The best treatment for symptomatic obstructive sleep apnea (Phil's latest Bumrungrad diagnosis - he's been collecting diagnoses like military honors) is a system known as Continuous Positive Airflow Pressure or CPAP.
Patient compliance runs about 60%. I'm surprised it's not higher. Think about it. It's a mask. How cool is that? You can look like Darth Vader and you can sound like Darth Vader. Oh baby, turn me on!
At my advanced age, though, the stimulation of sleeping with The Dark Knight Himself may be too much and I regretfully may have to resort to sleeping on the couch.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
COME ON, JUMP ALREADY!
"Why do westerners talk so much during a funeral?" Kajorn wants to know. He is buddhist and like most Thai men he devoted three months of his life living in a monastery - meditating, doing daily rounds receiving food in his begging bowl, and blessing people. That's what monks do. Moderation and non-attachment are the hallmarks of Thai living. Funerals are strictly ceremonial. There's no talking, there's no holding on to an individual life. Even when the King dies there won't be any spoken tributes. Kajorn asks because a friend of theirs was one of the UN victims in Haiti's earthquake and many people spoke at his funeral. His question comes from simple curiosity.
"People get together to share their memories of the person who has died." Eugene answers. "It's nice to hear how others have experienced them. You get a different perspective. It's really a celebration of their life."
I concentrate on the beautiful fruit salad Kajorn has whipped up for breakfast. Mango, grilled banana, papaya and sweet corn (Yes, corn for breakfast!). Not too long ago these fruits hung gloriously from living branches. Now they're peeled and cut up for my pleasure. Smacking my lips will have to be my celebration of their life. "I think it's a kind of a tying up of loose ends." I venture, "Like cleaning out someone's closet." That's the Virgo in me speaking. She likes things cleaned up and done with.
Phil who is all about relationships and talking about relationships (what do you expect from a shrink?) says, "Talking about the loved one is a way for the family and friends to connect, to understand, maybe even to forgive. Buddha spoke about treating people with loving-kindness. Speaking well about the deceased, with compassion and understanding, is one way to practice loving-kindness."
"But it's about the talking," Eugene counters as he scoots the last chocolate croissant across the table to me. (Now that was an act of loving-kindness!) "The Thai believe in action," he continues, "If a father works hard to give his children a good education, that speaks for itself. Nobody has to say a word about it."
"Now what I don't understand," he opines in his outspoken Dutch fashion, "is people who have a burning desire to make their mark, to leave a legacy. A hundred years from now who the hell cares that you have a building named after you? Who would even know you existed!"
Back when I was still practicing karate, Grand Master Shihan taught us to think of everyone and ourselves as impermanent. "On Waikiki beach," he said, "So many people, yes? But ten years from now, so many people already dead too. Maybe you dead too." Within 15 years Shihan himself had died. And doing karate is but a memory for me. After I'm gone - no, NOW already - who cares that I once loved going to the dojo every night at 7:00 PM and that I wore myself out practicing kata and sparring, even won two medals at some tournaments. That's long gone, together with my mini-skirts, platform shoes, dented orange VW Beetle, partying and more partying, and my need for attention and adoration. Oh wait, I still need those last two.
Last week we had the pleasure of visiting Paul Spencer Sochaczewski and his wife Monique. They live in a marvelous garden compound 5 minutes from the office tower where Monique works. The house is filled with the most extraordinary collections of Ganeshas and buddhas, amulets and art objects they brought back from their world travels. Paul writes riveting books - his latest "The Sultan and the Mermaid Queen" - and Monique's job entails persuading countries to accept the countless refugees that wars and persecutions breed.
At dinner Monique commented on the necklace I wore. I told her it was the only necklace I had brought with me to Bali. "I want to know how you did that," she said, "just going off and leaving everything behind." "Well, I was a refugee myself." I say. "Guess it gets in the blood." But I thought to myself, If I had those priceless collections they have, I wouldn't be so quick to let go of things.
I think of Mits Aoki who taught courses on Death & Dying at Hawaii University back in the 80's and 90's. He must be up in the nineties himself now. Is he still alive? A gentle buddhist, I remember him saying, "At death you are to let go of everything, not just material things, but everything you believe in, as well, even your most cherished religious or spiritual beliefs." It sparked my imagination. I tried to think of myself as a blank, everything completely erased. Who would I be? Didn't they make a movie like that? Like "The Unbearable Lightness of Being"?
Just free associating now. Ten years old and I'm standing on the edge of the high diving board. I'm supposed to jump or dive from it to qualify for my swimming diploma. I aced all the swimming requirements, but I've never climbed up on the high diving board, never wanted to jump from it, never even thought about doing it as preparation. I just put it out of my mind. Just climbing up the ladder and walking to the end of the bouncy board was already more trauma than I could handle. And now it was my turn to jump. I'm trembling. I've never been up this high. The water below looks dark green and oily like a deep sea monster waiting to devour me. All eyes are on me. Mr. Wouters, the swim teacher, blows his whistle, but I'm paralyzed with fear. I'm sure I will die if I jump. Everyone is getting impatient with me and calling for me to jump. I wonder now if it will be the same when I'm dying. Death blowing his whistle and I'm holding on and everyone else going, "Come on, come on, jump already!"
So here we are, still in Bangkok. Phil's stents are in and we're waiting to see if more are needed. Anything to do with the heart scares me. Thoughts of death, Phil's, mine... Exhausted from worrying about Phil and worried about my own health (I know, worrying does nobody any good, but there it is, I was worried), I ended up writing a rambling late night email to my daughter, listing accounts, passwords, where everything was, what needed to be done right away (like paying our staff for last month's work) in case I kicked the bucket that night.
I didn't kick the bucket. I didn't jump off the board either, preferring humiliation over death. And that buddhist "No attachment" thing? Biggest bitch of all.
"People get together to share their memories of the person who has died." Eugene answers. "It's nice to hear how others have experienced them. You get a different perspective. It's really a celebration of their life."
I concentrate on the beautiful fruit salad Kajorn has whipped up for breakfast. Mango, grilled banana, papaya and sweet corn (Yes, corn for breakfast!). Not too long ago these fruits hung gloriously from living branches. Now they're peeled and cut up for my pleasure. Smacking my lips will have to be my celebration of their life. "I think it's a kind of a tying up of loose ends." I venture, "Like cleaning out someone's closet." That's the Virgo in me speaking. She likes things cleaned up and done with.
Phil who is all about relationships and talking about relationships (what do you expect from a shrink?) says, "Talking about the loved one is a way for the family and friends to connect, to understand, maybe even to forgive. Buddha spoke about treating people with loving-kindness. Speaking well about the deceased, with compassion and understanding, is one way to practice loving-kindness."
"But it's about the talking," Eugene counters as he scoots the last chocolate croissant across the table to me. (Now that was an act of loving-kindness!) "The Thai believe in action," he continues, "If a father works hard to give his children a good education, that speaks for itself. Nobody has to say a word about it."
"Now what I don't understand," he opines in his outspoken Dutch fashion, "is people who have a burning desire to make their mark, to leave a legacy. A hundred years from now who the hell cares that you have a building named after you? Who would even know you existed!"
Back when I was still practicing karate, Grand Master Shihan taught us to think of everyone and ourselves as impermanent. "On Waikiki beach," he said, "So many people, yes? But ten years from now, so many people already dead too. Maybe you dead too." Within 15 years Shihan himself had died. And doing karate is but a memory for me. After I'm gone - no, NOW already - who cares that I once loved going to the dojo every night at 7:00 PM and that I wore myself out practicing kata and sparring, even won two medals at some tournaments. That's long gone, together with my mini-skirts, platform shoes, dented orange VW Beetle, partying and more partying, and my need for attention and adoration. Oh wait, I still need those last two.
Last week we had the pleasure of visiting Paul Spencer Sochaczewski and his wife Monique. They live in a marvelous garden compound 5 minutes from the office tower where Monique works. The house is filled with the most extraordinary collections of Ganeshas and buddhas, amulets and art objects they brought back from their world travels. Paul writes riveting books - his latest "The Sultan and the Mermaid Queen" - and Monique's job entails persuading countries to accept the countless refugees that wars and persecutions breed.
