered”. Each wooden puppet is immaculately painted and costumed, and as Judy informs us, these specific ones are two of the island’s most sanctified. Only eighteen other Balinese villages possess these sacred masks, which stamps on the emphasis of our fortune to be present and witness.

Day 2: Purifying Bali-Style

With a belly full of nasi campur (a medley of rice and vegetarian cuisine Bali-style) from the previous night, Laura and I emerge for 7AM kopi dan teh (coffee and tea). The eight others of our retreat slowly trickle out from their rooms, sleepy-eyed and jet-lagged, adjusting and adapting to Bali time. Yet instead of yoga clothing, we are once more elegantly adorned in our temple raiment. Soon, breakfast sinks deep in our bellies and the 8AM departure is precise.

Tirta Empul is the first stop, and along with Surya, Judy’s Balinese husband, we become purified in the popular holy waters. As a natural spring, the waters rise from beneath the ground and collect into an

Sar-ooooong

exquisitely clear pool. Dark fish, neon plant life and colorful algae (as well as a 4’ eel we spotted) thrive in its nutrients, which then pour out of fountains for locals to bathe. It is here where we gathered with many others, wrapped in our second sarong ready for purification.

After a blessing by the local priest, praying to our inner guidance, we submerge our bodies into the cool waters and file through queues. There are approximately 15 stone spigots, each with symbolic significance. We take turns beneath the pours, feeling the smooth pebbles beneath our feet as we shuffle to the front. Once there, we mumble our individual hymns, splash handfuls of water from the fountain over our face and head before completely sinking into the fountain. It is divine, the clear fresh liquid and the calm reverence of the springs. Founded in AD 962 men, women and children of all ages take part from all over the island. They laugh, giggle and smile. They chant mantras. They converse with our horde of white tourists, welcoming us to their holy springs.

Next—Pura Tirta Empul, the site’s holy temple. Once dry we sit in the temple

Barongs & Locals

grounds as the high priest chants and gives blessings, dousing us with more holy rose water, flowers and bindhis of rice.

Yes, there is no doubt—we feel thoroughly blessed, splashed with waters, pelted with rice grains and showered with flowers. So we snack on the offerings, drink our holy water and feel like we are floating. And like monkeys now crowned with halos, we load up. We head to the elephant’s mouth.

Goa Gajah (goa - cave; gajah - elephant) was more stone, more water fountains and no elephants. Instead, the cave is garnished with a carving of a demon and inside there lays one symbol of Hindu lore: the lingam. There are three of them, phallic erections representing the trinity of gods Brahma, Shiva and Vishnu with a representative yoni—the female Shakti energy. Within the dark, the air is moist and stale exuding an 11th century origin. In the opposite corner, we find the elephant Ganesha. As son of Shiva, the elephant-headed Remover of Obstacles is depicted with the soles of his feet together. This is Bali-style. If we were in India his legs would be crossed and seated in meditation.

We step

Breakfast At Judy's

back out into the Indonesian sun with Surya, wander to the vans, and pass out before lunch. I retire poolside back at Ubud Aura and do a little more chlorinated purification. There is 4PM yoga with the Luscious Lorikeet followed by a delicious one-hour massage at Jelatik Esthetic. Each yogi is scheduled for the first of our two included massages.

Eventually, under the heavy clouds shading a waning moon, Laura and I melt back into bed as the lotus flowers begin to blossom. We are loaded with a sumptuous Balinese dinner and now turn to a little pirated flick. We fly off into space with Pixar’s Wall-E.

Click here for Days 3 & 4...

Rescuing Personal Mysticism Across a Balinese Island

cam2yogi — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 10:51:00 GMT

“Twenty five years man. I’ve seen a lot of change.”

I looked across at Jack, Jack the Hawaiian, Jack the man—my idol.

“Bali is beautiful to this day, but 25 years ago it was a land of mystery. And before than… I can only imagine.”

“So what’s changed?” I asked, forking a slice of banana pancake into my mouth. The fruity syrup hit my taste buds with explosive rapture.

Across the table from Laura and me, Jack hovered over an unshelled egg. With a thrust of his spoon he chopped the globule in half. I expected it to ooze a sinewy clear fluid and mix its yellow severed yolk, but instead his shiny metallic weapon of choice proved breakfast to be hardboiled.

Underneath Jack’s massive shoulders and large Neolithic head, the egg looked like a small mite crushed in his grips. He scooped the contents into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “Bali was magic. It was a culture of intense superstition that led the day-to-day lifestyle. Festivals, feasts, ceremonies—Bali was settled by the artisans of Java’s fleeing royal court. And through all the cultures I’ve traveled and their waves I’ve surfed, I’ve never known

Backdoor Steps

a culture so mysterious as Bali on my first visit. And that’s what led me to stay… besides the waves of course.”

Jack went on to explain the mass degradation that tourism catalyzed. It was an influx of Western trade and modernity. “But don’t get me wrong,” he emphasized. “Tourism is wonderful for any culture, especially since this island’s economy relies on the trade, but as far as the amount of tourists and the type of travelers arriving more and more…” He paused to breath. I could see his brain ticking behind those narrow blue eyes. “You know what Bali needs, or what it needed ten years back?”

Laura and I looked at each other and shrugged. We each chewed another wedge of our pancake.

“Regulation. Bali needs regulation. There is no stopping the constant assault of big western money that floods the Indonesian market. Who doesn’t want a slice of paradise, and Bali is the perfect paradise.”

We couldn’t disagree, but regulation? I wanted to shovel further into his thoughts.

“Take Bhutan, for example. Bhutan only allows a certain allotment of tourism per year. Everything is regulated including where

Lotus

the tourist stays, the tour the traveler takes and the amount of money spent each given day. And look at Bhutan. It is thriving and still retains its mysticism. I would love to go, but there aren’t any waves.”

In the end we concluded together: what was lacking besides a strict regulation was infrastructure. Under every culture is its infrastructure. Unlike major SE Asian destinations like Thailand and Malaysia, Indonesia (especially the island of Bali) does not have the appropriate infrastructure to support the flood of global tourism. It is tiny: 3.2 million locals on 5620 square kilometers of island. It’s a speck on the earth lying directly east of Java, completely surrounded by the Indian Ocean and Bali Sea.

