FOOL'S JOURNEY

MOVING, MONSTERS & MIRACLES

2010-04-08T22:36:00.001-10:00

Okay, I’ve been AWOL long enough now. Time to put some things in words and pictures.

Once Phil and I decided to leave Bali (a bittersweet decision on my part) to return to Hawaii, everything instantly shifted into warp speed. It took less than a week for the right people to show up who were willing and able to rent not only Villa Kubu Merta Guesthouse, but also Kubu Santi, the little bungalow next door where we lived. That same week, through the internet, we also found a charming little condo in Waikiki for us to move into immediately upon arrival. It’s in the quiet part of Waikiki, close to the beach and across the street from Honolulu’s beloved Kapiolani Park. Both these happenings we consider pure miracles and spectacular gifts! They allowed us to leave much sooner than expected and with a strong sense of confidence. Surely we were being guided.

Our China Air flight would leave at 2:30 AM on March 16, a few hours before all of Bali would close down for Nyepi, Bali’s extraordinary New Year’s Day observation. Would you believe that everything comes to a total standstill at 6:00 AM sharp that morning and remains that way for the next 24 hours? Kind of like a 24-hour Sleeping Beauty period. What that means is that no traffic is allowed on the streets: no cars, no trucks, no motorbikes, no pedestrians, and… no airplanes flying in and out either. Imagine an international world airport shutting down for 24 hours to observe silence and inner peace! New Year’s Day in Bali is a time for going inward, for reflection and silent meditation. No lights, no fires, no cooking, no TV, no radio, no loud noises are allowed. Wouldn’t that be a great idea for the whole world? Set aside 24 hours for being still. Think of how much we would save on power. Not just one hour on Earth Day, but a full day! And oh… the quiet…

We had to be at the airport at 12:30 AM to check in. Ordinarily the drive takes an hour and 15 minutes, so we planned to leave Ubud at 11:00 PM the night before. Because that would be New Year’s Eve, however, the drive might take us a bit longer. No big deal, right? But already, for weeks before the date of our departure, our driver Suamba started fretting about it. First he said we should leave at 5:00 PM, before nightfall. Wow, that would mean that we would be at the airport 6 hours before we actually had to be there. It’s not a fancy airport, not much to do but wait. Then he said, No, 5:00 PM is too late. 2:00 PM would be better. Yikes, that’s 9 hours before! Why? DEMONS, that’s why. Demons and dangerous roads.

Just as Balinese New Year is different, their New Year’s Eve is different too. For months every village and every community center has been constructing enormous paper-maché puppets of fierce demons and dreadful monsters, called ogoh-ogoh (I love that word!). By nightfall the streets everywhere would be jam-packed with raucous groups of men (often drunk) carrying these fantastic creatures on large bamboo platforms and parading them through the streets to the local cemeteries for final burning. The puppets, of course, represent all the evil forces and karmic spirits that cause the world’s sufferings. (I have some interesting stories to share for a later post about the Balinese view of evil and their sense of responsibility – or lack thereof.)

The idea behind these New Year’s Eve ogoh-ogoh is to give form to these evil forces, appease them by stuffing them with food and drink, and then to chase them away by burning them. Hopefully, on New Year’s Day, any negative spirits flying over Bali would find nobody outside, no fires, no lights, and no sounds, and decide that the island is uninhabited, and thus not worth the trouble. It’s a glimpse in the typical quirky Balinese mindset. Its magical thinking makes for great theater.

Suamba is a very safe and cautious driver. He wanted to be home before nightfall, before the traffic jams, and before the drunks on the road. That’s why he wanted to take us to the airport so early. Since we did not want him to worry and wished him a safe journey home, we did as he suggested. We arrived at the airport at 4:30 PM with no trouble and then spent a very, very, VERY LONG time waiting in uncomfortable plastic chairs for our flight’s check-in counter to open. Actually, our early airport arrival turned out to be a good thing after all, because toward the end there was a massive convergence onto the airport of people hurrying to catch the last flights out, resulting in long lines of passengers having to wait outside to get through the initial security into the airport. We missed all that. After the hecticness of packing and moving, just sitting and doing nothing is not bad at all. Still, I do not recommend traveling on Balinese New Year’s Eve! Better to stay another day and enjoy the peace and quiet of Nyepi.

We were met at the airport by our daughter Kiki. A great, wonderful, happy reunion, but awfully short. She was on her way out to New York, our porter had loaded our stuff in a cab and wanted to get paid, and the cab driver was ready to take off without us. So it was a quick “Whoohoo, you’re back! Here are the keys, your rental contract, and a list of things you need to know about your apartment. See you when I get back. And oh, by the way, there is no electricity in your place. Call the electric company ASAP.” Oh well, we know about living without power. It’s Ubud all over again. Just like when we first came to Bali, no phone, no car, no TV, no internet. Piece of cake for us seasoned Third World travelers. Funny how periodically life takes us back full circle.

During the taxi ride through Honolulu we marvel at the orderliness of highway traffic, no hordes of darting motorbikes going every which way. We giggle at recognizing familiar exit signs, like Likelike and Pali and Punahou. We’re acting like we’ve been gone for twenty years. Pathetic. But it’s all a thrill, to see the mountains, the ocean, and everything so clean. We’re happy to be back. And when we arrive at our new home, we immediately fall in love with it. It’s secluded in a grove of palm trees. It’s small, but it feels exactly right for what we need now.

Another miraculous gift: our sister-in-law Rhonda happens to be moving back to Texas. Instead of shipping over her household stuff, she decided to bequeath us her sheets, towels, pans, kitchen utensils, and anything else we need to be comfortable. She even stocked our pantry with bread and oatmeal and veggies. The best thing she did? She made up our bed ready for sleep! I managed to unpack two suitcases before collapsing unceremoniously into the beautiful clean bed. Slept for three hours and then stayed awake all night.
We’re using Rhonda’s car until she comes back for it. She has a Mercedes convertible that is so automatic it freaks me out. The lights turn on and off automatically and as soon as it senses rain, it turns on the windshield wipers – intermittently and slow for light rain, faster as it rains harder. It’s like a genie lives under the hood who peers out from under it to check the time and weather conditions. I halfway expect the car to automatically park itself too.

So you see, we’re well taken care of, beyond our expectations. Phil went right into his groove. For someone who does not like to move, he is one amazing old coot. Of course, he’s got me, the dutiful wife who makes sure he has all his comforts. Everywhere he goes, though, he meets people who are overjoyed to see him back, who take him aside, whispering, “Uh, are you seeing patients again? Can I come?” So yeah, he’s got it made. Even his doctors are glad to see him. He’s going to live to be a hundred.

As for me, it’s a different story. As happy as I am being back in Hawaii, close to Kiki and Gary, living in comfort and beauty, something is amiss. For the longest time I didn’t know what it was. I thought at first it was just because I was so exhausted. The year before we left for Bali was super intense, the year in Bali was equally intense in a different way, then Bangkok, and now moving back… it all seems too much, too fast.

Then there is the issue of aging. Nothing like sitting at Queen’s hospital and watching all the geriatric patients file by. Did I come back to Hawaii to become one of them? Auw… As if to ward off any thoughts like that I gear myself up to get back into shape by walking briskly through the park, on the beaches, through the traffic and the trolleys carrying winter-pale or painfully-sunburned tourists around Waikiki. I walk for hours at a time until I think my legs are going to fall off or I need a Häagen-Dazs break. All along I’m wondering, Now what? What the hell is going on with me? Why can’t I just pick up where I left off a year ago? Questions like these make me crave chocolates.

You’ll be so happy to know that I finally did get an answer because now you won’t be subjected to any more of my self-absorbed speculations. The TV show “Dancing with the Stars” did it. It enlightened me. The contestants were talking about how strongly they've bonded and what a great community of friends they’ve become. They live in trailers side by side and run into each other all the time every day. That’s when it hit me. That’s it! I’m lonely.

