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
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
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
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
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
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
(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
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.
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 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.
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
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
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.
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.
It’s 7AM. The order proceeds:
1. Coffee, tea and fruit
2. Yoga w/Laura DeFreitas.
3. 10AM breakfast after a few strokes through the pool.
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
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
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,
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
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
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,
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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,
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
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
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
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 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.
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
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.
“All from USA?” they query.
“Yes, and we come to Bali for yoga.”
“Yoga! Oh, very strong, very good. And you go back to America?”
“Soon,” I reply. “But I see no reason to return.”
“Then what of your future president?” One man probes our thoughts.
I shrug, tired of the thought, the rallying and the garble fit for politics.
The man looks at those who listen. “Obama is president. Obama is good choice for the world.”
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
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;
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.
“What you want?” the bartender cries.
“What you have?”
“Arak Attack!”
“Iraq what!?” We look at each other with suspicion.
“Our drink—arak. It will attack you.”
Our heads bob simultaneously. “A round, please.”
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,
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
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
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
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
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:
Jaya: “Did you have trauma in your past?”
Me: “Um… nope.”
Jaya: “Are you sure there was no accident? I feel there was something significant.” He continues probing my skullcap.
Me: “I have no memory of anything.”
Jaya: “Nothing causing major damage or loss?”
Me: “I don’t recall.”
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 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
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
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
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
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.
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
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
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 