Less Armpits, More Freedom

As we left Candidasa, Jack gave us a ride in his rigged van. Gutted on the inside and armored with tinted windows and a technical alarm system, he carried three surfboards of varying size, a mountain bike, a propane stove and cooking ware, an amplifier system for speakers and electrical outlets, a mattress for sleep, an indestructible safe, and a hammock. Up front accompanying the bench seat for three was a stereo

Dreamtime

hooked up for iPod listening pleasure and an audio system feeding a set of speakers, including two tweeters. We listened to a live album by Anoushka Shankar—the twang of the sitar entranced in a rhythmical raga—while Jack swerved around sloth-like lorries, dodging oncoming traffic with the other cars and scooters.

“My philosophy,” Jack stated, “is less is more. Apart from my one-bedroom apartment in Nusa Dua, this van is all I own. And it’s totally mobile.” Clearly, Jack was proud of his possession, and I would be too.

“Did you buy this set-up in Bali?” I wondered.

“Yeah, and the stereo system as well. I’m thinking of heading to Java in a couple of weeks. I found a secret surf spot in the south, so I’ve got myself a bona fide surf safari.”

Yes…without question this man was my idol. Less is more, Jack said. He was an American after freedom and freedom to him was the ability to have less and be as mobile as possible. Here in Bali he discovered it, and here in the Indonesian archipelago he continued his search. “Someday,” Jack relayed, “I’d like to have absolutely nothing and start from scratch.

Balinese High-Rises

No back account. No money. No house, van or surfboard. I’d like to totally trust and experience the universe to provide the sustenance I need for survival when I need it. But at this point in my life, I’m not quite ready. I wanna find this wave in Java first and foremost.”

I was ready to ask Jack if we could come along, but our destination arrived. With the less is more mentality, Laura and I entered the so-called armpit of Indonesia. Properly named Kuta, the city is equivalent to Cancun for the Aussies and Khao San Road for the Bangkok backpacker. It is a twenty-four hour party; a DJ-bouncing strip paralleling the sands that cater a perfect beach break for any surfer. Not too bad for an eight hour flight from Sydney. And better yet, it’s dirt-cheap.

Parked in the Hotel Lusa for US$11 per night (breakfast and wi-fi included), we were transported from the northeastern haven of Pondok Pisang in Candidasa to Kuta Beach in the south just above Bali’s international airport.

But not bad, we first thought.

Streets line with shops, stalls, bars and restaurants. T-shirts with Bintang Beer logos waver in

Cliffhanger's Fate

the breeze. Handbags, batiks, blouses and boardshorts hang from metal pipes. In the road, a constant stream of traffic; taxis honking for your attention, drivers calling out “Boss! Boss!”, those dune-buggy vehicles called Things transporting locals and ex-pats, and scooters galore toting everyone and everything from seven year-old girls at the handlebars to surfers and their boards in padded racks. It is a flurry of movement, a clash of noise, from 6am to 2am. It is the nonstop pulse of the Asian backpacker’s ghetto.

And rightly so, it is dirt-cheap. But wonderfully so, it is Balinese hospitality. It is energetic and full of inexpensive shopping for anyone with a knack for bargaining. To bargain is a game for the Balinese. They love it and expect it.

For two days we wandered the streets and beaches, offering half price and negotiating from there. We relaxed, watched pirated movies, drank coconuts out of thick husks and ate more banana pancakes for breakfast. We explored the alleys, observed tan legs below bleach-blonde hair parade in designer wear while surfers took them by the arm. At one point as the day darkened, we passed a familiar face. The typical tan skin, the

Lost Luggage

bald head and those deep blue eyes. He carried a new pair of Reef boardshorts in hand and strolled down the broken asphalt in a pair of floppy thongs. Our eyes crossed and once out of earshot I turned to Laura.

“Guess who that was?”

She smiled and waited.

“Kelly Slater—the surfing world’s greatest athlete. He was my high school hero. Simon and I used to idolize him. Shit, and to know he’s only my height. Hah!”

Later that night my recognition was reconfirmed when we spotted him again. This time he was with friends who yelled his name in a restaurant. They were suggesting he stop designing surfboards painted with naked chicks.
With our bags slightly heavier—the plastic buckles showing signs of stress like knuckles on a tightening fist—we dashed the traffic, the haggling and pestering, the Balinese selling fake Oakleys and knockoff Rolexes, and sought a hinterland westward.

Emptiness is Closest to Paradise

Another typical day. I just polished off my second coconut milkshake as the sun beats down and the waves blow out. The wind has risen since morning, pushing down the surf as it flies in from off the sea’s

Pirates of the Dark

horizon. If only it were a strong offshore, keeping the break tall, their face smooth and cresting high, I would be back out. But at this point, my belly is feeling queasy and the coconut juices are loosening my intestines. So, it’s better this way I suppose. Instead of surfing, our afternoons are spent reading, lounging by the river and investing in a sweaty yoga practice—outdoor Bikram. With this schedule, the breeze was welcome.

In the mornings I surfed, catching a clean left or right break, ate an Indo breakfast of nasi goreng (fried rice with a crowning egg sunny-side up), and then went off exploring. Laura and I perused the beaches of Mejan in search of booty. Betwixt long stretches of black sand, the sea’s crustacean pearls shone like gold among rock. Shells of intricate color and exquisite design caught our eyes. We pillaged. We examined the hightide line, filling our hands and pockets with treasures. In our scourging tracks, we left the famed toothpaste mollusks and shoe-piece shells, along with the fish-head carcasses from nearby fishing villages as well as the occasional dead dog. The latter protruded out of the sands like a dark castle in the

Booty

miniature fantasy world of crabs. The body ballooned belly up, legs wide and stomach bloated to a point of bursting. I could only imagine what would happen in a matter of time if the tide didn’t flow quickly enough underneath the sultry sun of the tropics. We carried on with our booty like pirates fleeing a superstitious omen.

Yet this was not the end of our animalistic endeavors. At the cliffs on the local beach Laura heard the cries of a feline. Tucked in a niche as the waves threatened with its frothy claws, a kitten a mere few weeks young crouched against the rocks frozen in fear.

“We can’t just leave it,” Laura pleaded.

“Well I ain’t gonna touch it.” To be honest, I’m not very fond of cats. Survival of the fittest in this circumstance.

“No, we’re taking it. You grab it Cameron.”

“Me? It could be feral!” I proclaimed.

“It’s a kitten and it’s going to drown if we don’t do anything.” Laura looked at me and wasn’t moving as I slowly crept away.

Turning around, I raised my eyebrows in question, realized

Puzzled

I was going nowhere without her, and then walked back over to the cliff-face where the grey and white kitten hissed. As I reached out to offer a helping hand, the beast struck.

