First Steps in Ubud

The first thing I learnt about Bali, was that if you don't watch where you're stepping, you'll lose a flipflop down a drain. Attempting to balance daintily on one foot, I cast a silent but soulful appeal to the row of motorbike drivers laughing from the other side of the road, and was rewarded with my second gem of knowledge; Balinese men are willing to stick their arm down a drain for a strange foreign girl. Buoyed by the balance of these initial impressions, I flipflopped away, ensuring I kept at least one eye on the road in front of me.

I was headed for Ubud market, but a cracked stone stairway, cushioned with electric green moss, lured me off the sunbaked road with promises of shade. Small statues of rotund monkeys, modestly wrapped in black and white checked cloth, adorned either side of the staircase. At the top was a deserted garden, with several fantastic statues and raised prayer areas, protected by dense trees. It was quiet and cool, and I sat down against a wall to breathe in the solitude. Suddenly from behind the wall, a bass drum sounded.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
On the fourth strike a flute began, winding an erratic melody through the drumbeat like a butterfly flitting around a sleepy cat. As I stood up to find the source, a hundred golden chimes rang out, filling the air with soft vibrations, notes spilling over each other with gentle insistence like water in a stream, never slowing, never pausing, and I found myself walking in time to the ceaseless beat. Finding a gate in the wall, I finally saw them; a group of monks, crosslegged on a mat on the grass, swaying with the concentration of creating this feast for my ears.

Back on the main road, an arrow directed me to Ubud's rice-paddy walk. Within minutes I was surrounded by a vast sea of verdant shoots, sprouting up from their mirror beds of sky. Stepping gingerly onto the raised muddy path between the paddies, I started winding my way through the fields, greeting the mud-caked cows politely and revelling in the purity of blue sky meeting green ground. Lost in my private delight, it took me a while to realise a local man was shouting at me. Thinking I was in trouble for trespassing, I sauntered over with an innocent expression, and smiled sweetly. He returned my smile and asked if I was lost, and if I would like to buy some buffalo-bone buttons. We sat down in the shade and ants, and he started speaking to me of karma and happiness. 'You first must understand yourself', he told me. 'Then you take small steps - like a baby - to your own happiness'.

It struck me then, that nowhere had a few small steps brought me greater joy than in Ubud. A small town with a huge capacity to delight the feet, eyes and soul. And I hadn't even found the market yet.