In Bali we lived in a compound, in a community. We were never alone. There were neighbors all around us and we shared a driveway. People would come over, sit on the lanai, the rice farmers would walk along the irrigation ditch to clear it of debris, the landlord’s wife and daughters stop in to share their food offerings after a ceremony, the gardener comes over for a chat and to water the plants, the pool man wants us to have two of the four sweet potatoes he got at the market for a good price, Charlie comes in to clean the house and shows us a new magic trick he learned, people walk in off the street looking for accommodations, Dayu brings us our lunch and tells us the latest news on her village's celebrations, and on and on. Friends don’t call before visiting; they just come on over. You make sure you always have cookies or fruit available or something to drink. And you know that if you need help with anything, there are plenty of people who gladly help. Got your car stuck in the rice field? Within moments you’ll have a dozen villagers heaving it out. With all the insecurities of living in a Third World country, there’s something infinitely comforting and easy about living in community. I miss it. I miss it acutely.

We now live in another kind of community in another culture, where you do call before visiting. But, guess what? I just found another place, real close by, where people visit with each other without calling beforehand. They share their stories and food. No, it’s not an AA meeting. I’m talking about the members of the Diamond Head Community Garden, right across the street. They garden 116 garden plots, growing everything from flowers to fruits and vegetables. I’ve already tasted some exquisitely fluted Surinam cherries and couldn’t leave without accepting twigs of aromatic basil leaves and an armful of Spanish moss. What a friendly bunch of people! Some of them are our neighbors even. With luck I can become part of this community. Soon I will also rejoin my old group of goofy artist friends. So, I think I’ll be alright. Older and a lot more crotchety maybe, but still alright.

YOU NEVER KNOW

2010-02-17T06:04:00.002-10:00

Another one of Bali's power outages. Ours usually comes on Mondays around 6:30 or 7:00 PM and lasts 2-3 hours. It’s Monday now and Phil and I sit in the dark, musing. It’s good to be home. Then Phil says, sighing, "I have to start scheduling my doctors in Bangkok."

The thought of returning to Bangkok makes me want to puke. Instead of getting a clean bill of health, as Phil had expected, he learned that he needed stents in his left artery. And his right didn't look so good either. He's been doing everything right (except exercising), so that was not good news. We extended our stay so he could get his stents in. "Wait another month," his doctors advised, "then come back so we can check the other artery."

You know how fast a month goes by? We've hardly come home and already we have to make plans to leave again. I suddenly feel very old and tired. The thought of the taxi rides in Bangkok with drivers who are out to take you for all you've got, the polluted air that constricts throats and irritates eyes, the waiting in doctors' offices, the food in the hospital’s food court loaded with who knows what (MSG anyone or am I just being paranoid?), not being able to understand or speak Thai, not being able to read signs, not sleeping in my own bed in my own home, having a suitcase full of dirty clothes, my landing in the emergency room...

The night we had to leave for the airport for our flight back home, I came down with fever, chills, nausea, and sky-high blood pressure. Imagine, it’s not Phil now who is the patient, it’s me! How ironic, how pitiful! I must have had a nervous breakdown. Or an anxiety attack. Whatever it was, I’ve been working up to it for a while. After two nights in the hospital we try to catch another plane back. I just want to go home. Taxi ride at 3:30 a.m. (yes, that's a.m.!), no sleep, no breakfast, stand in line at the check-in counter, learn that before we can check in, we've got to pay the penalty for changing our tickets at the sales counter. Okay, stand in line at the sales counter, long line, I’m at the end, boarding time approaching, I just want to go home, slow line, pace around, pace around, have to pee, finally, finally my turn, offer Mastercard to pay with, Mastercard refused (what?!), American Express card not accepted, only cash, US Dollars or Thai Baht, look in purse, no dollars for sure, already exchanged them all for Baht, not enough Baht left, boarding time approaching, I just want to go home, need 4000 Baht, only have 2000, quick, run to money exchange center, offer Rupiah for exchange, Rupiah not accepted, boarding time approaching, I have to pee, I want to go home, but don't have the money. I don't have the money. And then it happens. I can’t help it. I burst into tears, cry my heart out right there in front of everybody. I just want to go home and I don't have enough money. I run to the check-in counter where Phil is waiting, nothing he can do, we cannot go home, we cannot go home, heart beating crazy, tears streaming out of control, nothing left to do but turn to the crowd waiting in line and cry, “Somebody please help me. I need 2000 Baht.”

A tall man standing next in line reaches for his wallet and hands me two 1000 Baht bills. Phil writes down his name and address and I run off to the sales counter, tears streaming still but now from relief. Hands trembling, I cannot count the other Baht in my wallet and end up just dumping the whole damn wallet on the counter, letting the clerk figure out what’s what, and then praying that I did not miscount and need more Baht after all. I don’t. Thank God. I have enough. I’m going home.

But wait. We must go through Passport Control first. Long lines, many long lines. Still need to pee. Boarding time. Maybe we’ll be too late. I haven’t eaten. My mouth is dry. Feeling faint, I slide down to the floor. Somebody says, “Why don’t you go to the front of the line and ask to be helped first? I bet people will let you in.” We go to the front and the people are indeed so kind. Thank you, thank you, thank you all! In no time we’re off to our gate and, OMG, just in time for our plane.

When we finally land in Denpasar after four hours, it’s very hot outside. Our driver Suamba welcomes us with an ice cold drink and cool towels. Another hour and we’re home where Dayu has prepared us a delicious welcome home lunch of deep green vegetables and freshly-cooked aromatic brown rice. Pure heaven… I cried seeing sweet pregnant Dayu again. I just adore her.

I thought I needed sleep, but our dear, dear friends Rickie and Henry had arrived from Amsterdam the week before and I’m dying to see them. Last time was at least three years ago when we stayed at their spacious, art-filled canal home. I ask them to please come over and we have the most fabulous reunion. It’s like no time has passed at all and we can’t get enough of each other. All tiredness is forgotten. Instead we’re completely energized with the excitement and joy of being together again. What a homecoming!

It’s been a hectic week since, trying to catch up with 3 weeks of backlog. And the rolling blackouts are back again. We’re sitting in the dark and Phil is thinking about what he needs to do before going back to Bangkok for another procedure.

I close my eyes. I don’t want to go back to Bangkok.

I remember Eugene saying, “Next time you come, spend a week with us first and have fun exploring Bangkok. Then after your procedure, Phil, check into one of Bumrungrad Hospital apartments. You’ll be close to the emergency room there.”

“Why do you say that?” Phil wants to know.

“The procedure is generally safe, but remember, you’re 75.” Eugene is completely matter-of-fact, “Anything can happen. You should have medical help readily available in case you need it.”

Before we came to Bali, when the question of medical care came up, we shrugged it off, saying, “Oh, we’ll go to Singapore or Bangkok. Everybody does that. You can get Medivac insurance.” Now, after an earlier hair-raising ambulance ride to an emergency room in Denpasar, I’m not sure that that’s the way to go. In fact, I KNOW I don’t ever want to subject myself (and Phil) to something like that ever.

Where else can we have medical help readily available for him?

I look across the table to Phil who is obviously still tired from our trip, even though a week has already passed. Me too, I’m still tired too.

“Phil,” I say quietly, “How would you feel about going back to Hawaii?”

Phil looks up and I watch a smile spread over his face. “I never thought about that,” he says. Then slowly, “That would be really nice.”

“You can go back to see all the doctors you know so well. And they know you.” I count off all the advantages, “If you need an ambulance, people will stop to let it pass. And the ambulance comes with an EMT team, trained in saving lives.”