Eventually, it surrendered and with saving grace, Laura brought it off the beach to a home where three other kittens wished for another sibling to fight for scraps. It cried the whole walk back, but a few days later we saw it again, cleaned of its sand facemask and plump with food beside its new mates.

Other wildlife beckoned. We spotted a 6’ python in the grasses between banana groves, equally-sized water monitors splashing into the water off the river’s bank, and a dying gecko uttering its last bark just before falling from the ceiling and disappearing between the cracks of the floorboard. Then, of course, are the Third World dogs. In a way, they’re not even dogs, more like canines of a whole different breed of species. Mangy? Yes. Rabid? Most likely. Feral? Most certainly.

Found in the busy streets of larger towns, these beasts are hairless, tumored, three-legged pieces of civilization that snarl as they hobble like defeated outcasts.

Stepping Stones

It is hard to witness as locals continue their business blind to the animal’s suffering, but it is a fact of life—the bottom-suckers in every culture. Often, these varieties of Indonesian mutts can be found feasting on the scant Hindu offerings left by humans.

So we drink our botol besar Bintangs (they’re large and in charge) and shoo away the begging puppy from hopping up onto our table and munching slices of our vegetarian pizza. We sit by candlelight at twilight and eat a fresh grilled fish with more massive Bintangs. As a vegetarian, I can’t help but eat the eyeballs and say Terima Kasih to the sea, eventually offering our puppy-friend a bony savor. And there in paradise, full as the tailored dogs of Bali wearing their flashy collars, we watch the sunset at our secret hideaway. Come to Pondok Pisces if you dare.

Imprinting the Mystical

We were hoping to see Jack again while we spent eight nights at our oasis. I wanted to have the chance to surf with him and reassure him that Bali is indeed magic. From Candidasa down the roads into Kuta Beach and then westward along the Indian Ocean

Sun Bathe

to a famed surfbreak, local mysticism was alive and well. Every morning we witnessed the locals attend to their altars and deities, presenting offerings in square banana-leaf boats containing flowers, victuals and incense. Watching them, they acted in praise and devotion. They appeared to put their hearts into the sacred rituals of their mystic Hindu faith and allowed the peaceful or tumultuous surroundings to fade away. In their trace, a floral scent lingered in sweetness, filling the tropical humid air with sanctity.

Bali is magic, and the people are rooted to continue to appease the mystical, whether above on the mountains or below in the sea. And so after two weeks, Laura and I proceed with our Indo explorations, open to the vastness of this mystical universe. Our minds are broadening. Each of our bodies loose, the muscles of our bones soaking up the 10 massages in just 14 days. Bliss.

Gallery: Bali is Sorga

cam2yogi — Fri, 8 Aug 2008 09:30:00 GMT

Bali, Indonesia

Selamat Datang Sorga

cam2yogi — Fri, 8 Aug 2008 09:23:00 GMT

Australia ended with deliciousness. Give me a cone of organic frozen yogurt with blended mango along Mooloolaba’s esplanade and I’m more than happy. A mouthful of refreshment, tantalizing the salty tongue, and the sweetness from the sugars of the finest tropical fruit. Then yogurt’s astringent fermentation underneath a juicy sun. Yum.

For the last ten day’s of our Aussie sojourn, Laura and I spent our time unofficially WWOOFing at our friend Graham’s house. A mere block off the beach, after two hours of household duties we were off like wildfire, pedaling with the wind along Sunshine Beach’s coastal route to the coziest spot for sun. Reading consumed our silent moments, books like The Secret Life of Bees; Sacred Contracts by Caroline Myss; Paul Theroux’s The Mosquito Coast; and Western Body, Eastern Mind. It was luxurious when the sun was out and the breath of wind calm. But to our greatest misfortune, classic for two Seattleites seeking sun after a long winter, rain followed us and brought a wintry cold to our locations. For three days straight weather prohibited us from much outdoor movement. We washed walls, mopped layers of dust, organized moldy closets, and rearranged living spaces for the

Without Nerves

future’s inevitable renters willing to take part in Graham’s social experiment.

However, the sun shone with brilliance on our final morning with the indoors entirely swept, swiped and spectacular compared to the day of our arrival. So, like two bats out of hell, we packed and flew off to the Maroochydore airport. We couldn’t—and wouldn’t—be late even if it was for another frozen yogurt. There was a plane to catch: the JQ783 bound for Denpasar.

Movements in Haste

Well into midnight, Laura and I entered the heat of the tropics. We were tired, worn; the line at customs dredging forward for the longest hour. Then, a familiar face. Inside the exit hall of Bali’s Ngurah Rai International Airport amidst new arrivals from Sydney, Japan, Singapore and eastward, someone shouted.

“Cameron!” The voice was highlighted with sweet intonation over the roar of phonetic Indonesian and Balinese.

My face lit up, the weight on my shoulders instantly eased. Lily from the days of high school appeared in the hoard of the crowd. She was a brown-haired, fair-skin speck amidst the swarm of spindly Indonesians with ebony hair and chocolate skin.

“Selamat datang

Trumpet's Spiral

Bali!” Lily exclaimed as I folded into her arms with a mix of elation and surprise. Laura and I were in Bali at last!

The ride northward lasted two hours in the humid darkness. Laura and I feasted on vegan takeaway while we caught up on Lily’s, and her partner Randy’s, travels for the last nine months. Nearing 2AM the van crawled up Bali’s second highest mountain, Gunung Batukaru, and pulled in home. I stepped outside and looked up. This is an instinctual habit of mine when arriving somewhere day or night. It’s as though I’m taking in the space I have above me. And space there was, confirming my existence in paradise like a small affirmation picked from the healer’s cup: a moonless cosmos filled with millions upon millions of portals into the unknown. The night sky was exquisitely beautiful, crisp as the freshest watermelon on a summer’s day. I could touch it. Feel it. Breathe it into my conscience. To the Balinese, the mountains represent the abode of the sacred while the depths of the seas are realms for the evil. Indubitably, I could sense their reasoning for feeling empowered by such great heights.

The Kingdom

For the past five months, Lily and Randy have been living at the Bali Mountain Retreat in Sarinbuana, Bali. Every weekday they tutor the local staff as well as the owners’ two children on the necessary English subjects. We stepped into this retreat’s paradise and quickly passed out after a day of flights, queues and customs.

Paradise and/or Heaven

Now fast-forward a couple of days and forget about the frozen yogurt, Queensland, and the nude beach at Alexandria Bay:

I’m lying on a reed lounge chair. The sun is shining and my skin is tan. Temperatures hover above 80 degrees Fahrenheit with a soothing breeze blowing out of the northeast. Below me beneath a wooden deck the Lombok Sea surges with each swell. It crashes into the seawall, sending the crabs in a scurry, until the energy sucks back out into next oncoming push.