At dinner Monique commented on the necklace I wore. I told her it was the only necklace I had brought with me to Bali. "I want to know how you did that," she said, "just going off and leaving everything behind." "Well, I was a refugee myself." I say. "Guess it gets in the blood." But I thought to myself, If I had those priceless collections they have, I wouldn't be so quick to let go of things.
I think of Mits Aoki who taught courses on Death & Dying at Hawaii University back in the 80's and 90's. He must be up in the nineties himself now. Is he still alive? A gentle buddhist, I remember him saying, "At death you are to let go of everything, not just material things, but everything you believe in, as well, even your most cherished religious or spiritual beliefs." It sparked my imagination. I tried to think of myself as a blank, everything completely erased. Who would I be? Didn't they make a movie like that? Like "The Unbearable Lightness of Being"?
Just free associating now. Ten years old and I'm standing on the edge of the high diving board. I'm supposed to jump or dive from it to qualify for my swimming diploma. I aced all the swimming requirements, but I've never climbed up on the high diving board, never wanted to jump from it, never even thought about doing it as preparation. I just put it out of my mind. Just climbing up the ladder and walking to the end of the bouncy board was already more trauma than I could handle. And now it was my turn to jump. I'm trembling. I've never been up this high. The water below looks dark green and oily like a deep sea monster waiting to devour me. All eyes are on me. Mr. Wouters, the swim teacher, blows his whistle, but I'm paralyzed with fear. I'm sure I will die if I jump. Everyone is getting impatient with me and calling for me to jump. I wonder now if it will be the same when I'm dying. Death blowing his whistle and I'm holding on and everyone else going, "Come on, come on, jump already!"
So here we are, still in Bangkok. Phil's stents are in and we're waiting to see if more are needed. Anything to do with the heart scares me. Thoughts of death, Phil's, mine... Exhausted from worrying about Phil and worried about my own health (I know, worrying does nobody any good, but there it is, I was worried), I ended up writing a rambling late night email to my daughter, listing accounts, passwords, where everything was, what needed to be done right away (like paying our staff for last month's work) in case I kicked the bucket that night.
I didn't kick the bucket. I didn't jump off the board either, preferring humiliation over death. And that buddhist "No attachment" thing? Biggest bitch of all.
Friday, January 29, 2010
RETIREE
Okay, I admit. I'm a wimp. Phil has taken care of people for 45 years in all kinds of places and conditions, but give me 10 days in a hospital and I crash. Even if it is in the best hospital in Asia. Even if I only wait in the waiting rooms and listen to Thai doctors explain medical procedures with medical words like "ohlahl" for "oral" and "ahlouwah" for "arousal." No, nothing sexual here. This all has to do with sleep problems. Anyway, I've had it. I want to go home right now. But Phil needs some more procedures done, so we're staying here another ten days. Oye. Another ten days of hospital time. Another ten days of breathing Bangkok's polluted air. Another ten days of coughing and irritated eyes. I'm a wimp alright.
"Why don't you and Phil retire in Chiang Mai or Phuket?" Eugene asks. "The medical care is excellent, so much more superior to Indonesia's. Chiang Mai is in the mountains like Ubud, so it's cooler, and they're totally set up to take care of retirees."
Ouch, I forget I'm of that age. Visions of jolly Florida couples (mostly white with an occasional black couple thrown in) flash before my eyes. With their teeth-whitened smiles sparkling with the zest of old age, the retirees ride their bikes along rolling golf courses or else toast each other with bubbly champagne while luxuriating in pools and Jacuzzis. Who wouldn't want to live in style? Doctors and nurses at your beck and call. No heart-stopping rides in ambulances through Bali's winding, traffic-clogged roads, wondering if instant death is not preferable. I google Retire Chiang Mai and find the top 10 reasons for retiring there:
Extremely friendly people.
Fantastic food.
Cost of living is on average around 50% cheaper than living in the West.
Wonderful year-round climate.
Low crime rate.
Great medical services and facilities.
Convenient public transport and good road network.
Great sports, nature facilities and huge range of interest groups available for all to join.
Wide range of cultural pursuits and a number of annual festivals.
Excellent markets which include the famous Sunday market, local markets, night bazaar and food markets.
But then there it is: Chiang Mai is a city of 1.6 million people. AIR POLLUTION IS HIGH. Well then, forget it. I'll be a retiree in Ubud where they can roll their R's and I can read the street signs.
Friday, January 22, 2010
WAITING ROOM TALK
Friday, January 22, 2010
In the waiting room of the ear-nose-throat specialist yesterday I struck up a conversation with Ahmed, an Indian man who lives in Oman where he runs a aluminum windows factory. He usually comes to Bangkok every six months for his wife's cardiac check-ups. This time he is here to accompany a friend and his friend's mother. The mother is the only woman I've seen who is shrouded completely - and I mean completely - in a voluminous black burka with not even a slit for the eyes. Her whole face is veiled in black. Ahmed suggests I ask his friend how many sons are in his family. I dutifully ask and am floored by his answer. His father's two wives each bore him six sets of male twins, giving the man a total of 24 sons! Imagine the pride and prestige! I look over at his mother, one of the vaunted twin-producing wives. She sits slumped across the isle, a hulking black heap without a face. She is 46.
Here is a funny thing I happen to notice. Women in ultra conservative burkas - you know, the kind with only a slit for the eyes - those women, they all sit like men - meaning, with their legs comfortably spread out. No primly keeping legs together for them. No, the wider, the better. Of course, if your legs are always hidden beneath those huge tent-like gowns there's no need to think much about where you place them when you're sitting down. It may be the only freedom they have.
Ahmed tells me that the ultra concervatives make up only 2% of the Arab population. Fine, but I want to know about the multiple wife thing. How does it work, four wives living together? What if one wife is ultra conservative and the others are not? What about divorce? If a man has reached his limit of four wives, can he divorce one to marry a fifth wife? Does he, Ahmed, have more than one wife? And if not, is he planning to get more later? Ahmed loves to talk and is eager to show me photos of his family on his cell phone and videos of Oman taken from his brother's house overlooking the sea. He has only one wife and is not planning to marry more. As for men with multiple wives, they have to provide each wife with her own house. It's a happy arrangement, so he says, making divorce a rarity. He does not mention sneaky ways to get a fifth wife. And if a wife is ultra conservative, that's her business. It is not forced on anyone else, not on the other wives or even the children. He says Islam is a religion of the heart. While we're talking he has been silently doing his "rosary." He shows me his beads. Three rows of 33 beads, topped by the 100th bead for the Hundred Names of God; Allah Akbar. I like him. First man from Oman I've had a chance to really visit with. I hope I'll get a chance to do the same with some of those mysterious burka women. I would love to learn their take on life and marriage. So far, none I've approached could speak English.
I ask Ahmed why so many people from Oman and Dubai come to Bangkok for their medical care.
"It doesn't cost us anything," he laughs, "the government pays for all the treatments and medicines. We just pay the airfare."
What a deal! "But why not get medical care in Oman?" I ask.
"We don't have many doctors." is his answer.
Today is the day I get to play patient too. I've made an appointment to get my teeth cleaned. Dr. Nisa is my dentist and it's she who cleans my teeth, not a dental assistant. She doesn't clean teeth manually with a pick, but deep-cleans with a teeth-cleaning "drill." Like Phil, I'm impressed.
In the waiting room of the ear-nose-throat specialist yesterday I struck up a conversation with Ahmed, an Indian man who lives in Oman where he runs a aluminum windows factory. He usually comes to Bangkok every six months for his wife's cardiac check-ups. This time he is here to accompany a friend and his friend's mother. The mother is the only woman I've seen who is shrouded completely - and I mean completely - in a voluminous black burka with not even a slit for the eyes. Her whole face is veiled in black. Ahmed suggests I ask his friend how many sons are in his family. I dutifully ask and am floored by his answer. His father's two wives each bore him six sets of male twins, giving the man a total of 24 sons! Imagine the pride and prestige! I look over at his mother, one of the vaunted twin-producing wives. She sits slumped across the isle, a hulking black heap without a face. She is 46.