“And they speak English!” Phil laughs.

We spent the rest of the evening thinking and talking about moving back to Hawaii, about all the things we’ve learned from living in Bali, and how to transfer these learnings to start a new adventure in Honolulu. We got so excited, we forgot all about sleeping. In the end we decided that Phil will fly to Honolulu in a month or so, while I will stay on for a while longer to fill both the villa and our little house with good long-term renters.

All this proves again that you just never know.

SLEEPING WITH DARTH BOHNERT

2010-01-31T19:44:00.003-10:00

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.

COME ON, JUMP ALREADY!

2010-01-31T06:51:00.001-10:00

"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.

RETIREE

2010-01-29T03:01:00.001-10:00

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.

WAITING ROOM TALK

2010-01-22T04:42:00.002-10:00

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.

64 SLICES

2010-01-21T06:04:00.000-10:00

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.

BANGKOK, BUMRUNGRAD & BURKAS

2010-01-20T05:37:00.000-10:00

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:

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.

DAYUDE'S PREDICAMENT

2010-01-03T19:56:00.000-10:00

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 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.

FULL CIRCLE: My New Year's Resolution

2010-01-02T23:33:00.000-10:00

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.

NEW YEAR GREETINGS FROM BALI

2010-01-01T06:52:00.000-10:00

From left to right: Charlie, Peter, Phil, Dayude, Dayutu

MAY YOU BE BLESSED BEYOND YOUR WILDEST DREAMS!

VILLA KUBU MERTA: PLACE OF CELEBRATION

2009-12-19T01:01:00.000-10:00

Left to right: Radu, Ryan, Trevor and Menno (the teacher)

I'm writing this as Menno (Netherlands), Radu (Romania), Ryan (USA), and Trevor (Canada) are coaching strong rhythms from the four djembes (African drums) we acquired yesterday. Live music and entertainment are the latest additions to our villa's atmosphere. The biggest change we've made was opening our villa as home base for the Bali Institute for Global Renewal (www.baliinstitute.org), a place for their office, as well as, a residence for Marcia Jaffe, the Institute's president. Okay, I've got to stop now. Can't write. The rhythms are too seductive. Got to move. See ya later. JEMBE!!!

IN CASE OF EMERGENCY

2009-12-18T21:22:00.004-10:00

What do you do when you see an ambulance with lights on and sirens screaming? You pull over and let him pass you, right? Not so in Bali. Here you continue your merry way along the narrow, winding, pot-holed roads or, you may even try to PASS him! I'm not kidding. The most hair-raising ride of my life and I wasn't even the patient. Two of our friends, a young woman and her mother from Holland, spent a week on the beach where they joked about the mosquitos. They wore long sleeves and sprayed themselves with Deet. Still, they both came down with dengue fever. The mother got it first and got it bad. Doctors made daily house calls to check on her (imagine, they still do that here) and decided to hospitalize her when she kept deteriorating. By now the poor woman had become painfully sensitive to light and noise and movement, everything that the ambulance ride offered in excess: hard stops and hard accelerations, going up and down hills, bumps in the road, making sharp turns, screaming siren... The hour-long ride must have been pure torture for her. Her daughter sat on the floor of the ambulance behind the front passenger's seat, cradling her, while I sat crouched on the protrusion of the left back wheel with my feet crammed between the litter and the back door. Did I mention that the ambulance was not much more than an old van with bad springs turned into a make-shift emergency vehicle? I should have taken a picture of the creative interior. Instead I was paying attention to the mother's breathing (with no clue of what to do if it stopped) and invoking every power in the universe to get us to the hospital in one piece. Every once in a while I would make the mistake of looking out the window only to freak out at the ambulance speeding to overtake cars and buses on streets that were surely meant for only one car at a time. By at least three dozen miracles we finally arrived at the hospital unharmed and with our patient still alive. When they opened the back door of the van, I got out and found my legs had turned to jello.

The emergency room was as you would expect for Indonesia - very friendly staff. A large clean air-conditioned suite waited for them. It had two beds (one hospital bed, the other a regular bed for a family member), dining table and 2 chairs, sofa, kitchenette, the works! The nurses seemed competent here and the instruments up-to-date. If my friends had not been sick, they would have luxuriated in their plush accommodations.

This happened last week. Since then the mother has recovered somewhat, but not enough for discharge. Although blood tests confirmed the daughter as having dengue fever too, she was fortunate to only experience mild symptoms. As soon as the mother is strong enough to travel, they will return home in time for Xmas.

BALI HEALING TOUR

2009-11-19T10:19:00.001-10:00

Jero Mangku Made Rata

STORIES
We've had the extraordinary fortune to offer our guests the opportunity to experience traditional Balinese healing by Jero Mangku Made Rata. Although he is renown as a "bonesetter," that's not all he does. People come to him for anything and everything. One of our guests had 3 plantar warts on his right foot that no medical treatment could remove. Jero Mangku concocted a paste that he heated up and applied to the warts. Once the paste dried and was removed, the warts simply fell off. Another guest suffered from repeated bronchitis and still another guest had a family history of serious stomach problems. As soon as I'll receive their written stories and the happy results, I'll post them here. Jero Mangku is also known for his ability to remove tumors. He promised to call me when he treats his next case, so I can watch and document the process.

COMING UP SOON:
I would like to invite you to experience Bali's traditional healers, mystical places, and delicious foods. Come stay at our villa and let us spoil you. Learn how the Balinese view illness and healing. Watch traditional healers treat patients. Receive a treatment if you feel so inclined. Visit Tampaksiring, the temple of holy waters, and Bali's mysterious Room 327 at the Grand Bali Beach hotel in Sanur (see previous posts). Enjoy a full moon or new moon ceremony and dance. Join Dayu (our cook) as she finds the ingredients for an authentic Balinese dinner at Ubud's traditional market. Learn how to prepare it and then indulge yourself in a banquet of Bali's culinary specialties. Sounds good? Let me know you're interested and I'll send you details.

MORE STORIES:
Bali has changed us to the core. It is its own universe - at once dense and clear, baffling and necessary. Excess is normal and nothing is what it seems. A ditch is not a ditch; it's the god of water passing by your house. And don't think you can act like the Lone Ranger because you are not just one person - you are quintuplet, born with four other "siblings": Placenta, Blood, Water, and Navel, who stay with you and grow with you as long as you live. Invisible to the normal eye, they nevertheless exert real influence. Any imbalance in relation to your "siblings" has consequences. It's like carrying a whole family around with you wherever you go, a family that can read your every thought. So it's here where I learn again how stories enchant and knit the world together. I never dreamed I would receive so much.

Masked dancer at Arma Museum

BANNER DAY

2009-11-06T18:46:00.000-10:00

Lunch by Dayu: Grilled eggplant, tuna steak in mustard sauce,

Okinawan sweet potatoes, urap (spinach with spices)

Finished my first painting!

"How I Plan To Lose Weight"

(continuing my series of "How I plan To")

40" x 40" Mixed Media

BALINESE TEENAGERS

2009-11-06T18:06:00.002-10:00

Novang (left) & Sintya

Our gardener Bendot surprised me with a late night visit of his 12-year-old grandchildren Novang and Sintya, still attired in their dance costumes after their "Kupu Kupu" (Butterfly) performance. He wanted me to take their photos. I happily obliged. The moment we finished, both girls snatched up their cell phones from Bendot who was holding them, and started texting. Of course, I had to take a picture of that too.