For a second, I’m transported back to A-Bay. I think about the first experiences on the isle of Crete. Then back in the present moment, this amount of pleasure and sheer freedom is multiplied infinitely upon itself, launching me onto the Indonesian island of Bali.

The phrase implants itself within my

Knife Edge of Paradise

being: Selamat datang sorga.

The Indonesian word selamat refers to “blessing in doing, a sacred welcoming”. Datang means “come” and sorga is representative for the English word “paradise”, or more accurately defined—“heaven”.

Here is my spirit dancing in joy. Here is my innate self splurging and crying out, blessing me in coming to the island of paradise: I am parked at the secluded Pondok Pisang in Mendira just south of Candidasa. I’m with Laura and we have our own hut directly over the ocean. I’m in the tropics and naked once again, but this time my entire body is being rubbed down and caressed.

For a slight sum of US$6, a Balinese woman by the name of Wayana is massaging me with essential oils hinted with what I make out to be the soft fragrance of jasmine. Front and back, up and down, covering just about all areas for an hour’s time. And in the nude, lubricated, tan, sun beating upon me with that ocean breeze of the tropics, Laura naked beside me. All I can think of, besides feeling the sensations coursing through my body: Selamat datang sorga. Blessings in coming to paradise.

Notes on

Such Great Heights
future A'stralia travels:

*Rent van, buy surfboard, and drive around Oz with heaps of petrol money
*WWOOF during mango and avocado season as well as honey bee harvest
*Return only during summer season
*Spend time with Aboriginal communities
*Stir clear of hostels full of drunken college kids
*Go skydiving

For more accounts, please don't forget to visit and subscribe to Laura the Lioness' blog at lauranidra.blogspot.com

Bare Celebrations

cam2yogi — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 08:22:00 GMT

There was a blinding white light. Laura readjusted her sunglasses and pushed them higher up on her face. It was not a welcomed sight, nor was it a lethal image, but it was painful, raw and innocent. Like a child fresh from the womb, the light emanated and seemed to freeze everyone near. Time stopped while people stood in their tracks. They were locked in their gaze. Their mouths hung open.

However, instead of the delivery of a newborn baby—revered with praise—this light was epitomized. Like a demon from the depths of shadows, it emerged and brought shock. And like a towering lighthouse at the edge of a craggy precipice, it warned and provoked fear.

To me, I was free. I crumpled up my swim trunks and chucked them at the sand. Standing, I stretched my hands over my head and welcomed the sun. Then I turned and looked down behind at my own figure. I would be lying if I said I did not wince. Pale as white on rice. This baby’s bum was ready for a little color.

Beachcombers strutted passed, glanced and shuttered as they firmly set their shades to their faces, and kept walking.

Warriors & Goddesses

Alexandria Bay, better known to locals as A-bay, was alight with fair skin.

I Just Wanna Celebrate

Taking off clothing and stretching wide—nudity is the closest thing to public freedom. It is like pulling open a locked door in a smoky room and emerging into fresh air; like wiggling toes after being suffocated in sweaty boots; like standing at the edge of a cliff and shouting at the top of the lungs; like stripping all layers of protection and living life with core intentions. Where are those nude beaches?

As part of my travels I have come to seek out the first opportunity to step on a nude beach and throw it all off. I first revealed my light, distressing an already distressed world, back on the isle of Crete. On the southern shores at the Libyan Seas edge, where North Africa loomed far off at in unseen distance, Kirsten invited me.

“Have you ever been to nude beaches?” She was from Austria, spoke ten different languages with the fluency of a robotic dictionary, and had been camping on the beach for three weeks.

“No,” I replied as I squatted in the sand next

The Bay

to her. Her chest was bare, her body curvy in the afternoon shadows. Around us, aged Europeans lounged with nothing but bare bronze skin. “It’s hard to come upon a nude beach in the states. You could call it taboo.”

She nodded. “Well, are you joining me?”

Ha, I thought. And before I could think I was checked out of the hostel and pitching my tent on the beach beside her.

It releases a feeling inside of me as if I were a toddler, waddling on clumsy legs across the front lawn with the sun on my body, or better yet, sprinting from the bathroom after a wash—still wet and naked with me Mum chasing after. The dog is in tow close behind, yapping at my white cheeks. It’s a celebration to my knotted mind—a freeing of the conditions to return to the woods, the jungles, to the open spaces and the clear waters. I’m back in Nature.

No doubt, they have always been pasty white, even after ten days on the Cretan beach. It would take me months of lying out and applying the subsiding coats of lotion to absorb the sun’s indigenous hue.

Woof Man
Sorry, no white cheeks for this shot.

Normally, they turn pink after a day on the beach, hot and itchy later that night, then peeling the next dawn. So this time Laura was quick to rub me down, massaging slopes, knolls, summits and the canyon—never removing her protective shades. I was in heaven. A-bay along Sunshine Beach just outside Noosa Heads. So this was the distinguished Sunshine Coast of Queensland, A’stralia. I was happy to be on a beach of bare-bone bathers.

Yesterday’s Musing, Today’s Reality

“And don’t miss Alexandria Bay,” Helga advised. Back in Widgee on the Rainbow House homestead, Laura and I were planning our departure.

Without further thought, my eyes lit up. “We’re going!”

Wednesday July 16th arrived in the Aussie bushland. Bags packed, lunches made. We caught the greyhound from Gympie to Noosa Heads. The journey was quick, only an hour and fifteen minutes, which to our scorn transformed into two hours with the unabated rest stop at Matilda Junction. After fifteen minutes in our seats, the bus came to a halt. The intercom came on and muffled over our headrests. “Now, we all have forty-five minutes I reckon,” whispered the driver. “Eat, shop, drink yar tea,

Mastering the Mulch Heap
A Queen's duties mastered.

and make it back to me bus before I leave ya behind.”

Fortunately, we made it and reached Noosa. Checking into Dolphins Beach House with a four-night stay swiped on plastic, Laura and I were content, excited for the beaches, the lazy wanderings, and the service of fine dining at local restaurants. Each day was spent as predicted: sleeping, reading, yogaing, feasting, walking, and laying in the nude at A-bay. As I pulled on my shorts the last morning, I came to no success except the familiar blinding flesh passed down through my Scottish ancestry. Each cheek was as before; UV protected, massaged and lubed with lotion, free of newly-morphing freckles and the patches of peeling skin I know so well. Another entry in my journal clutters my future dreams: Live as close to a nude beach as possible.