Here is a funny thing I happen to notice. Women in ultra conservative burkas - you know, the kind with only a slit for the eyes - those women, they all sit like men - meaning, with their legs comfortably spread out. No primly keeping legs together for them. No, the wider, the better. Of course, if your legs are always hidden beneath those huge tent-like gowns there's no need to think much about where you place them when you're sitting down. It may be the only freedom they have.
Ahmed tells me that the ultra concervatives make up only 2% of the Arab population. Fine, but I want to know about the multiple wife thing. How does it work, four wives living together? What if one wife is ultra conservative and the others are not? What about divorce? If a man has reached his limit of four wives, can he divorce one to marry a fifth wife? Does he, Ahmed, have more than one wife? And if not, is he planning to get more later? Ahmed loves to talk and is eager to show me photos of his family on his cell phone and videos of Oman taken from his brother's house overlooking the sea. He has only one wife and is not planning to marry more. As for men with multiple wives, they have to provide each wife with her own house. It's a happy arrangement, so he says, making divorce a rarity. He does not mention sneaky ways to get a fifth wife. And if a wife is ultra conservative, that's her business. It is not forced on anyone else, not on the other wives or even the children. He says Islam is a religion of the heart. While we're talking he has been silently doing his "rosary." He shows me his beads. Three rows of 33 beads, topped by the 100th bead for the Hundred Names of God; Allah Akbar. I like him. First man from Oman I've had a chance to really visit with. I hope I'll get a chance to do the same with some of those mysterious burka women. I would love to learn their take on life and marriage. So far, none I've approached could speak English.
I ask Ahmed why so many people from Oman and Dubai come to Bangkok for their medical care.
"It doesn't cost us anything," he laughs, "the government pays for all the treatments and medicines. We just pay the airfare."
What a deal! "But why not get medical care in Oman?" I ask.
"We don't have many doctors." is his answer.
Today is the day I get to play patient too. I've made an appointment to get my teeth cleaned. Dr. Nisa is my dentist and it's she who cleans my teeth, not a dental assistant. She doesn't clean teeth manually with a pick, but deep-cleans with a teeth-cleaning "drill." Like Phil, I'm impressed.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
64 SLICES
Wednesday, 20 January, 2010
Phil is going for his 64-slice MRI this afternoon and has to fast for 4 hours. Since we're not due at the hospital till 11:00 AM, I will have to wait with going to the Indonesian Embassy for our visas when it reopens after lunch. Meanwhile I get myself a tasty dish of yellow rice, fried mackerel and fresh veggies at the hospital's food court. The lobby is being set up for a show of Great Bangkok Chefs, complete with a stage and a floor show of someone carving ice sculptures. The mood is festive with lots of people milling around watching the preparations and lots of music. This is how hospitals should be! I'm whiling my time away by lounging in one of the Starbucks' and watching the parade of people. No opportunity to get bored, there's just too much entertainment.
At 1:00 PM I hail a cab to get to the Indonesian Embassy. It's a 20-minute ride through stop 'n go traffic. When I finally arrive, I'm told that the embassy is open for visas in the mornings only. Okay, I'll try again tomorrow.
When we get back home, Kajorn takes us to his favorite street stall for dinner. It's a pretty funky place, like a converted garage. The food is delicious. We have seafood soup, fried fish with vegetables, a huge omelette, and water mimosa with salted fish.
Afterward we visit a French bakery. We buy some croissants for breakfast. Then we stop by a 7-11 to pick up eggs and fill up our Thai cell phones. On impulse we visit E & K's barber because Phil needs a haircut badly. His brightly-lit shop is located at the far end of a narrow alleyway. Very funky too. I love it. Phil almost fell asleep in the chair. I was sorry I did not bring my camera.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
First thing this morning I'm off to the Indonesian Embassy. I don't know if Phil has to apply personally or if I can apply for him. He has the whole day scheduled with appointments with one medical specialist after another. I go ahead and fill out an application form for him anyway. The guy ahead of me carries a whole stack of application forms and passports. I figure he either has multiple personalities or he's dealing in visas wholesale. He tells me they're his company's visas. Well, if that's the case I should have no problem at all taking care of Phil's visa. Sure enough, when it's my turn, no questions are asked and both our papers are processed without a hitch. I love it when things go so smooth and so easy. All that's left to do now is to... what? Pay the cashier. Oh right. Visas cost money. I knew that. You want how much? $200 in US dollar bills. Uh... I don't have US dollars on me, only Thai baht. You don't take credit cards? Ah, US dollars only and no bills dated before 2000. Right. Of course. Well, off I go then. Don't close for lunch before I get back, okay? Leave embassy, look for a bank. Aha, there is one. But they have only $80. So sorry, madame. Second bank has none. Very sorry, madame. I finally find a money exchange at a Western Union branch and, thank heavens, they have exactly two $100 bills left, crisp ones too. I can kiss the clerk but I bow and thank him instead, profusely -- meaning: I repeat the phrase "Kab kum ka" over and over. That's the female form of Thank you. I tell him he has done his job so well, he can now take the rest of the day off. He looks at me deeply puzzled. I rush back to the embassy and finish the transaction. Done. Visas will be ready for pick up on Monday.
I decide to walk around a bit. There's a computer mall. Wonder if it is the same one where we bought my little Acer Baby. Farther down is another mall. It's called Platinum and it's all about clothes. That's putting it mildly. After seeing the first floor of clothes, I feel like I'm going to get drowned in a tsunami of clothes. It is literally stall after stall and floor after floor of clothes upon mind-numbing clothes. The worst part is that they're all geared toward a size 2 Thai teeny bopper. When I finally find something that interests me and may even fit me, the clerk yells at me from across the store, "No try! No try!" Well, then forget it. I'm outta here. I pick up a crepe with egg and tuna (not bad) and leave.
I meet Phil back at the hospital. He tells me some sobering news. The results from his 64-slice cat scan are in and his heart turns out to be less healthy than he thought. His cardiologist advises installing a stent. Phil is taking it pretty much in stride and talks about waiting till he talks with his cardiologist in Denpasar. I cannot believe my ears. What the hell? We're here now in the best hospital in Asia, he likes the cardiologist he has been seeing here, and he wants to wait until he's back in Indonesia!!! I don't get it. I practically shout at him to come to his senses. Get it done NOW and get it done HERE! It takes him a while, but he finally agrees. We'll see how soon we can get the procedure scheduled. We may have to postpone our return to Bali.
Phil is going for his 64-slice MRI this afternoon and has to fast for 4 hours. Since we're not due at the hospital till 11:00 AM, I will have to wait with going to the Indonesian Embassy for our visas when it reopens after lunch. Meanwhile I get myself a tasty dish of yellow rice, fried mackerel and fresh veggies at the hospital's food court. The lobby is being set up for a show of Great Bangkok Chefs, complete with a stage and a floor show of someone carving ice sculptures. The mood is festive with lots of people milling around watching the preparations and lots of music. This is how hospitals should be! I'm whiling my time away by lounging in one of the Starbucks' and watching the parade of people. No opportunity to get bored, there's just too much entertainment.
At 1:00 PM I hail a cab to get to the Indonesian Embassy. It's a 20-minute ride through stop 'n go traffic. When I finally arrive, I'm told that the embassy is open for visas in the mornings only. Okay, I'll try again tomorrow.
When we get back home, Kajorn takes us to his favorite street stall for dinner. It's a pretty funky place, like a converted garage. The food is delicious. We have seafood soup, fried fish with vegetables, a huge omelette, and water mimosa with salted fish.