MAKE YOUR OWN CLOTHES FROM TRASH

2009-11-04T17:28:00.005-10:00

FLOWER POWER FULL MOON MAGIC

2009-10-26T19:05:00.000-10:00

Jero Mangku Made Rata

Jero Mangku Made Rata has such an easy way about him that I like him immediately, no reservations. A solid 50-years-old guy, graying hair pulled into a bun with a ready smile and a satchel filled with his bottles of oil, he looks prepared for anything. He has come to our villa to treat my friend Ria who is visiting us from Hawaii. Like Slava, Ria also has a problem with her feet. As Jero gives her the full treatment, he finds other parts to heal as well. He tells her she is very "pure." Although Ria is a vegetarian, I don't think he's referring to that because he sees no problem with eating meat or smoking cigarettes. Jero derives his power from meditation and he picked up on Ria's daily meditations. The pain, though, is more than Ria likes, so he gives her his "western people treatment." "Balinese people can take a lot more pain," he jokes. What would need only one treatment for a Balinese requires three for a westerner, which is fine with Ria, as long as she gets the desired result. And she does, plus a few more unexpected bonuses.

The first time I ask Jero how he became a healer, he answers "Meditation." I'm disappointed. You know me, I like a more dramatic story. Like the one about the farmer who found a dead baby girl on his land (most likely aborted - more about abortions later). He buried her with the required rites but then went further, acting as if she were still alive, and honoring her with every ceremony needed for a child growing up strong and healthy. The story goes that indeed the girl grows up in heaven and is in constant communication with him. When someone falls ill, she tells him what the person needs to get well. And that's how he becomes a healer. The girl is now a grown woman, beautiful and happily married - all in heaven, of course. Through her he can also speak with the dead. The people who told me about him promised to take me to him next time they go. I look forward to that.

Back to Jero Made Rata. When he comes over to treat Phil, I take another stab at it.

"What kind of meditation do you practice?" I ask.

"A mantra." he answers, "I have a meditation center and many students."

"Can you teach us? Can you give Phil and me your mantra?"

"Yes."

"Do we have to come to your meditation center?"

"No, I can give it to you now."

By the way, the above is a liberal translation of our conversation because Jero Made Rata does not speak English. Even though I can pretty well understand him (Yes, my Indonesian is picking up - Yay!), I still like to have Dayu present to translate the finer points. When I go to Jero Ardita, Suamba serves as my translator.

Jero Made Rata gives us his basic mantra, an easily-remembered 4 lines of Sanskrit that we are free to translate into English as long as we keep the feeling of the mantra in our heart. Then he has Dayu fill two glasses with water and pick 5 flowers of different colors for each of us from our garden. Taking one flower at a time, he silently blesses it with a mantra and places it inside the glass of water. The flower water looks beautiful.

"Drink." He says, "Leave a bottom of water in your glass."

As I bring the glass to my lips I'm overcome with the perfume of flowers. It is as if all the flowers in the world have gathered their essence into my glass. The taste of the water surprises me too. This is not like our regular bottled water. This is unexpectedly sweet, like drinking Maroccan rose water. When I mention my surprise, Jero smiles and says that I'm tasting the mantra.

He then instructs us to pour the last bit of water in our hands and "wash" our face with it, three times. At night we're to say the mantra three times and meditate. He does not specify how long.

Phil drinking his 5-flower water

Jero invites me to come to the Full Moon ceremony at his compound. Not knowing if it requires sitting for long periods on the floor, Phil opts out and I take Dayu with me instead. I don't like wearing sarong and kebaya, they're hot and constricting, but if I want to take photos of the ceremony I must be properly dressed to enter the temple. It turns out I didn't have to bother.

Suamba drives us out to Saka Village, about 20 minutes away and we easily find Jero's compound. Motorcycles line the entrance like dominoes waiting to get kicked over. When we enter, Jero is already in ceremony, his back turned to us. What he calls his meditation center is a small pavilion where he also does his healings. It is presently occupied by three of his students in various stages of massaging patients. The back wall of the pavilion is ludicrously stacked with cabinets, an old but working TV and two humongous speakers. The TV is on but thankfully muted. The courtyard is filled with groups of people sitting quietly on mats, benches, and old chairs. Some are smoking. Bird cages without birds hang from rafters and tree branches. A laundry rack displays drying T-shirts. Here and there a couple more motorcycles. A small boy and his grandma are watching TV on a side terrace. Chickens, dogs, and a cat roam amidst the chaos. I must be adapting to Bali because I like it.

To be continued...

HOLY OILS, REINCARNTION AND A HOT ROD

2009-10-26T06:33:00.001-10:00

Jero Mangku* Made Rata came to our attention when we first met our next door neighbor, Herman Suhendro, who had broken his pelvis in an accident. The accident had happened just 8 days before we met Herman but, incredibly, other than a slight limp he was walking around fine. X-rays showed he had needed surgery, but he refused. "Just give me painkillers." he said. He then called Jero Mangku Made Rata for a treatment. A 15-minute massage did the job. Two weeks after the accident Herman walked like nothing ever happened.

If I had not had a similar experience in Hawaii, albeit on a much smaller scale, I would not have believed it. Some years back I broke my "ring" toe on my left foot. It turned black and blue, almost doubled in size, and was so painful that I had a hard time standing and walking. You don't know how many nerve endings you have in your toes until you hurt them. Lito, our Filipino yard man, saw me struggle and suggested I see his father Johnny in Wahiawa who was good with broken bones. Mornings Johnny works in the pineapple fields, afternoons he sees people in his house for healings. I arrive at 4:00 PM and wait in line. Johnny apparently treats a host of other ailments as well.

When it is my turn, he has me sit in a chair in the living room while he sits on a low stool facing me. He pours some holy oil in his hands and begins massaging my toe. I nearly jump out of my skin. Son of a bitch, that freakin' HURTS!!!! I break out in a sweat and cuss and cuss. Johnny pays no attention to me, he has a firm hold on my foot and simply continues pulling and twisting the toe. I grip the chair, breathing hard, and pour out sweat. I don't know how long it takes - a couple minutes, not more than 5 - but I suddenly realize that the pain has stopped. I also realize that it actually stopped a while back but I was so busy being into the drama of being in pain that I did not notice. A strange and funny revelation. Relaxed now, I watch Johnny manipulate my toe, turning it this way and that, pulling at it hard and pushing it forward and back. Funny, no pain at all. Still swollen and black and blue, though. But Johnny can solve that too. He has Lito gather three betel leaves from the bush in his yard and heats the leaves with a few drops of holy oil on the stove. He then wraps the hot leaves around my toe and secures them with a strip of cotton tied around them. "Leave it on through the night." he says. First thing I do in the morning is take off the leaves and... behold!... a splendid toe! The only reminder left of its recent trauma is a lonely little blue spot in the corner by the nail. But that, too, will be gone within an hour.

So, yes, I believe Herman's story. I want to meet this Balinese bonesetter. Our friend Virgil Mayor Apostol is getting ready to publish his book on Rumsua Ancestral Healing (http://www.rumsua.org) and e-mails me a request for photos of a Balinese healer to include in the section of Southeast Asian healing methods. Other than sheer curiosity, I now have good reason to find this balian (Balinese traditional healer). But I learn that it's not so easy to get a hold of Jero Mangku Made Rata. He is in great demand, traveling all over Bali to where he is needed in emergency. Meanwhile, Virgil is on a deadline.

I ask Ida Bagus Suamba, our driver, if he knows any healers. Duh, that is like asking if there are any temples in Bali. Suamba takes me to the compound of Jero Mangku Ardita who works together with his wife Jero Dasaran Ni Ketut Leseg. Jero Ardita, the husband, is a slight figure of a man with a very kind face and a joyful smile. His wife, Jero Dasaran, is someone I call a "Guardian." Equally slight in stature, she's nevertheless a person to reckon with. (This may be a delusion, haha, but I kind of identify with her!) She is a holy woman in her own right, a formally acknowledged medium.who channels the messages from the gods.** (I act like I do that too, although Phil says I act like I am god.). She channels the spiritual causes for the disease and the gods' recommended corrections, like in "You did not pay attention to an ancestral spirit, so now you must give it the following offerings on such and such date." She also prepares the spiritual medicines, like holy oils. Jero Ardita then heals the patient with oil, massage and/or heat. He also consults the lontar (holy books). This is my own simplified version of how I understand these two healers work. I'm just now getting an inkling of the Balinese way of keeping the world in balance . The more I learn, the more I like it. Anyway, I go there to talk with Jero Ardita and watch him in action, so I can take pictures for Virgil.