For a second I pause, flick my pen between my fingers, and ponder. “On a nude beach? Can I live on a nude beach?”

I smile as that inner child giggles with a vision of young children running across a lawn, sprinting out of the tub and through the house. I chase them as my

Geothermals

Mum chased me. The little footprints covering the tiles. The towels dragging behind in clutched fingers of their miniature hands. Some day. Somewhere. These warm tropics of my mind, as the mangos and paw paws ripen outside with the songs of the lorikeets coming in through the windows.

And be sure to check out Laura the Lorikeet's blog

Good Days, Sunshine

cam2yogi — Sun, 13 Jul 2008 17:34:00 GMT

Rains fell on dry lands. Three days of clouds, wind and accompanying cold kept work to a minimum. It first arrived as a fine mist, turning the invisible into the visible; the gossamer threads of geometric designs, the fine clear beads of moisture, the frogs lavishing amongst fresh pools, and the canopies’ quiet with their absent butterflies. It was beautiful as the bush became still and that space for reflection broadened; the birds seeking shelter wherever they could. But soon the change was hard to breathe, uncomely harsh. The sun was missed. The work was tedious and slow. And the extinguishing of our evening fires brought cold food to the dinner table.

When the showers came, we discovered our tasks under roof. Laura and I bundled up on the Rainbow House’s veranda and busied our fingers. We watched the storm clouds roll in from the east as our hands slowly grew tired. Our job: prep bay leaves for the dehydrator. Yes! Exciting. Thrilling. Unbelievably exhausting. And it was, truly. It was all these things for the first couple of minutes until the latter overtook our conscience and began to rust our restless bones. We wanted movement, distractions! But it needed to be done, and we were delighted to do it, so we sat, conversed and watched the sky’s turmoil.

Taking long boughs from the garden, we clipped them clean and dragged our fingers over the entire leaf, removing unwanted debris. The aphids, the dirt, the cobwebs, etc.—they all became lodged within our nails. Then, stacking a pile, we found another leaf and continued. It was long and meditative—moments consumed with silence betwixt the estranged chatter that accompanies any two gigglers teetering on the edge of delirium.

It was in these moments of silence when our brains calmed allowing us to hear the rain behind the calls of the kookaburras, whom so easily found laughter despite the wet chill. Nature echoed through my mind. It filled my body and aroused my longing for something deeper, something farther into the quiet. I sat. I looked across at Laura. We smiled and stripped leaves like hyper koalas. The two of us, immobile at the patio’s table; and the wallabies emerging from the gum trees to nibble on the garden’s treats.

The Dreamtime of Winter

During the night in our caravan, Laura and I were reserved to the basics of raw food preparation due to soggy grounds, damp kindling, and oh yes…the rain. Therefore, we exposed our imaginations and made fresh salads of greens and fruits, along with concoctions of slaws and varying nori wraps. We filled our bellies with rosemary and lemongrass tea, read the pages of our thick books and quickly passed into the dreamtime. Bundled in our many layers, the cold crept in through the windows and brought us back to reality. All warmth was absent outside the blankets as night grew darker whilst the bush filled with mystery.

Three days of rain. On the last night came the tempest. The tin roof overhead thundered with bullets of water. It was a symphony of current as though a mad river broke its barriers and surrounded us. We slept off and on, waking and waiting until the Pacemaker would lift from its foundations and sweep us away to our fates. Though to our surprise all was intact at dawn’s arrival. Stepping from the door into the crisp daylight, eyes adjusted to find the water dams fuller, the orchids satiated, along with the aloe vera plants in their beds, the mangos in their groves and the grapes lined in their vineyards. Each was freshly polished with a new sheen of light reflecting the storm’s nourishment.

Inhaling, I smelled the earth and its abundance. The land was alive and wore its new armory of green, yellow and brown with pride. And to our eyes, which gazed over the work we’ve completed in the past three weeks, we saw the wealth, the wisdom and the vitality behind Mother Nature. Southeast Queensland was refreshed, nourished by the Antarctic winds in the midst of an Aussie winter.

Now with the sun full within one of the widest blue skies I have ever seen, Laura and I, along with Helga and Claus, step back into the gardens to get our hands muddy. The small town of Widgee is back on track with its annual 320-plus days of sunshine.

Eternal Sunshine

The clock ticks to our departure. With two days left at the time of writing, we are both thrilled to explore, as well as grateful to the amount of knowledge and experience we have acquired from both Helga and Claus.

There were times when we loved it. There were times when we despised it. There were times when we simply wanted more sleep, warmth, extra layers and some clean laundry never worn. Albeit, the work around the Rainbow House as volunteer WWOOFers has been enlightening, awakening our conscience to the plentitude of the earth as well as the depths of emotions found within each mind, body and soul. In the end, one thing is clear: We can all choose to turn away from that which we know best and most beneficial, and run headstrong into ignorance. We can ignore the land and remain unaware of its native processes. We can deny its wisdom and nutrients, which it willing offers to each and every one of us. We can escape into what is easiest, cheapest. Or we can embrace it, live it, feel it in its totality and experience the beauty; all the pains and triumphs of working with the land, and therein, working with our neighbors and ourselves. The key is what we find inside, whether that is the call of our planet for environmental awareness, or likewise the child within our hearts wishing to be heard, healed and loved. It is our God-given will to choose any of these options.

I will look back on this experience one day soon and I will discover an immense amount of depth and growth. I will see the lessons more clearly and feel the wisdom more powerfully. And I pray with all my heart that the sun will keep shining within the space we share. I love you with every ounce of my being, and will never deny you this in all the ways I seek to express myself.

The Dogs of the Bush

cam2yogi — Wed, 2 Jul 2008 16:06:00 GMT

A steady machine came tumbling out of the forest. Gears grinded shifting to a higher speed. Eucalyptus branches crunched and disintegrated beneath the tires. Birds scattered in flocks. Wallabies bounced through the roughage. And the smell of burning oil emanated from the engine block. Behind, left in the dust, dragged a line of steel-enforced chain, whereby three rotting logs followed.

At the helm of this beast was the driver. His name was Claus (and the beast’s goes by Rodger). But the driver here is of interest, for Claus is a brute of a sixty-some year old German man, infamous with his tool shed hands, and even more so with a mind of an engineer. You want a computer built for you? How about 80 gigabytes? Ask Claus…

And how about a water pump attached to a windmill or a solar-heated system for your house, or just maybe a 21-meter tower made from the wood cleared off your property and raised with only hands, pure muscle, a car-wench and some clever thinking. That’s right. Ask Claus, and with some patient timing it will come unto you.