Afterward we visit a French bakery. We buy some croissants for breakfast. Then we stop by a 7-11 to pick up eggs and fill up our Thai cell phones. On impulse we visit E & K's barber because Phil needs a haircut badly. His brightly-lit shop is located at the far end of a narrow alleyway. Very funky too. I love it. Phil almost fell asleep in the chair. I was sorry I did not bring my camera.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
First thing this morning I'm off to the Indonesian Embassy. I don't know if Phil has to apply personally or if I can apply for him. He has the whole day scheduled with appointments with one medical specialist after another. I go ahead and fill out an application form for him anyway. The guy ahead of me carries a whole stack of application forms and passports. I figure he either has multiple personalities or he's dealing in visas wholesale. He tells me they're his company's visas. Well, if that's the case I should have no problem at all taking care of Phil's visa. Sure enough, when it's my turn, no questions are asked and both our papers are processed without a hitch. I love it when things go so smooth and so easy. All that's left to do now is to... what? Pay the cashier. Oh right. Visas cost money. I knew that. You want how much? $200 in US dollar bills. Uh... I don't have US dollars on me, only Thai baht. You don't take credit cards? Ah, US dollars only and no bills dated before 2000. Right. Of course. Well, off I go then. Don't close for lunch before I get back, okay? Leave embassy, look for a bank. Aha, there is one. But they have only $80. So sorry, madame. Second bank has none. Very sorry, madame. I finally find a money exchange at a Western Union branch and, thank heavens, they have exactly two $100 bills left, crisp ones too. I can kiss the clerk but I bow and thank him instead, profusely -- meaning: I repeat the phrase "Kab kum ka" over and over. That's the female form of Thank you. I tell him he has done his job so well, he can now take the rest of the day off. He looks at me deeply puzzled. I rush back to the embassy and finish the transaction. Done. Visas will be ready for pick up on Monday.
I decide to walk around a bit. There's a computer mall. Wonder if it is the same one where we bought my little Acer Baby. Farther down is another mall. It's called Platinum and it's all about clothes. That's putting it mildly. After seeing the first floor of clothes, I feel like I'm going to get drowned in a tsunami of clothes. It is literally stall after stall and floor after floor of clothes upon mind-numbing clothes. The worst part is that they're all geared toward a size 2 Thai teeny bopper. When I finally find something that interests me and may even fit me, the clerk yells at me from across the store, "No try! No try!" Well, then forget it. I'm outta here. I pick up a crepe with egg and tuna (not bad) and leave.
I meet Phil back at the hospital. He tells me some sobering news. The results from his 64-slice cat scan are in and his heart turns out to be less healthy than he thought. His cardiologist advises installing a stent. Phil is taking it pretty much in stride and talks about waiting till he talks with his cardiologist in Denpasar. I cannot believe my ears. What the hell? We're here now in the best hospital in Asia, he likes the cardiologist he has been seeing here, and he wants to wait until he's back in Indonesia!!! I don't get it. I practically shout at him to come to his senses. Get it done NOW and get it done HERE! It takes him a while, but he finally agrees. We'll see how soon we can get the procedure scheduled. We may have to postpone our return to Bali.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
BANGKOK, BUMRUNGRAD & BURKAS
Friday, 15 January, 2010
We arrive at the newly renovated Bangkok airport after an easy 4-hour Air Asia flight from Denpasar. The airport's curved steel architecture is impressive and its clean art-lined interior is a pleasure for the eye. We find a cab and I show the driver the address we're going to. Eugene and Kajorn, our hosts (hereafter referred to as E & K), have thoughtfully provided directions in both English and Thai. Nevertheless, the driver is stumped. Only after we call Eugene at work does he understand how to get there. Hats off to Eugene for speaking Thai, albeit with a heavy Dutch accent.
After Bali's crazy motorcycle-clogged traffic we're amazed at how few motorcycles we see on the road. And like a couple of old country hicks in a big city we marvel at Bangkok's wide multi-lane highways, and orderly traffic (at least on the highways). Funny how it takes only a year in Bali to forget about "real" highways. We had been warned about time-consuming traffic jams and ruthless drivers, and we certainly experienced those too, but overall our first trip through Bangkok is surprisingly pleasant.
When we arrive at Eugene and Kajorn's "Supreme Elegance" condo in the Sathorn district we're in for another surprise. What an incredible place they have! On the 3rd floor of a 7-floor building, the interior is in welcoming Asian Contemporary, light-filled and spacious with warm hardwood floors. Kajorn has prepared the master bedroom for us, complete with fresh towels, soaps, a "Supreme Elegance" note pad, and even a beautiful white shawl as a gift for me. Such sweetness! We make ourselves comfortable, taking in the art works, books, and Buddha altars, and wait for E & K to come home from work. So happy to see them. By then we're really hungry and they take us to a Chinese chain restaurant around the corner. It's chockful with diners, loud, and busy, but the food comes quick and is great. We eat our fill and walk back home, passing by the Blind Masseurs spa where E & K get their Thai massages every Sunday afternoon. I immediately sign up for one.
Saturday, 16 January, 2010
E & K prepare us an extraordinary breakfast: poffertjes (the last box left from their trip to Holland last month); a yummy fruit salad of mango, papaya, pomegranite, banana with yoghurt dressing; fruit & vegetable smoothies; scrambled eggs on whole wheat toast, croissants... and more I think, but such an abundance I have difficulty remembering everything. Cheese, yes, cheese, aged Gouda... delicious.
E & K then take us on a tour of two temples, the Wat Suthat and the Wat Pho temples:
The Wat Suthat temple is a beautiful temple recognizable by the decorative horn-like protrusions along its roofs. The cloisters in the inner wall are lined with 156 gilded Buddha statues. It's a working temple, housing a magnificent sitting Buddha and housing many working monks, as well. Because Kajorn has trouble finding a parking place we have to cut our visit short but not before Phil and I receive a water blessing and a protection bracelet from one of the monks. Waiting outside for Kajorn to pick us up we have a chance to view the Giant Swing. Since the swing part was removed in 1932, only the giant arch is left. The story is that at the annual thanksgiving ceremony for the rice harvest, young daredevil monks would ride the swing high in the air (a dizzying 80 feet in the air) to try and grab a bag of silver coins with their teeth. This extreme sport was rightfully stopped after several young monks fell to their death.
After Wat Suthat E & K take us to lunch at "In Love" restaurant on the river where Kajorn provides us with four enormous bags of shredded bread to feed the fish with. It's a Buddhist act of charity. You can indulge in another popular act of charity by going to the market next door and buying the fish, eel and other water creatures that are being kept alive in containers of water, and releasing them back into the river. It's supposed to create good karma. Our good karma will have to come from eating asparagus, crab fried rice, tamarind soup, and fried sea bass. Dessert is warm bananas in coconut cream. I feel like we're eating our way through Bangkok.
After lunch we take the river boat to Wat Pho temple, the famous temple of the Reclining Buddha. It's Bangkok's largest temple. The gold-plated Buddha is enormous. Its feet alone are 9 ft long and are exquisitely decorated in mother-of-pearl illustrations of the auspicious characteristics of the Buddha. Talking about feet -- there were two separate places for storing shoes: one long row of wooden cubbyholes for foreigners' shoes and another open shelving for Thai. Funny. Maybe it has something to do with preventing theft? But that would assume that foreigners wear more "stealable" shoes than Thai. The opposite may be the case.
Sunday, 17 January, 2010
Eugene takes us on a tour of Bumrungrad Hospital. It does not look in the least like a hospital, more like a complex of fancy hotels. Lobbies that soar way up, men and women in flowing middle eastern dress, smiling young Thai in form-fitting, irridescent silk suits showing people around, nurses in crisp whites, and head-scarved muslim clerks, Starbucks, eateries, and book stores in every building, aromas of coffee and cake wafting throughout the lobbies... This is the first hospital ever I don't mind walking around in!
After Bumrungrad, we go shopping forAcer laptops. After one year of sharing a laptop with Phil, I feel like I'm due one of my own, and have set my sights on something I can easily cart around, something like a little Acer Aspire. Since electronics are much cheaper outside of Indonesia, Bangkok is the place to buy one. Eugene is eyeing the newest of the newest Acer (not even published yet) and I fall in love with the cutest little Acer "Baby" laptop. Excellent price. Deal. Mission accomplished.
