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
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
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.
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
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 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