We barreled through the gum tree forest on his 50-acre plot of land, knocking over eucalyptus seedlings, cracking logs hollowed out by pestilent termites and dragging trees across clearings to replant near the watery dams. Claus was the man, when able, which apparently was not often. However, since Laura and my arrival, he has perked up, set the bones of his 6’3’’ body in full gear, and made havoc of the priorities needing to be accomplished.

Oh…and bees? You want to know how to farm bees? Just ask Claus.

A Disciplined Dog

I remember the first day I worked with him. Actually, it was the first day I worked for him; standing with a pickaxe in my hand, sweating from the tedious work of uprooting stray gum tree seedlings that encroached upon their gardens. As I pummeled away, he spoke in a thick German accent as if he just downed a bottle of whiskey.

“Dah rooowts,” he said. “Get dawn at dah rooowts.”

I brought the axe up over my head and sent it hard into the land. I missed and repeated the process. Claus continued.

“It’s all easy, you know? If I can dwoo it, sheet…anybody can dwoo it.”

Claus was referring to all things, particularly engineering.

“I read boowks,” he went on. I slugged the ground again and sliced the root. “That’s goowd,” he said, pausing to remark on my progress. Claus continued: “And then, after reading I know how it vworks—compewter, tractwer, whatever—and I try. I try like a baby and I make mistakes and try again, yah?”

I nodded.

“It’s very, very svimple,” was his concluding point.

Slowly, I began to realize the man’s intelligence. He built everything, every element of matter that forms the assemblage of their home. In fact, he built just that—their home, it’s wood flooring, the furniture. And he continues to construct, create, design and innovate.

As Claus barreled through the forest around their property in Rodger the tractor, his wife Helga tended the gardens. Together, with the occasional accompaniment of volunteer WWOOFers, Claus and Helga complete the circle of their self-sustainable homestead in the Australian bush.

WWOOF, WWOOF, WWOOF!

Laura and I have become just that; the traveling volunteer WWOOFers in search of work. WWOOF—or Willing Workers on Organic Farms—is a worldwide organization of registered farms offering room and board to individuals seeking farming experience.

It was simple. First we joined the international organization online, specifying our country of interest, paid a small fee and received a book in the mail compiling all the farms available. Divided by regions and states, Laura and I chose Queensland, Australia and perused the pages’ descriptions about each farm. From then on, we contacted those of interest via e-mail and awaited the responses. Helga and Claus came through with appreciation and welcomed us to their abode.

And thus we arrived with white skin cleaned and polished. Our nails were neatly trimmed. Our cuticles were healthy and elegant. Palms silken smooth. Hair shaven. And feet moisturized with a fine emulsifier containing a base of hemp seed oil with the subtle fragrance of jasmine. Yes, we were ready for work on a farm.

Rising the first morning in Queensland, the sun was low as long stretches of shadow covered the forest floor. We were tucked in a eucalyptus forest inside our home-to-be for the next four weeks—a 70’s Pacemaker caravan. A beautiful morning in the woods as butcherbirds, rainbow lorikeets and kookaburras sung their rituals. Up and stretching, we drank tea, ate a bowl of muesli (which was to become our dawn staple), and walked three minutes to the main house.

Helga was there waiting and from there the tour commenced. For two and a half hours we explored the property and were given the details of the necessary work. Then, as our lunches digested, we got dirty.

From weeding orchids and bromeliads to tackling spiny date palms and their vicious fronds to burning the collected brush like pagans paying homage to The Mother. It is nonstop and wondrous: to be outdoors under the grandest blue sky with our hands in the soil and our feet firmly on ground. Most days, I work with my shirt off, pedaling a wheelbarrow across the grounds from burn heap to pickup—a mule of sorts. And then with Claus I leap aboard Rodger, station myself in the trailer, and rumble off into the forest to collect desirable debris.

Life As a Dog

The day is regimented, to say the least. Laura and I rise in the frigid dawn air at 7:15am and drink tea before practicing our meditations and yoga. Next, a little muesli with fresh honey and garden-grown bananas to reading the Bhagvad Gita to one another like supple little sages lost in the woods. Work by 10am and we’re ready. Lunch is at 1pm with a two-hour break before the final conclusion of the day’s work begins at 3 and terminates at dusk, i.e. 5:30pm. Shower in the outdoor bath under the eve’s first stars, dry-off with goose bumps, return to our humble caravan hermitage, make fire outside, and prepare dinner before the simplistic indulgences of reading and sleep. C’est la vie.

Goodbye to the old, hello to the new. Our days start anew.

In my mind this is the life: the simplicities of the garden, its freshness and the cold and hot flavors of the day. I love watching the stars come out as a solar-heated faucet lathers me and the body nearest. And then the silence of night, the pure darkness, as flickers of shadows dance across the gum trees’ trunks. I blink. I realize I am in heaven. My muscles soon grow tired from the day’s work. Sleep overcomes my consciousness. With first light I rise, only to start all over again in an endless cycle lasting a mere four weeks.

I smile upon the banana trees as I recognize their impermanence, for it will all become a distant memory, along with the 65 mango trees that blossom during a separate season when I am far away, and the various selections of capsicums, spinaches, broccolis and sweet potatoes consumed not by Laura or me, but by another when the time for our departure arrives. However… I choose to blink again, shake my head from its delusions, and walk upright on the land I inhabit for the time being. I soak up the naturalness, the rawness, the colorfulness of this beautiful earth far from a busy and confused world.

Claus roars at me snapping me from my daydreaming. With his spiky head of gray hair and his grisly short beard, he’s smiling, talking about energy and how he had a plan to forever be off the grid. He’s self-sustainable, all right. And he welcomes me aboard Rodger as we spit and gurgle into the forest in search of our prey of foliage.

Gallery: WWOOF, WWOOF

cam2yogi — Wed, 2 Jul 2008 16:01:00 GMT

Organics in Oz

Gallery: Australian Stretch

cam2yogi — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 12:22:00 GMT

The Land of Oz

Sydney in the Masses

cam2yogi — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 12:12:00 GMT

Australia is a bout of freedom—contemplative exploration amidst leisurely activities of reading, writing, studying, more exploring, dreaming, and the likes of a dynamic introspective lifestyle suited for a Seeker. It is holiday. It is an escapade, retreating from a reckless society to return to the Walden Pond of humanity’s roots.