But now time is racing by and we have a date with "The Blind Masseurs." We catch a quick bite to eat (fried rice is always a good bet) and rush to our appointment. The door to the spa opens with a loud imitation bird song and we're taken upstairs to get our feet washed. The four of us (E & K, Phil & me) will be worked on simultaneously in Room 9, a small rectangle of a place with 5 low beds. No gentle background music or ambient lighting here. It's your basic neon-lit concrete box. The A/C is on full blast and I'm glad when Kajorn resolutely turns it off. We're issued a set of colorful loose "pajamas" to change into (Thai massage is done fully dressed and without oil) and soon our four masseurs are guided to the persons they're to work on. I get a chubby young woman with a half smile, half frown on her face. She tells me her Thai name which I cannot pronounce. Fortunately for me she also has a nickname, April. April sways her whole body into every move, methodically, rhythmically. The other masseurs,all males, don't sway. As April leans her weight into me at the end of every move, her eyes roll upward until only the whites show. I wish I could grab my camera to catch the moment but my camera is out of reach in my purse and I don't really want to interrupt my massage. At the end I must say that even though it was a nice experience it still left me feeling a bit unfinished. Was it not strong enough? Not sure what was missing. Maybe I should get another one, from one of the male masseurs this time.
There's no resting after the massage because we're to meet some friends of E & K at Lumpini Park for a pop concert by the Bangkok Symphony. It's a gorgeous park, trees layered with colorful orchids, families strolling in groups, and the weather is perfect for a night of Music in the Park. We pass an enthusiastic crowd of young people doing some arobic kind of line dancing. Their music is loud and pounding and I wonder if it will interfere with the classical music we'll be listening to. But I need not worry. The park turns out to be large enough to accommodate both events. The music is enjoyable and the company is fun. When the orchestra goes through a medley of songs from "My Fair Lady," Eugene and Phil sing along, trying their best to remember the lyrics. Since song lyrics are beyond my capacity, I just clap my hands to the beat. For applause I do my very un-ladylike whistling with my fingers.
Some interesting notes:
After the concert we have dinner at a Chinese restaurant across from the park. We meet up with Marco, an expat from Zurich, Switzerland, who has lived in Thailand for 16 (or is it 20 years?). We also meet Tanyalak Kamolnetpisut, called Arr for short, and another young woman named Yaowapa Metmoulee or Ying whom we had met earlier. Ever tried pronouncing Thai names? No wonder many go by a nick name.
I know this is silly, but thinking about names again: I've now started asking people for their full names and if they are on Facebook. If they are, I can look them up and get to know them better. At least that's my excuse. Eugene is on FB, Kajorn is not. Ying is, but Arr and Marco are not. It's also interesting to me how intense people can get about NOT being on Facebook.
Monday, 18 January, 2010
We take a cab to Bumrungrad Hospital,a 20-minute ride. Phil has his first 2 appointments today. Right now I'm sitting in the waiting room of the Cardiology Clinic. I'm surrounded by Arab families from Oman and Dubai. We're watching an Arab soap opera on one of the many wide screen TV's. Black burkas rustle around me. Eugene had told us that the Arab Emirates chose Bumrungrad to set up their medical complex. 40% of the patients are Arabic, 50% Thai. How's that for percentages coming from a mathematically-challenged person like me?
Two women in black burkas sit down across from me. I find out that they're sisters and are accompanied by their brother. I ask if I can take their picture. The women both say no, but their brother tells them it's okay. In fact he starts posing for a photo himself. The women finally relent but much to my dismay they remove their veils, showing their faces. I wanted to photograph them in their massive black burkas with just a slit for their eyes, but what can I say? I take their picture. The brother wants to see the photos and promptly changes his mind. "No download!" he warns me, frowning, "Delete! Delete!" I tell him I can only delete those two photos after I download all of my photos, but his English is limited. He grabs my camera and tries to fiddle with it. I jerk the camera back from him and show him that there is only a "Delete All" button. I cannot delete just the two pictures of him with his sisters. He doesn't like it. I hold out my hand to him and tell him, "I promise I will delete the photos." He takes my hand half-heartedly. Only later do I realize the problem. He is charged with keeping the honor of his sisters. The photo of his sisters showing their faces in public with him by their side is therefore a big No-No.
That afternoon I find a copy of the Asian Literary Review. Wow, I so enjoy the writing and art, I check the price of a subscription. Oops, $60 per year for Indonesia. Deal breaker. It did inspire me, though. I feel myself longing to get back to more creative endeavors. So far I've been saying I'm too busy with running the villa, yada yada, etc...
Tuesday, 19 January, 2010
Despite the scheduling snafu this morning that interfered with my plan to go to the Indonesian Embassy to apply for our new visas, everything else went perfectly. Phil keeps getting more and more impressed by the thoroughness of his doctors and their medical knowledge. Eugene had told us that Bumrungrad doctors are the cream of the crop and that certainly is bearing out. I'm glad Phil is feeling confident with his choice of medical care.
I ran into the brother of the burka-clad sisters today. He was a changed man. He saw me first and waved, then turned to his sisters and they waved. Guess all is well again.
We pick up some sandwiches at Au Bon Pain, one of the bakeries at the hospital and go home.
We arrive at the newly renovated Bangkok airport after an easy 4-hour Air Asia flight from Denpasar. The airport's curved steel architecture is impressive and its clean art-lined interior is a pleasure for the eye. We find a cab and I show the driver the address we're going to. Eugene and Kajorn, our hosts (hereafter referred to as E & K), have thoughtfully provided directions in both English and Thai. Nevertheless, the driver is stumped. Only after we call Eugene at work does he understand how to get there. Hats off to Eugene for speaking Thai, albeit with a heavy Dutch accent.
After Bali's crazy motorcycle-clogged traffic we're amazed at how few motorcycles we see on the road. And like a couple of old country hicks in a big city we marvel at Bangkok's wide multi-lane highways, and orderly traffic (at least on the highways). Funny how it takes only a year in Bali to forget about "real" highways. We had been warned about time-consuming traffic jams and ruthless drivers, and we certainly experienced those too, but overall our first trip through Bangkok is surprisingly pleasant.
When we arrive at Eugene and Kajorn's "Supreme Elegance" condo in the Sathorn district we're in for another surprise. What an incredible place they have! On the 3rd floor of a 7-floor building, the interior is in welcoming Asian Contemporary, light-filled and spacious with warm hardwood floors. Kajorn has prepared the master bedroom for us, complete with fresh towels, soaps, a "Supreme Elegance" note pad, and even a beautiful white shawl as a gift for me. Such sweetness! We make ourselves comfortable, taking in the art works, books, and Buddha altars, and wait for E & K to come home from work. So happy to see them. By then we're really hungry and they take us to a Chinese chain restaurant around the corner. It's chockful with diners, loud, and busy, but the food comes quick and is great. We eat our fill and walk back home, passing by the Blind Masseurs spa where E & K get their Thai massages every Sunday afternoon. I immediately sign up for one.
Saturday, 16 January, 2010
E & K prepare us an extraordinary breakfast: poffertjes (the last box left from their trip to Holland last month); a yummy fruit salad of mango, papaya, pomegranite, banana with yoghurt dressing; fruit & vegetable smoothies; scrambled eggs on whole wheat toast, croissants... and more I think, but such an abundance I have difficulty remembering everything. Cheese, yes, cheese, aged Gouda... delicious.
E & K then take us on a tour of two temples, the Wat Suthat and the Wat Pho temples:
The Wat Suthat temple is a beautiful temple recognizable by the decorative horn-like protrusions along its roofs. The cloisters in the inner wall are lined with 156 gilded Buddha statues. It's a working temple, housing a magnificent sitting Buddha and housing many working monks, as well. Because Kajorn has trouble finding a parking place we have to cut our visit short but not before Phil and I receive a water blessing and a protection bracelet from one of the monks. Waiting outside for Kajorn to pick us up we have a chance to view the Giant Swing. Since the swing part was removed in 1932, only the giant arch is left. The story is that at the annual thanksgiving ceremony for the rice harvest, young daredevil monks would ride the swing high in the air (a dizzying 80 feet in the air) to try and grab a bag of silver coins with their teeth. This extreme sport was rightfully stopped after several young monks fell to their death.