Suamba offers himself for Jero to massage. Being massaged by a balian is very different from going to the spa for a massage. The balian looks for, and finds, the places where you hurt because that's where the imbalances are, that's where he needs to work. So no, it's not the most relaxing way to spend an afternoon. But Suamba sacrifices himself heroically so I can take my pictures.

I ask Jero Ardita about the oil he uses. I remember Johnny, the Filipino bonesetter, using coconut oil from young coconuts that is prepared only once a year in the Philippines during Easter. That is what makes the oil holy. Jero Ardita explains that he uses three different kinds of oil. There is an oil for massage, an oil for ingesting (Suamba says it's nauseating, he always comes prepared with chewing gum to get rid of the taste afterward), and an oil for squirting up the nose and into the eyes. Uh... yeah... the last one is to dispel evil spirits.

Jero Ardita uses 11 different kinds of coconuts to make oil with. Other ingredients are added to it, like rock mushroom, mistletoe, roots, seeds, etc. The materials and ingredients for the oils are collected and mixed on the dates that are propitious for it. Then another special date must be divined for the activation ceremony, during which the gods are petitioned to enter the oils. Without that last step, the oils are useless.

While Suamba is being massaged, three men walk in with a basket of offerings, a father and his two sons. The younger one surprises me with his perfect British English. He tells me he studied in London and he's here at his father's urging to learn whose reincarnation his newborn son is. Really? Now that's something totally new to me. Not the reincarnation part, but that it is a common practice to consult a balian about your baby's reincarnation. When I ask Suamba later why that's done, he says that maybe you learn about some unfinished business that your baby has come to finish. Maybe an ancestor promised to build a temple but died before accomplishing it. To have that ancestor reincarnate in the baby is a message to the family to get their act together and build that temple. I learn that one ancestor can reincarnate into more than one person and that two ancestors can reincarnate together into one person. This is fun stuff. Since then I've been asking every Balinese if he/she knows whose reincarnation they are and if it rings true for them. Some know, others say they've not been told, or their parents never bothered consulting a balian. I wonder which crazy ancestor(s) reincarnated in me and what unfinished business I still have to finish for them. You think I should find out?

A woman shows up with the remnants of a skin disease on her arms . She tells me that she came for treatment a week ago, suffering terribly from painfully itching and oozing wounds on both arms. Jero Ardita healed her in a few sessions. I'm soon to witness how. While he is spreading oil over her arms, his wife heats up a metal rod. Earlier I had noticed a large stone on the ground and wondered what it was for. But now I'm busy taking photos of the woman's arms being oiled and am not paying attention to the stone. I'm standing right next to it. Suddenly I hear the scream of metal against stone and feel the burn of hot sparks on my left leg. I jump. The sparks came from Jero Dasanan hitting the white hot metal rod against the stone. She now hands the rod to her husband. He prays over it and applies it to the skin of the woman's arms in long up and down strokes, inside her arms, outside... over every inch of her arms. The oil sizzles off her skin. I see it. I hear it. Her skin is smoking but does not burn. I hope the smoke will show up on my photos. It does not. Too bad. But I saw it.

Jero Dasaran goes into her medicine temple. She prays and prepares an oil for the woman to take home and apply on her arms. The oil is poured in a small plastic bag, the top of which is tied into a knot. The woman is admonished to perform cleansing ceremonies. She is happy. She shows me the oil and tells me again how bad her arms were before Jero healed her. And look at how her skin is now! She wants me to touch her skin but I'm finicky. I just smile and say, "Bagus. Bagus sekali." (Beautiful. Very beautiful.).

I ask Jero Ardita how he became a healer. Did he train with his father who was a famous healer? A portrait of the old man hangs on the wall. Jero answers that he never got trained. He never even knew he would be a healer. It just happened one day after his father died. It happened like an instant download. He took up where his father left off. I nod my head. Instant reincarnation. Why not?

One more story about Jero Ardita. One of our guests is Slava, a scientist from Moscow. He and his wife Ira are hereon vacation, celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary. Their daughter Marina paid for their trip and wanted their stay in Ubud to be a healing experience. Little did she know what kind of healing experience was in store for Slava. He was suffering from a painful condition of his right foot which made it hard for him to walk, much to Ira's chagrin, who of course wanted his company on her walks. Slava somehow agrees to see Jero Ardita, even though he thinks "healers don't heal, they just play tricks with your mind." I come along to take more pictures. When Jero Ardita starts working on Slava's foot, poor Slava can hardly stand the pain. I tell him it won't last. The pain will soon go away and his foot will be fine. Sure enough. A few minutes later Slava is astonished that he feels no more pain. "I'm a scientist," he says, "I don't feel any more pain, but I don't believe it." When we get home, he and Ira go for a walk and I don't see them for a long time.

I send the photos off to Virgil and then I hear from Jero Mangku Made Rata, the bonesetter.

To be continued...

Jero Ardita applying a white hot metal rod to the arms of a patient.

* "Jero Mangku" is the general term for a healer. It's often shortened to "Jero," followed by their name: Jero Ardita, Jero Made Rata, Jero Ni Ketut... In addressing them it's enough to call them simply "Jero."

** In the late 1980's the Indonesian government funded a study of Balinese healers, testing them and verifying claims of healing. Jero Dasaran was one of ten Bali healers certified to be a true healer. The findings were published in the book, "Usada Bali" by Dr. Ngurah Nala, MPH. (PT Upada Sastra), 1990.

DEEP THOUGHTS

2009-10-20T18:16:00.003-10:00

Chris Guillebeau of The Art of Nonconformity http://chrisguillebeau.com asks the following questions:

1) WHAT DO YOU REALLY WANT TO GET OUT OF LIFE?

This question assumes I don’t have it yet, but I do. I already have everything I could possibly want and more:

- 68 years of being alive, 30 of them with the one I love.

- All basic needs met in abundance

- Love in over-abundance: Outrageous-mad-sweet-crazy-hilarious love, against-all-odds love, scandalous love, delicious titillating forbidden love, fake-it-till-you-make-it love, macho love, mother love, puppy love, horny love, dangerous love, unrequited love, up & down/off & on tumultuous fighting love, swoony kind love, neurotic love, old coot love, love-to-smell-new-baby’s-breath love, forgotten love... the list goes on

- Health & sickness

- Friends & enemies

- Success & failure

- Obsessions

- And plenty of magic along the way…

So what else is there to want? Okay, I can work more on Equanimity and Living in the Present, but that’s pretty much an ongoing thing, not an end product.

2) WHAT CAN YOU OFFER THE WORLD THAT NO ONE ELSE CAN?

Assuming that everything I do affects the world somehow, the best thing then would be for me to unconditionally be happy and grateful. I take that to be my full-time job.

How to be unconditionally happy and grateful?

"What would you do if you knew that every good thing in your life depended on your getting enough rest? Because it does."

- Martha Beck, *Steering by Starlight*

“Think what a better world it would be if we all, the whole world, had cookies and milk about three o'clock every afternoon and then lay down on our blankets for a nap.”

- Barbara Jordan, US Attorney

The answer is loud and clear:

“People of zee world, RELAX.”