For reasons unknown, the freedom to write and express left my fingertips nine months ago. Inspiration traveled elsewhere. My imagination through words silenced and a deep need to expunge the depths of human thought found dormancy. Amidst this emptying space, vast like a quick dispersing stadium crowd, love continued to prevail yet in new form. And now as the pen proceeds from where it left off months past, I begin to feel the pain of its absence. I know this form of expression to be a place of comfort where everything is wholly possible, unrepressed by the heavy surrounding influences that often prove to be as fragile as thinning ice. No one hears my scribbling pen, and few read its conjoined letters with their spacious pauses.

This present journey awakens this innate expression, and no longer coalesces with the frugal, materially deprived nature of my prior travels. On the contrary, it is a welcomed vacation filled with intensity and growth, equal to as if it were not. Now, the nature of adventure and joy flows freely; no more stringent cords, no more restraints tied too tight ‘round a head submerged in the waters of fear and discipline.

Introducing two into the equation of travel exacerbates life’s progress and purpose. It opens the heart ever wider as one person’s deck of cards morphs into the complexities of two in one hand. Mix this game with the natural elements of soul—compassion, generosity and forgiveness—and you have a kindly table of free spirits. It is warmth in every physical sense. There is a body next to yours, skin on skin, breath on breath. I start you off in Australia’s first city (and be it the largest), the economic powerhouse of Sydney.

Captain Cook’s Discovery

From hours seated still and restless, to the exploration of new surroundings. Off the plane, Sydney appears massive. It is stunning in either clear yellow rays of sun or shades of gray cloudy skies. It is clean and manageable for any city with a population of 4.7 million (Here's a tip: spread all the Aussie’s out across the continent at equal distance from one another and each will have one square-kilometer to themselves.).

Albeit, a city is a city—fast and furious with grumbling machineries between fearless vehicles reeling towards the common J-walker. Sidewalks are laced with speedy business folk operating with caffeinated nitrous boosters. Flocks of tourists prevail, from the near East to the farther West, toting maps and film. Charter buses hide the tinted faces of forgotten invisible explorers, and the churning waters of the harbor shuttle ferries of curious thinkers outside the box. But most pleasantly does Sydney embrace its cleanliness; lungs full of fresh air for the many runners navigating the boardwalks. The Royal Botanical Gardens thrive in rich green coats of seasonal foliage. It is beautiful. The smiling faces. A people of diversity. Sunday pubs featuring live strings of local musicians. Indeed, the 2000 Olympic Games have done well, real well, enough so to honor the city with the compliment of hosting the most successful Olympic Games of the modern era. China has a hard act to follow, with or without the protective facemasks.

Thence my traveling adventurer, Laura, and I enjoyed our first early morning. It was a Sunday. The streets were silent. The churches busy doing what they do best. Pubs were loud with activity. However, to our Seattleite-dismay, the coffee shops were dark, gated shut. But we prevailed, changed our course of action, and promptly found our way from the concentrated residential district of Kings Cross to Sydney Harbor. There, the Opera House posed like a celestial ship at water’s edge. From a distance, we saw the spacecraft encircled with miniature creatures staring at its cosmic sails and gawking at the grounded hull. We did away with the common oddities, found an AU$6 latte (about the same in US dollars and infinitely better tasting), and boarded a 10am ferry from Circular Quay. Falling mist coated our caps as if we hadn’t left home to fly across the international dateline and into another hemisphere. Slowly, we motored east to Taronga Zoo.

The ride was quick upon the heavy vessel as we observed the harbor’s curvaceous features. Along the shoreline the land swung in and out as the schoolyard’s skipping rope. Instead of girls giggling and frolicking with the odd timid boy bemused with blushing cheeks, the hillsides were serene; ornately stacked with housing as colorful as a preserved Dutch colony. Oranges, yellows and pinks abound on the staccato. Tall palms and pines rose from their foundations. Fronds and needles sailed wildly with the winds that blew off the salt from where we drifted. This all added to the fullness of the land, yet it was unmistakable: A storm was hurrying in from the southwest and proved forceful the remainder of the day…make those three days.

Zoo Logics of Travel

At the zoo life was abundant. Animals moved with play. Lions yawned. They stirred lazily from restive sleep and showed off their sleek muscles in captivity. Koalas stripped eucalyptus boughs, seals performed their acrobatic feats, and gorillas beat their chests and chased loved ones who attempted to steal their enormous salads. All the while, an orangutan draped a canvas sack over its head to shield its long orange locks from the rains and stretched its lanky arms high above in the tangle of ropes. The shy platypus remained out of sight.

Each species appeared happy—well fed and cared for—which enlivened our spirits under a dampening sky of dreary clouds. The land of the Pacific Northwest continued to follow us deeper into the Land of Oz.

Four nights of stay carried us northward to our anticipated departure. We saw much of Sydney, as any highly-caffeinated traveler. There was the Australian Museum, the Business District, Darling Harbor, Chinatown, the Gardens and the Domain, and last but not least the signatory Opera House. There were long days of walking, exploring the streets as if Captain Cook arrived some years later from centuries lost at sea.

We meandered Sydney’s verdure via its public spaces. We became comatose with our feet up next to a schooner of local beer. And to make matters more adventuresome, nights were relentless. Day after day, night after night, we were exhausted as sleep came early to our minds, which continued to linger in a time change seventeen hours behind schedule. Unfortunately, the backpacking hostel scene did not aid with much relief.

It was classic, the typical hostel scene found world round, whether it be Europe, India or Thailand. Late hours of pub crawls with freshly strewn collage graduates clambering down narrow halls. There were the raucous cheerleaders of the groups encouraging shouts for quicker, deeper chugs. Heads back, throats open. The cans of beer soon crumbled. The glass bottles clanked and shattered. The songs sung from more glorious days. Ah yes! Days of youthful unconsciousness. How the body copes with societal sufferings!

Take for example our final morning. At 7am Laura and I crept down the hallway’s abandoned stairs to the hostel’s derelict commons. There we found an unfamiliar gent slumped over on the couch. To find our seats before the computers we flicked on the light and then mindfully extinguished it not to disturb the slumbering beast. He was faded, passed out. Yet in ten minutes he rose with clear ambiguity, and just as he rounded the corner out the doorway I caught sight of his features. Unbeknown to him, black marker scribbled his facial features, smearing his cheek and forehead, all thanks to his faceless mates. Moments later we heard a loud and deep groan emerge from the bathroom as he took a hazy glimpse at the morning’s mirror.