After Wat Suthat E & K take us to lunch at "In Love" restaurant on the river where Kajorn provides us with four enormous bags of shredded bread to feed the fish with. It's a Buddhist act of charity. You can indulge in another popular act of charity by going to the market next door and buying the fish, eel and other water creatures that are being kept alive in containers of water, and releasing them back into the river. It's supposed to create good karma. Our good karma will have to come from eating asparagus, crab fried rice, tamarind soup, and fried sea bass. Dessert is warm bananas in coconut cream. I feel like we're eating our way through Bangkok.
After lunch we take the river boat to Wat Pho temple, the famous temple of the Reclining Buddha. It's Bangkok's largest temple. The gold-plated Buddha is enormous. Its feet alone are 9 ft long and are exquisitely decorated in mother-of-pearl illustrations of the auspicious characteristics of the Buddha. Talking about feet -- there were two separate places for storing shoes: one long row of wooden cubbyholes for foreigners' shoes and another open shelving for Thai. Funny. Maybe it has something to do with preventing theft? But that would assume that foreigners wear more "stealable" shoes than Thai. The opposite may be the case.
Sunday, 17 January, 2010
Eugene takes us on a tour of Bumrungrad Hospital. It does not look in the least like a hospital, more like a complex of fancy hotels. Lobbies that soar way up, men and women in flowing middle eastern dress, smiling young Thai in form-fitting, irridescent silk suits showing people around, nurses in crisp whites, and head-scarved muslim clerks, Starbucks, eateries, and book stores in every building, aromas of coffee and cake wafting throughout the lobbies... This is the first hospital ever I don't mind walking around in!
After Bumrungrad, we go shopping forAcer laptops. After one year of sharing a laptop with Phil, I feel like I'm due one of my own, and have set my sights on something I can easily cart around, something like a little Acer Aspire. Since electronics are much cheaper outside of Indonesia, Bangkok is the place to buy one. Eugene is eyeing the newest of the newest Acer (not even published yet) and I fall in love with the cutest little Acer "Baby" laptop. Excellent price. Deal. Mission accomplished.
But now time is racing by and we have a date with "The Blind Masseurs." We catch a quick bite to eat (fried rice is always a good bet) and rush to our appointment. The door to the spa opens with a loud imitation bird song and we're taken upstairs to get our feet washed. The four of us (E & K, Phil & me) will be worked on simultaneously in Room 9, a small rectangle of a place with 5 low beds. No gentle background music or ambient lighting here. It's your basic neon-lit concrete box. The A/C is on full blast and I'm glad when Kajorn resolutely turns it off. We're issued a set of colorful loose "pajamas" to change into (Thai massage is done fully dressed and without oil) and soon our four masseurs are guided to the persons they're to work on. I get a chubby young woman with a half smile, half frown on her face. She tells me her Thai name which I cannot pronounce. Fortunately for me she also has a nickname, April. April sways her whole body into every move, methodically, rhythmically. The other masseurs,all males, don't sway. As April leans her weight into me at the end of every move, her eyes roll upward until only the whites show. I wish I could grab my camera to catch the moment but my camera is out of reach in my purse and I don't really want to interrupt my massage. At the end I must say that even though it was a nice experience it still left me feeling a bit unfinished. Was it not strong enough? Not sure what was missing. Maybe I should get another one, from one of the male masseurs this time.
There's no resting after the massage because we're to meet some friends of E & K at Lumpini Park for a pop concert by the Bangkok Symphony. It's a gorgeous park, trees layered with colorful orchids, families strolling in groups, and the weather is perfect for a night of Music in the Park. We pass an enthusiastic crowd of young people doing some arobic kind of line dancing. Their music is loud and pounding and I wonder if it will interfere with the classical music we'll be listening to. But I need not worry. The park turns out to be large enough to accommodate both events. The music is enjoyable and the company is fun. When the orchestra goes through a medley of songs from "My Fair Lady," Eugene and Phil sing along, trying their best to remember the lyrics. Since song lyrics are beyond my capacity, I just clap my hands to the beat. For applause I do my very un-ladylike whistling with my fingers.
Some interesting notes:
- The conductor of the Bangkok Symphony is also a pop singer. He sang a couple of songs. Not bad.
- We get to the park around 6:00 PM and I notice people in the park standing at attention. Eugene tells me that every day at 8:00 AM and 6:00 PM the Thai Nationa Anthem is played in schools and government offices and people stop what they're doing to stand at attention. Apparently the Antem is broadcast through the park as well.
After the concert we have dinner at a Chinese restaurant across from the park. We meet up with Marco, an expat from Zurich, Switzerland, who has lived in Thailand for 16 (or is it 20 years?). We also meet Tanyalak Kamolnetpisut, called Arr for short, and another young woman named Yaowapa Metmoulee or Ying whom we had met earlier. Ever tried pronouncing Thai names? No wonder many go by a nick name.
I know this is silly, but thinking about names again: I've now started asking people for their full names and if they are on Facebook. If they are, I can look them up and get to know them better. At least that's my excuse. Eugene is on FB, Kajorn is not. Ying is, but Arr and Marco are not. It's also interesting to me how intense people can get about NOT being on Facebook.
Monday, 18 January, 2010
We take a cab to Bumrungrad Hospital,a 20-minute ride. Phil has his first 2 appointments today. Right now I'm sitting in the waiting room of the Cardiology Clinic. I'm surrounded by Arab families from Oman and Dubai. We're watching an Arab soap opera on one of the many wide screen TV's. Black burkas rustle around me. Eugene had told us that the Arab Emirates chose Bumrungrad to set up their medical complex. 40% of the patients are Arabic, 50% Thai. How's that for percentages coming from a mathematically-challenged person like me?
Two women in black burkas sit down across from me. I find out that they're sisters and are accompanied by their brother. I ask if I can take their picture. The women both say no, but their brother tells them it's okay. In fact he starts posing for a photo himself. The women finally relent but much to my dismay they remove their veils, showing their faces. I wanted to photograph them in their massive black burkas with just a slit for their eyes, but what can I say? I take their picture. The brother wants to see the photos and promptly changes his mind. "No download!" he warns me, frowning, "Delete! Delete!" I tell him I can only delete those two photos after I download all of my photos, but his English is limited. He grabs my camera and tries to fiddle with it. I jerk the camera back from him and show him that there is only a "Delete All" button. I cannot delete just the two pictures of him with his sisters. He doesn't like it. I hold out my hand to him and tell him, "I promise I will delete the photos." He takes my hand half-heartedly. Only later do I realize the problem. He is charged with keeping the honor of his sisters. The photo of his sisters showing their faces in public with him by their side is therefore a big No-No.
That afternoon I find a copy of the Asian Literary Review. Wow, I so enjoy the writing and art, I check the price of a subscription. Oops, $60 per year for Indonesia. Deal breaker. It did inspire me, though. I feel myself longing to get back to more creative endeavors. So far I've been saying I'm too busy with running the villa, yada yada, etc...
Tuesday, 19 January, 2010
Despite the scheduling snafu this morning that interfered with my plan to go to the Indonesian Embassy to apply for our new visas, everything else went perfectly. Phil keeps getting more and more impressed by the thoroughness of his doctors and their medical knowledge. Eugene had told us that Bumrungrad doctors are the cream of the crop and that certainly is bearing out. I'm glad Phil is feeling confident with his choice of medical care.
I ran into the brother of the burka-clad sisters today. He was a changed man. He saw me first and waved, then turned to his sisters and they waved. Guess all is well again.
We pick up some sandwiches at Au Bon Pain, one of the bakeries at the hospital and go home.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
DAYUDE'S PREDICAMENT
First some CORRECTIONS:
The Baby Naming ceremony does not take place after 42 days but as soon as the umbilicus falls off, four days or so after birth. Which day of the 5-day week in the Balinese Pancawara calendar the baby is born determines the number of names and palm leaves to be offered. If the baby is born on day:
Manis - 5
Paing -9
Pon - 7
Wage - 4
Kliwon - 8
I wrote that the palm leaves with the names get burned. Wrong. This is how it's done. Each individual palm leaf is tied to a slender bamboo stick with a length of thread. A cotton ball soaked in coconut oil is fastened on top of each stick and lighted. The cotton ball that burns out last is the one that determines the baby's unique personal name. The bamboo sticks and palm leaves stay intact.