- Tom Robbins, *Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates*

CHEW A LEAF OR USE HYDROGEN PEROXIDE?

2009-10-17T19:55:00.008-10:00

Top: Dr. Carol Shaffer, Charlie & Wayan (our carpenter)
Middle: Charlie playing accident victim with Wayan giving First Aid
Bottom: Heimlich Maneuver crack up - Wayan, Suamba (our driver) and Ketut

From the beginning we felt that our staff should be trained in First Aid, but the price of the training gave us pause. Dr. Carol Schaffer to the rescue! She works as a hospitalist in the Bay Area and came to us via www.couchsurfing.com. On her profile she writes that she likes to share her medical skills. Perfect! Phil and I ask if she would like to do just that by teaching our staff First Aid. Carol graciously agreed and yesterday taught our staff and various other friends what to do about cuts, burns, falls, choking, drowning, nosebleeds, insect bites, snake bites, and most importantly... hygiene - not so easy a thing to practice in a Third World country.

In return, Carol, Phil and I learned about some questionable Balinese folk remedies: chew a pah iduh leaf (grows in rice fields) into a paste and place it on an open wound to stop the bleeding, add some water to pamor (some kind of chalk) to soften it and place it on the insect bite, use honey on a bee sting and dry coffee on a burn... oh yeah!

Earlier Dayu had already educated me about her family's beliefs and customs about pregnancy:

A pregnant woman should not eat meat from kerbau (water buffalo) because it would prolong her labor.
She should clean everything and keep it clean so that her baby will be beautiful.
The expecting couple should not cut their hair until after the baby is born. Ketut, Dayu's husband, now sports a full beard and moustache. It makes him look like a monkey, he jokes.

Now that our staff has learned the rudimentaries of First Aid, they have more tools and more choice in case of an emergency. It will hopefully help them stay calm so that they can make better decisions.

ROOM 327 - CONTINUED

2009-10-17T14:47:00.003-10:00

When the fire broke out in 1993, Grand Bali Beach Hotel was already close to 30 years old. Therefore, stepping into Room 327 was not like going back only a couple of decades, but getting catapulted back all the way to the 60's. In spite of the festive altar with its fresh flowers and food offerings, the smoke damage has given the room an overall sepia tint which makes it feel even older and chicken-skin eerie. Everything in the room is left the way it was from the start. Original carpet, brownish, worn thin. Original cream-colored moire drapes and sheer curtains. Two twin beds with upholstered headboards, separated by a nightstand with a built-in radio. Remember those radios with their beige woven cloth fronts and gold-rimmed knobs? Our guide Indra lifts up a corner of one of the bed covers to let us feel the original bedsheets underneath as if touching them will prove their authenticity. I need no persuading, though. The seared mirror by the door, the twin decorative plastic panels over the beds, old-fashioned table lamps, rattan seating in the corner, 4-drawer cabinets, dressing table, wayang kulit puppet in a frame, the telephone and small clunky TV have taken their hold on me. In the bathroom, the toilet is a high, slender throne with a telephone on the wall which must have seemed a luxury at the time. The tub holds fresh water and flowers. On the tub's ledge sits a black wooden bowl in the form of a duck filled with the original hotel amenities: bar of soap, small bottle of shampoo, bubble bath, a man's razor... all of it pretty grungy with age. I take it all in and wonder if the last guests that used this bathroom and slept in those beds had felt anything at all, if they had any strange sensations - a mysterious breeze maybe, a vivid dream - that foretold Kanjeng Ratu Kidul's intentions. I wonder if anyone ever thought to contact them. Unless, of course, the records of the guests were destroyed in the fire.

Much to my chagrin we were not allowed to take photographs, so I was delighted to find some pictures on the internet, taken by Roy James in 1994. http://www.jawakidul.nl/mystiek.htm Scroll all the way down. It shows the room before it was made into a shrine. The room is now dominated by an altar for, and paintings of, Kanjeng Ratu Kidul and by tributes to Soekarno in the form of large framed photographs and the Indonesian flag. In addition to the fresh flower and food offerings on the altar, you'll find a full breakfast tray on the coffee table, served fresh every morning. Visitors have also left gifts that are displayed incongruently on the beds: a silk purse, beaded necklace, wooden shoes souvenir... Maybe I should bring a lei of koa beads next time I come. Yes, there will be a next time. I promised Paul I would contact Ibu Agung Okawati, Room 327's caretaker/priestess, after the holy day of Galungan for another visit. She was working as head waitress at the time of the fire and is the one to go to for first-hand knowledge. In addition I will help Paul set up a writing workshop next year on Magic & Healing in Bali. It would include a visit to Room 327 and visits with some Balinese traditional healers. Balinese traditional healing is a huge topic that I'm planning for a future post. Stay tuned.

PS. I haven't figured out how to add a slide show to my blog or how to solve the problem with adding comments. Hopefully that will come soon. Meanwhile, please feel free to become a "Follower" of this blog so you'll get notified automatically when I publish a new post. If you're on Facebook, you can click on my posts there. Om santi santi santi om!

ROOM 327

2009-10-12T18:59:00.004-10:00

Paul Spencer Sochaczewski came over for breakfast yesterday (Balinese pancakes, mango, papaya, eggs, applejuice, peach tea - Thank you, Dayu!) and mentioned that on the way to the airport he wanted to stop by the Inna Grand Bali Beach Hotel in Sanur to visit Room 327. My ears instantly perked up. I had first read about the room in a book recounting Bali's tales of magic. The story involved Indonesia's first president, the charismatic and revered Bapak Soekarno; a mermaid goddess, Kanjeng Ratu Kidul (Goddess of the Southern Ocean); and a devastating fire. Here's what happened.

The Inna Grand Bali Beach Hotel was built at the inspiration of Indonesia's then president, Soekarno, a firm believer of spirituality and the supernatural. At the start of the construction, Soekarno pledged to dedicate one room in honor of the Goddess Kanjeng Ratu Kidul. However, before the completion of the hotel in 1966, Soekarna was overthrown and the pledge broken.

On Wednesday, January 20, 1993 over 400 guests and 1000 staff members, as well as, the rest of Bali were shocked when a fire, which started on the ground floor, raced upwards through the hotel's 10 floors. At one point huge tongues of flame leapt from every window in the hotel, black smoke poured from the building and darkened the sky over Sanur. Firefighters were able to see that all the guests and staff in the hotel were led to safety and to limit the blaze to the main tower. It was two days before the building had cooled and the smoke had cleared sufficiently for officials to enter the building and assess the damage. The tower was ravaged and there seemed to be no corner left untouched by the flames. Already observers felt that Bali's magic had seen to it that there had been no serious injuries in what was undoubtedly Bali's biggest fire. But there was more to come.

When workers opened the scorched door of Room 327, they were stunned to find that the room was virtually untouched by flames. While the heat in adjacent rooms had been so intense as to melt the steel railings on the balconies, Room 327 still had linen on the bed and curtains on the windows! There were glasses and bottles of Aqua on the table as if ready for the next guests, bathrobes hung in the closet, and there were pictures on the wall. Even though every telephone in the hotel had melted in the blaze, Room 327's phone seemed ready for its next call. It was as if the goddess Kanjeng Ratu Kidul rose from the churning waters and said, "Okay, people. Listen up. See that room there? Number 327. That's mine."

The hotel was rebuilt, but Room 327 was left the way it was found and has become a shrine in homage to Kanjeng Ratu Kidul and, strangely enough, to Bapak Soekarno, as well.

Since Paul had written a chapter on Kanjeng Ratu Kidul in his book, "The Sultan and the Mermaid Queen," he had made arrangements with the hotel management to see the room for himself. No way I was going to pass up this chance, so I said, "I'm going with you." And Phil said, "Me too." And off we went in search of magic.