In Mass & Gone

Such were the sounds beyond our den’s refuge, stretching the hours of night into a long eternal restlessness. And as usual for any beckoning traveler in search of culture and life beyond one’s doors, where we found relief was out upon the streets talking to a local Israeli man who ran the health food shop Healthy Nuts or beneath the star-studded skies as thousands upon thousands of flying foxes (giant fruit bats) departed their upside down perches in the Royal Gardens for a twilight flight to an unknown distant cave (think of Birds, but with bats!). And after a final day of café hopping with our books and coffee before sandwiches and beer, we were ready for the next city to pick apart. Yet it would not come in the form of Sydney filled with the masses, nor would it come as a town. From Sydney north towards the warmer equatorial line, twenty-four hours of train and bus took us to the remote settlement of Helga and Claus. There, we were to become farmers, horticultural apprentices among many other things.

Destinations for the Spirit

cam2yogi — Fri, 4 Apr 2008 04:03:00 GMT

Traveling is a choice, and it is a choice to make traveling sacred. Travel can be more than an eye-opening experience into a new culture of relics, ruins, history and tradition. It can be more than a destination-oriented expedition from Point A to Point B. The way of the traveler can transform into a heart-opening pilgrimage. From this point onward, we choose to travel as a force of inner discovery, unpeeling layers of personality to reach the core of purpose: who we are, what we are here to do, and how best we can express this essence within ourselves.

The following six destinations are places of enchantment, spreading across the globe from domestic to international. Each location depicts a place of power, ultimate beauty where mankind unites with nature in order to form a personal relationship for the benefit of growth and prosperity. They force the traveler to open their eyes and look within, deep into the seat of their own soul.

1) Big Sur, California

Resting on the cliffs of the central Californian coast, Big Sur pounds with emotion. Not necessarily a town, the area wraps around roughly 10 miles of Highway 101 where land meets sea. The byway transforms between open seaward vistas guarded by sculpted cypress trees to shaded hairpins fortified with aged cedars. Carved walls of stone ricochet roaring waterfalls and tall arching bridges pass over lethargic estuaries. The natural expanse of Big Sur comes and goes much too quickly along this scenic drive, but stop at the viewpoints and breathe. Stretch your body on the precipices. Walk the fragrant trails down to the beach or hike into the hills. And if you create the time and space for unique nourishment, you’ll pull into the gates of Escalen and indulge in a massage at their clothing-optional bathes nestled into the cliff’s edge. Big Sur is a space in time where harmony between man and nature is a natural way of being.

2) Monteverde, Costa Rica

The country is a namesake for peace. First off; there’s no official military. Secondly; the national greeting is “Pura Vida” or exact translation: pure life—equivalent to your standard hello, goodbye, yes, and of course. Costa Rica is the Pure Life, a lush tropical climate where people are friendly, calm and almost reserved in their manners—but it’s just the air of tranquility they carry, comfortable as their economy thrives off ecologically mindful tourism. It’s the world’s haven for this eco-tourism; adventure-based explorations that take into consideration the sensitivity of Mother Earth, and the town of Monteverde is its' base-camp. From the thick mountaintops of the cloud forest surrounding Monteverde to its central hub, nature and her pristine beauty are a sacred tradition to locals. Visitor centers filled with snakes and reptiles attract the eyes that would otherwise never see, and cafes invite the weary hiking legs in for organic sweets and brewed local coffees. In whole, this ex-pat welcoming culture will make you slip into yourself and out of society forever.

3) The Highlands, Scotland

Far north there lies a land harsh and rugged where locals are as thick in skin as the wind that sweeps over thundering waves onto their vast and open land. These are The Highlands, a realm of fascination where myths and fables guide daily life. It’s a terrain where locals know their seasons; twelve months of sleeting rain with dense fog carpeting verdant glens of deciduous canopies. At their edges, built as brawny ramparts or collected in ritualistic circles, stones erode to smooth rounds as old castles hang at the lakes’ ends. Take the famed Loch Ness and delve into the imagination of storytelling, or arrive at Loch Lomond as melodies are sung in heavy accented tones: "Me and my true love we'll never meet again on the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond". The Highlands of northern Scotland encompass a terrain rich in history, as intense and defying as the Campbell Clan once was to the MacDonald’s of Glencoe.

4) Bali, Indonesia

Thanks to Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love, Bali transformed from the hidden surfer’s gem and textile investor’s paradise to a lover’s abode for honeymooners and wayward wanderers. It’s the little Hindu oasis of calm, resonating deeply with serenity, sacredness and natural artistic beauty that permeate everyday life on this extraordinary island. Bali is a fertile ground rich with neon hues of green rice patties and Oriental shrines whose eves turn towards heaven. The tropical atmosphere relaxes the mind and body, setting the perfect ambiance for a vacation of relaxation or one of enriched yogic practice. The culture cruises at slow pace, contagiously soothing to the wired nervous systems of the West, coaxing the traveler to explore new possibilities in order to realize a deeper consciousness of the world within and without.

5) Ko Tarutao, Thailand

Welcome to isolation. Spirituality involves a degree of solitude where the noise of society is shut out and the silence of the inner landscape is heard. Welcome to Ko Tarutao, an uninhabited island in the Andaman Sea off the western shores of southern Thailand. Located in a national marine park, the marooned land mass is available for the true adventurer where the sole accommodation is beach camping just above the high tide line. A ferry passes every couple of days supplying the local café with amenities for the minimalist. But I say, seek your inner psyche. Find that contentment with your Self. And enjoy an island beside your neighbors—langur monkeys, wild boar and king cobra serpents. Welcome to Ko Tarutao.

6) Arambol, India

There is no place comparable to India. Mother India is a mini extension of Mother Earth. She’s a whole separate being inside our very own world, removed yet connected through the bustling economic powerhouses of the continent’s industries. You arrive from your familiar world and instantly land outside yourself, walking off your now seemingly comfortable airliner seat with no turning back, and you step without any medium directly into a reality filled with energy and miasmic movement tying closely to Hinduism’s dizzying pantheon of deities. India is India, again…no place, no culture comparable. Yet venture down to the northern state of Goa to a little enclave of rest, relaxation, yogic discipline and creative meditation and you’ll find yourself in Arambol. Here you can do anything from indulging in daily-caught seafood to checking into a yoga retreat center. Or, better yet, design an itinerary for your Self only and enjoy the long stretches of empty beaches to the south where naked bodies align with the movements of various healing traditions, from Qigong to the country’s ancient sutras. This is India, where every locale is a yatra, or pilgrimage of sanctity.