DAYUDE'S PREDICAMENT
Dayude's husband Ketut belongs to a lower caste. Although Balinese, his family lives on the neighboring Muslim island of Lombok, a 2-hour boat ride from Padang Bai. From Ubud it takes one hour to drive to Padang Bai. Once in Lombok it's another 3-hour drive upland on bad roads to Ketut's family home. That's just driving time. It does not include waiting for the ferry to take you across the ocean. It's a long journey, especially if you're in your last month of pregnancy, and dangerous as well. But that's exactly what Balinese custom dictates. Babies are birthed in the husband's family home because that's where the placenta is buried, therefore Dayude will have to make the trek to Lombok before the baby is born. When I heard this, I nearly jumped out of my skin. No! No way!!! Stupid men that make these stupid rules. If men birthed babies, you bet they'd make it easy on themselves.
Phil suggested to have Dayude's doctor write a letter forbidding Dayude to travel. But because Dayude and Ketut live with Dayude's parents, she cannot have the baby born at home either because the baby will be of a lower caste - Grrrr! - and the placenta can therefore not be buried on their land.
Dayude consulted a priest who advised Ketut to go to Lombok and fill a earthen pot with soil from his family's land, bring it to Ubud, and bury the placenta inside it. 42 days after their baby's birth, Ketut, Dayude and the baby could then travel to Lombok and bury the placenta where it belongs. That seemed an okay solution until Dayude's family brought up the possibility of theft. A pot of dirt with a placenta inside is an invitation for black magic and a serious threat to the baby's life.
Ketut left Ubud to spend three days with his family in Lombok to figure out what to do. After consulting with their village priest they finally came up with a solution. Dayude will give birth in the hospital. Immediately after birth, Ketut will take the placenta to the ocean, swim out until he can't reach bottom, and drop the placenta there. Hopefully it will not be midnight. I plan to give him money to rent a boat instead. The idea of him in the water with placenta shark bait tied around his waist is just too gruesome for me. Stay tuned.
The Baby Naming ceremony does not take place after 42 days but as soon as the umbilicus falls off, four days or so after birth. Which day of the 5-day week in the Balinese Pancawara calendar the baby is born determines the number of names and palm leaves to be offered. If the baby is born on day:
Manis - 5
Paing -9
Pon - 7
Wage - 4
Kliwon - 8
I wrote that the palm leaves with the names get burned. Wrong. This is how it's done. Each individual palm leaf is tied to a slender bamboo stick with a length of thread. A cotton ball soaked in coconut oil is fastened on top of each stick and lighted. The cotton ball that burns out last is the one that determines the baby's unique personal name. The bamboo sticks and palm leaves stay intact.
Dayude and Ketut
Throughout the pregnancy no shaving or cutting hair is allowed.
Usually clean-shaven, by now Ketut is sporting a full beard.
DAYUDE'S PREDICAMENT
Dayude's husband Ketut belongs to a lower caste. Although Balinese, his family lives on the neighboring Muslim island of Lombok, a 2-hour boat ride from Padang Bai. From Ubud it takes one hour to drive to Padang Bai. Once in Lombok it's another 3-hour drive upland on bad roads to Ketut's family home. That's just driving time. It does not include waiting for the ferry to take you across the ocean. It's a long journey, especially if you're in your last month of pregnancy, and dangerous as well. But that's exactly what Balinese custom dictates. Babies are birthed in the husband's family home because that's where the placenta is buried, therefore Dayude will have to make the trek to Lombok before the baby is born. When I heard this, I nearly jumped out of my skin. No! No way!!! Stupid men that make these stupid rules. If men birthed babies, you bet they'd make it easy on themselves.
Phil suggested to have Dayude's doctor write a letter forbidding Dayude to travel. But because Dayude and Ketut live with Dayude's parents, she cannot have the baby born at home either because the baby will be of a lower caste - Grrrr! - and the placenta can therefore not be buried on their land.
Dayude consulted a priest who advised Ketut to go to Lombok and fill a earthen pot with soil from his family's land, bring it to Ubud, and bury the placenta inside it. 42 days after their baby's birth, Ketut, Dayude and the baby could then travel to Lombok and bury the placenta where it belongs. That seemed an okay solution until Dayude's family brought up the possibility of theft. A pot of dirt with a placenta inside is an invitation for black magic and a serious threat to the baby's life.
Ketut left Ubud to spend three days with his family in Lombok to figure out what to do. After consulting with their village priest they finally came up with a solution. Dayude will give birth in the hospital. Immediately after birth, Ketut will take the placenta to the ocean, swim out until he can't reach bottom, and drop the placenta there. Hopefully it will not be midnight. I plan to give him money to rent a boat instead. The idea of him in the water with placenta shark bait tied around his waist is just too gruesome for me. Stay tuned.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
FULL CIRCLE: My New Year's Resolution
When meeting local people you will often be asked "Where are you going?", "Where are you from?", "Where is your husband?", "Do you have children?", etc. The questions originate in the need to know how to properly address a fellow Balinese but have been extended to meeting westerners, as well. Just as in Hawaii, locals identify themselves by the high school they've attended, the Balinese identify themselves by the village of their birth. Names identify their caste and birth order. Knowing someone's caste helps determine which language (high or low) to use in addressing the other. All foreigners are assumed to belong to the "Walking ATM" caste.
The young woman who cooks for us and keeps our books is named Ida Ayu Made Rosita (Dayu is short for Ida Ayu). "Ida Ayu" (Ida Bagus for men) identifies her as belonging to the highest caste, the Brahmana or priest caste. "Made" identifies her as second born.
The birth order names are:
1st born: Wayan, Gede or Putu.
2nd born: Made, Nengah or Kadek.
3rd born: Nyoman or Komang.
4th born: Ketut.
Then the whole cycle starts over with “Balik” (which means “again”) added to the name. So the fifth-born child is called Wayan Balik (or “Wayan again”).
Dayu is 7 months pregnant and, in preparation for her maternity leave, her older sister has joined our household. Her name is Ida Ayu Putu Sriastini, also shortened to Dayu. "Putu" denotes she is first born. To distinguish one Dayu from the other they're called Dayude (short for Dayu Made) and Dayutu (short for Dayu Putu).
When I ask Dayude how she got "Rosita" tacked on as her personal name, she says that when a baby is 42 days old a Name-Giving Ceremony is held. The family writes 5 or 6 different personal names on separate palm leaves and sets the leaves on fire. The name on the leaf that burns the last is the unique personal name given to the baby. For Dayude it was the leaf with the name Rosita. It's believed that names have a strong effect on a person's life. So if the baby turns out sickly, the family will repeat the process with a set of other names and find a new name for the baby. As people move through various life stages they can also change their names accordingly. Wish it were that easy and cheap to change names in the west.
I've gone through five formal name changes myself. I know it's crazy. The first time was when my father applied for a passport and had to change his last name to his mother's last name because his father never registered him as his legitimate son. The second time was when I married. The third time was when I divorced and did not want to keep my married name or go back to my very long and unpronounceable maiden name. I learned that I could change my name for free if I became a US citizen. The fee otherwise would be $75. So now you know how much my US citizenship was worth to me. The fourth occasion for changing my name came when I learned that the name I had been using was "unbalanced." (And all that time I thought it was just me!) If I changed the numerology of my name to one that would harmonize with the numerology of my birth date, my life would be transformed. Not one to miss out on any kind of transformation, I applied and paid for another name change. Some of you may still remember me as Alshaa T. Rayne. Coincidentally, the name change came through exactly on my birthday and shortly after my career as an artist took off. Not bad. The fifth name change came about when I decided to honor our ancestors by installing a family altar. But since I was married to Phil, it would have to be an altar for his family (I know, aren't we still in a patriarchy) and I would have to take on his last name. By now I've become a veritable name chameleon, so what's another name change? To still honor my mother, though, I decided to add her first name to mine and became Elsha Antoinette Bohnert. I can tell you that every name change brought about countless other miracles and transformations. But then again, that's the nature of life, too. So, what's the big deal? And you're wondering: When is she coming to her New Year's resolution and is she preparing us for another name change? The answer is, No, no more new names for me, and Trust me, I will come to my New Year's resolution eventually. All the above is to show how rooted the Balinese are in their culture and how totally rootless I've lived. Bear with me.