Soekarno may have been divinely guided in building the hotel (it heralded Bali's future as a tourist destination), but damn, it's an ugly thing. Never mind, we're here for the room. Our guide is Indra, a friendly woman who is in charge of visitors. She apologizes for her limited knowledge of the room. She is standing in for Ibu Agung Okawati, the priestess who is in charge of the shrine but who is off preparing for Galungan, one of Bali's most significant of holy days.

We take the elevator up to the third floor, step out, turn the corner and almost immediately stand in front of the double door leading to Room 327. We take off our sandals and step into a time warp.

To be continued...

TOOTHFILING CEREMONY

2009-10-12T18:52:00.006-10:00

The Toothfiling Ceremony was part of the royal wedding. Our driver Agung Sumerta's son (Cok De) and daughter (Agung Atik) were two of the celebrants.

ROYAL WEDDING PHOTOS

2009-10-12T18:39:00.010-10:00

THE KING OF LODTUNDUH'S WEDDING

2009-10-05T16:02:00.004-10:00

It's not every day that you can watch a royal wedding. A month ago the king, Cokorde Oka, picked his bride up in Karengasem to bring her to his home in Lodtunduh with all the ceremony and processions it entails. A month of preparations and finally the wedding yesterday. Running up to the day of the wedding the rain had been pouring down endlessly, flooding yards and roadways. I asked Dayu what would happen to the wedding processions if the rain continues on the day of the wedding. "No problem," she answered, "The priest will stop the rain." And that's exactly what happened.

Since I was down with a bad cold, I told Dayu to go and gave her my camera. Dayu's family is of the Brahmana caste from Lodtunduh and her uncle Agung, our back-up driver, is somehow connected to the royal family. His daughter, Agung Attik, and his son, Cok De, were to take part in the important tooth filing ceremony that preceded the royal wedding. When Dayu brought the camera back this morning she told me that she had given it to her uncle instead because he could be in closer proximity to the activities.

The tooth filing started at 6:00 AM and lasted till noon. At 3:00 PM the wedding ceremony began, ending at 8:30 PM. Then it was party time. Dayu left at 10:30 PM and the festivities were still going strong.

There were three dance performances going on simultaneously in three parts of the "palace." Imagine the holy-moly ruckus of three gamelan orchestras playing at the same time. After the formal wedding ceremony the king and queen were carried, seated on their thrones, to the market around the corner where they distributed rice and other food presents to the people. Because the wedding ceremony is a serious affair, you will not see the king smile throughout. If my wedding required that much ceremony and, let's not forget, money!, I don't think I would be smiling either. The Balinese have infinite patience indeed.

PHIL'S NEW BOOK

2009-10-05T02:30:00.002-10:00

LEARNING TO WRITE

2009-10-04T16:34:00.015-10:00

LILLIAN CUNNINGHAM at Windward Community College in Kaneohe, Hawaii has the distinction of being my first writing teacher. The very first Writing Retreat I attended (http://windward.hawaii.edu/Writing_Retreat) I came up with a simple poem. Lillian encouraged me to enter it in Rain Bird, WCC's literary journal. Much to my surprise that poem, and others as well, were accepted. I was off and running. Needless to say, I became a Writing Retreat junkie. I also thought I was really hot stuff, the latest e. e. cummings. At least.

While still harboring the delusion of being hot I met PAUL SPENCER SOCHACZEWSKI , author of the books Soul of the Tiger, Redheads, and his latest, The Sultan and the Mermaid Queen. http://www.sochaczewski.com It was a time when I was writing obsessively about a certain female body part down there. (Will I get reported for using the V word?) One of my fellow students (a guy) became exasperated with me. "V.. V... V... Is that all you can talk about?"

Paul not only took it all in stride, he was very encouraging. He called my work "red-blooded," something like that. Or maybe I made that up because I wanted him to say that.

Last month after reading my blog Paul wrote:

Thanks for this. Sounds like you’re on a terrific journey.

Re earthquakes. There’s a chapter in my book Soul of the Tiger on volcanoes, cycles of life, Shiva and rebirth, regeneration, pissing off the gods, etc.

And marrying below your caste. I recall a royal wedding in Bali many years ago in which the boy, the prince, was Syatria and his bride was Brahmin, which obviously is higher. So before the wedding she had to undergo a ceremonial death and then be re-born as Syatria. She was still ravishingly beautiful, so obviously the warrior/royal caste worked for her.

Phil and I signed up for Paul's all-day workshop on "Exploring Your Personal Odyssey" at the upcoming Ubud Writers and Readers Festival (www.ubudwritersfestival.com). In case you didn't know, Phil actually has a real book to his credit, The Paranoid, a psychiatry textbook, now out of print. Phil is way more of a writer than I am; he journals extensively every day. But I am a BETTER writer (Ha ha! she gloats) because Phil writes like an academician, in bullet form, which is good for writing analyses, synopses and scientific articles for conveying information. I, on the other hand, am a POET. And that says it all. This should not be cause for marital tension as long as he can't see me looking down my nose. Where did I read that making yourself out to be "better than" is a serious symptom of self-hatred?

Oh, I forgot, Phil can write really, really corny love poems. I adore them.

During my last four years in Hawaii I was fortunate to attend the annual Solo Workshops with acclaimed film director MARK TRAVIS (http://www.markwtravis.com/solo_workshop.html). The Solo Workshops are autobiographical writing and storytelling workshops that always got to me at a deep cathartic level. I used to joke that I came to them to cry.

The three questions I learned from Mark are:

What is the story about? (What's really behind the events of my story?)
Where am I in the story? (Reciting a list of events is boring. What is my take on the events?)
And the hardest of all questions: What would I write about if I had no fear? (By extension: How will I live if I had no fear?)

The Solo Workshop is designed for writing autobiographical stories for performance, but if you're not interested in performing, it still is a glorious way to write. The contact person in Hawaii is Alice Anne Parker: AAParkerHH@aol.com

I've had many wonderful writing teachers. Did I tell you that I'm a writing workshop junkie? I'm grateful to all. Here are two that specialize in the spoken word:

JAMES NAVE of The Writing Salon
http://www.thewritingsalon.net/assets/faculty_nave.html

KEALOHA, founder of Hawaii Slam
http://www.kealohapoetry.com/

MONSTER BENEATH

2009-10-02T16:22:00.013-10:00

I've been through four earthquakes, two in Hawaii and two in Indonesia. The first one in Hawaii was little more than a rumble. I thought it was caused by a super heavy truck passing by. It did make the house shake, but just for a moment. The second one was only a couple of years ago. That one did quite a lot of damage on the Big Island. I was downstairs in the kitchen preparing breakfast when I heard a tinkling sound. I looked around, then seeing my collection of coffee mugs hanging on hooks on the wall clinking against each other and going at it faster and faster that it dawned on me that it was an earthquake. As the floor heaved under me I drunk-stumbled my way to the protection of a door. As soon as I reached it the shaking stopped. I ran upstairs to Phil who was still in bed. He's lying on his back, sheets drawn up to his chin, eyes big as saucers.
"That was an earthquake, Phil!" I shout at him as if he doesn't know.
"Yeah," he says quietly without moving, "You didn't have to do all that to wake me up."

The very first earthquake I remember occurred in the middle of the night when I was (I think) 12 years old, living in Balikpapan, East Kalimantan. The bed was shaking so violently that I thought there was a monster underneath who would grab my legs if I tried to get out. For weeks afterward getting up in the morning meant moving myself (careful, careful) into position... shhh... quiet... don't wake him up... almost there... ready?... ready? ... Yes NOW!!! Jump as high as I can, as fast as I can, as far away as I can!!! Away from the bed!!! Now run!!! Whew... safe! Funny (or sad) how at 68 I still act like that, earthquake or not. It's just harder to jump now.