I'm Dutch-Indonesian, raised with Dutch as my mother tongue and attending Dutch schools. So even when I lived in Indonesia, I did not feel Indonesian and when I lived in The Netherlands, I did not feel I was Dutch. In America, even with American citizenship, I do not feel American. Hawaii came closest to giving me a sense of belonging. I could pass for local except for the pidgin part. Here in Bali, I may look Indonesian, but again, I'm definitely not Balinese, can't even pretend to be. But what do you do when you're immersed up to your eyeballs in, and embraced by, everything Balinese? When there is no such thing as keeping your distance, when there's no escape from this radical outrageous outlandish culture. I may be forced to give up my "in-between, no-fit-anywhere, no-belong-anywhere" attitude because (damn, am I really going to say this?)... I belong here. I belong here with the people that surround me and their crazy spirits and customs, their processions, prayers, offerings, and incense -- what happened to my allergy to incense? Most of all, I belong in this community of neighbors and friends that has so completely embraced us as family, something I've never experienced as an adult. Our neighbors Herman and Retno have four kids and all kinds of cousins, aunts and uncles living in their lively compound next door. And in our villa we have our own community of friends and staff and guests living and working there. There's always something going on and there's always somebody there. This is brand new to me, and it's fun! Living in our little Balinese bungalow Phil and I have our privacy, but the doors are always open, just as they are in the villa. The Bali Institute for Global Renewal has their office upstairs in our former fresh-air dining room. Their team members go in and out. We have movie nights and jam sessions and salsa dancing in our lobby. We have people dropping by to talk or chill out. Did I mention fun? Yeah, I've decided that this is where I belong :-)
During my first year of living in America I watched how difficult it was for immigrant families to adjust to another culture, my parents included. They all had problems finding good jobs and were forever struggling with paying their bills. Only one family was an exception. I asked them what their secret was and they said: "It's all about communication. Learn to speak English fluently." I went home that day and told my then husband that from that day on we would speak only English. Now that I'm living in Bali I'm taking their advice again. By the end of next year I will be able to read and speak Indonesian fluently. Fortunately for Phil, English is widely spoken here, so he does not have to learn more Indonesian than he wants for fun.
SELAMAT TAHUN BARU! BOLEHKAN KAMU MERESTUI MELEBIHI IMPIANMU.
Happy New Year! May your life be blessed beyond your wildest dreams.
The young woman who cooks for us and keeps our books is named Ida Ayu Made Rosita (Dayu is short for Ida Ayu). "Ida Ayu" (Ida Bagus for men) identifies her as belonging to the highest caste, the Brahmana or priest caste. "Made" identifies her as second born.
The birth order names are:
1st born: Wayan, Gede or Putu.
2nd born: Made, Nengah or Kadek.
3rd born: Nyoman or Komang.
4th born: Ketut.
Then the whole cycle starts over with “Balik” (which means “again”) added to the name. So the fifth-born child is called Wayan Balik (or “Wayan again”).
Dayu is 7 months pregnant and, in preparation for her maternity leave, her older sister has joined our household. Her name is Ida Ayu Putu Sriastini, also shortened to Dayu. "Putu" denotes she is first born. To distinguish one Dayu from the other they're called Dayude (short for Dayu Made) and Dayutu (short for Dayu Putu).
When I ask Dayude how she got "Rosita" tacked on as her personal name, she says that when a baby is 42 days old a Name-Giving Ceremony is held. The family writes 5 or 6 different personal names on separate palm leaves and sets the leaves on fire. The name on the leaf that burns the last is the unique personal name given to the baby. For Dayude it was the leaf with the name Rosita. It's believed that names have a strong effect on a person's life. So if the baby turns out sickly, the family will repeat the process with a set of other names and find a new name for the baby. As people move through various life stages they can also change their names accordingly. Wish it were that easy and cheap to change names in the west.
I've gone through five formal name changes myself. I know it's crazy. The first time was when my father applied for a passport and had to change his last name to his mother's last name because his father never registered him as his legitimate son. The second time was when I married. The third time was when I divorced and did not want to keep my married name or go back to my very long and unpronounceable maiden name. I learned that I could change my name for free if I became a US citizen. The fee otherwise would be $75. So now you know how much my US citizenship was worth to me. The fourth occasion for changing my name came when I learned that the name I had been using was "unbalanced." (And all that time I thought it was just me!) If I changed the numerology of my name to one that would harmonize with the numerology of my birth date, my life would be transformed. Not one to miss out on any kind of transformation, I applied and paid for another name change. Some of you may still remember me as Alshaa T. Rayne. Coincidentally, the name change came through exactly on my birthday and shortly after my career as an artist took off. Not bad. The fifth name change came about when I decided to honor our ancestors by installing a family altar. But since I was married to Phil, it would have to be an altar for his family (I know, aren't we still in a patriarchy) and I would have to take on his last name. By now I've become a veritable name chameleon, so what's another name change? To still honor my mother, though, I decided to add her first name to mine and became Elsha Antoinette Bohnert. I can tell you that every name change brought about countless other miracles and transformations. But then again, that's the nature of life, too. So, what's the big deal? And you're wondering: When is she coming to her New Year's resolution and is she preparing us for another name change? The answer is, No, no more new names for me, and Trust me, I will come to my New Year's resolution eventually. All the above is to show how rooted the Balinese are in their culture and how totally rootless I've lived. Bear with me.
I'm Dutch-Indonesian, raised with Dutch as my mother tongue and attending Dutch schools. So even when I lived in Indonesia, I did not feel Indonesian and when I lived in The Netherlands, I did not feel I was Dutch. In America, even with American citizenship, I do not feel American. Hawaii came closest to giving me a sense of belonging. I could pass for local except for the pidgin part. Here in Bali, I may look Indonesian, but again, I'm definitely not Balinese, can't even pretend to be. But what do you do when you're immersed up to your eyeballs in, and embraced by, everything Balinese? When there is no such thing as keeping your distance, when there's no escape from this radical outrageous outlandish culture. I may be forced to give up my "in-between, no-fit-anywhere, no-belong-anywhere" attitude because (damn, am I really going to say this?)... I belong here. I belong here with the people that surround me and their crazy spirits and customs, their processions, prayers, offerings, and incense -- what happened to my allergy to incense? Most of all, I belong in this community of neighbors and friends that has so completely embraced us as family, something I've never experienced as an adult. Our neighbors Herman and Retno have four kids and all kinds of cousins, aunts and uncles living in their lively compound next door. And in our villa we have our own community of friends and staff and guests living and working there. There's always something going on and there's always somebody there. This is brand new to me, and it's fun! Living in our little Balinese bungalow Phil and I have our privacy, but the doors are always open, just as they are in the villa. The Bali Institute for Global Renewal has their office upstairs in our former fresh-air dining room. Their team members go in and out. We have movie nights and jam sessions and salsa dancing in our lobby. We have people dropping by to talk or chill out. Did I mention fun? Yeah, I've decided that this is where I belong :-)
During my first year of living in America I watched how difficult it was for immigrant families to adjust to another culture, my parents included. They all had problems finding good jobs and were forever struggling with paying their bills. Only one family was an exception. I asked them what their secret was and they said: "It's all about communication. Learn to speak English fluently." I went home that day and told my then husband that from that day on we would speak only English. Now that I'm living in Bali I'm taking their advice again. By the end of next year I will be able to read and speak Indonesian fluently. Fortunately for Phil, English is widely spoken here, so he does not have to learn more Indonesian than he wants for fun.
SELAMAT TAHUN BARU! BOLEHKAN KAMU MERESTUI MELEBIHI IMPIANMU.
Happy New Year! May your life be blessed beyond your wildest dreams.
Friday, January 1, 2010
NEW YEAR GREETINGS FROM BALI
From left to right: Charlie, Peter, Phil, Dayude, Dayutu
MAY YOU BE BLESSED BEYOND YOUR WILDEST DREAMS!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