Last month's earthquake didn't make me think of monsters or jumping. The heaving house, swaying bed posts, billowing mosquito net, held me still, captivated, as if I was in a theater watching a movie. Only after things quieted down did I get excited and, nerves tingling, wanted and waited for more. I learned again what a drama monkey I am, at least as long as I don't get seriously hurt. I love to tell you about hurricane Alicia that damaged and destroyed the houses around us but kept ours perfectly intact, and the head-on collision that totaled the car but left me with only a foot scratch and a chunk of insurance money. There's a pattern here, wouldn't you say?

Right or wrong, the message is: Let go. Let go of attachment. Let go of things like my brand new colorful set of dishes. I love them. They come with a great story about how I got them in the first place. A big earthquake would shake those sweet dishes off the shelf and shatter them into a million pieces. Let go of the dishes. Clean up clutter. Clean up your closet. We came to Bali with so little, but look what a mess our closet is in now. Lose weight. I know, I know... Let go of the need to be special, or better than. Oops, stop. We're getting "Father, I have sinned" confessional here. See what happens when you're married to a devout Catholic?

The earthquakes in Sumatra are no joking matter. Being trapped under massive layers of rubble is the stuff of nightmares. Don't we all live on the Ring of Fire now? How then shall we find beauty and rightness amidst suffering? That is my question.

CLOTHES DEVIL

2009-09-20T04:54:00.008-10:00

Top photo:
Charlie, Denny (nicknamed Obama) & Peter in their Balinese uniform
Bottom: Peter and Charlie in their new duds

After moving into Villa Kubu Merta in February 2009, I bought three sets of Balinese-style uniforms for our staff to wear. Each set consisted of an udeng (headdress), sarong, saput (decorative cloth over the sarong, and dress shirt with their names embroidered on it. After wearing them every day for eight months, it's time to get them a new threads. On a shopping trip to Denpasar I happen to find good quality Polo shirts on sale and buy them figuring they'll be more practical than dress shirts. I would wait for my next trip to town to find the boys sarongs to match.

Peter who works in the garden thanks me for his new, more relaxed shirts. But Charlie, flamboyant Charlie, clothes horse Charlie, goes nuts. Really? For some ordinary T-shirts?
He's bursting with an idea.
"Ibu," he grins, "I see staff in Kuta with shirt like dis. And cowboy hat."
"That's nice," I say, "Did they wear boots too?"
"No, Ibu, sock. And jean with big belt." He looks at me with mischievous eyes.
Oh-oh, I know where this is going.
"No, Charlie, we're in Ubud, not Kuta, and this is a villa, not a night club. Our guests want to see staff in Balinese clothes."
Charlie is undeterred. "They staff in villa." he says.

Two days later he shows up, smiling broadly, with two packages. He went shopping and bought two pairs of dress-up jeans, white socks and two "cowboy hats," every piece beautifully color-coordinated with his new Polo shirts.
"If Ibu like, Ibu pay. If Ibu no like, I pay." he says.
I can see how much he loves these clothes. I don't have the heart to refuse him.
"Okay," I tell him, "I will pay. Get a set for Peter too and you can wear these on Fridays."
That was two weeks ago and now I can't get them to wear their Balinese uniform any more.

FIRE JOURNEY TO HEAVEN

2009-09-19T18:14:00.004-10:00

We attended a big (15 corpses) cremation ceremony recently. The ceremony is a purification rite to release the deceased souls from their earthly remains and send them on their way to heaven. It's a most colorful and dramatic celebration. So much going on, so much to see. Parasols. Streamers. Lots of spectators. Vendors selling cold drinks, toys, colorful cloths, and snacks like boiled bird eggs. Long processions of families of the deceased bearing mysterious offerings. Men carry what looks like small cribs and throw them in the fire. (I later learn that the cribs are the containers in which they carry the dug up bones from the cemetery to the waiting sarcophagi) The sarcophagi are like giant divas making their spectacular entrances. They're carried on a platform of tied-together bamboo poles, shouldered by shouting and sweaty men, and accompanied by a raucous gamelan of young men going all out, banging away on their gongs and drums. It's hot. It's deafening. The sarcophagi are mostly in the form of beautiful black bulls (of different sizes, according to the families' status and financial ability), but I did see one white bull and even a rearing red horse. Each bull has a rider on top who has to hold on for dear life as the men carrying the platform rock it up and down and sideways, turning it this way and that, noisy maneuvers intended to confuse the dead person's spirit so it will lose its earthly way back and not haunt the family. It's all done with much shouting and laughing and horse play.

At one point the fire department came in with a truck. Oh good, I thought, That's good planning. But they left before they even started the burning part of the ceremony. Guess, they're so accustomed to cremations in the city, they figure everybody knows what they're doing and it's all okay. Which it was.

I intended to stay for the whole ceremony but when the first bull sarcophagus was set on fire, the air filled with so much smoke (and that was just a small bull!) that I just wanted to get the hell out of there, leaving our friends Kendall, Jeremy and Fernando to record the rest of the festivities for me. Thanks, guys! They came back with their clothes and hair saturated with smoke and ash.

A couple of days later, I meet Pak Wayan, our electrician. He looks haggard. He has been preparing a cremation for two straight days without sleeping, he says. His 22 year-old niece had fallen ill and died. What takes a family months and months of preparation, he had to accomplish in two days. He did not even have time to notify some family members. But it was well worth it, he says. It will help his brother and sister-in-law with their grief, knowing that their daughter did not have to be buried and wait for the next cremation cycle, but could go straight to heaven instead. I send my best wishes for happy reunions with ancestors and divine teachers to the girl and the 15 souls that left for heaven that day. Om santi santi santi om.

XMAS IN SEPTEMBER

2009-09-19T08:12:00.005-10:00

Ria, one of my BAM (Bad Art Monday)friends and AWOL (Artist Way Of Life) sisters is here for 2 weeks! As if Phil and I are a couple of refugees stranded in the wilderness, we prepare a list of items for her to bring. None of the items are particularly critical, they're just nice to have, things like good quality cotton underwear, my favorite shampoo, floss and toothpaste, Bragg (liquid aminos), and - oh please, please, please... some GOOD trash. Things get pretty much used up here, so much so that whatever trash you find in the street (and there's plenty) is either so decomposed or much too filthy to pick up.

Phil, of course, wants medicines. He misses Tom, his pharmacist at Long's Mililani Marketplace. You should hear him order his medicines here from Kimia Farma.
"Hello... English, please... Can you speak English?... Is there anyone there who can speak English?..." Usually this is where he hears a click, because rather than saying No (very difficult for Indonesians), they just hang up. If Phil is lucky Dwi is available when he calls. She is the only one with enough English for him to get his business done. But then there's still the problem of spelling out the names of the medications. Indonesian is a phonetic language: A is pronounced Ah, B is Beh, etc. And Y is pronounced Yeh. P-H-I-L would be Peh Hah Ee El.

But back to Ria. My AWOL sisters went into high gear and filled up Ria's extra suitcase with gift upon gift... books, music, trash art supplies, comfort food, beautiful scarves... you name it, it went into the suitcase. Ria came laden as Santa Claus. The suitcase was so big and heavy, I couldn't just fling it open and delve into the gifts. It was overwhelming. When I finally did get to it, it was a feast. The thought and energy that went into the gifts my friends made, found or bought for me, just filled my heart and made me sing. If my AWOL sisters ruled the world there would be no war. There would be art and parades and tons of chocolate. Oh and massages for everyone. Ria is getting one every other day. I thought she might want to try different spas, you know, like a research project. But she's sticking to the first one she visited, the Zen Spa by the Yoga Barn. Why change if it's fantastic already, she says. I should get commission for all the customers I've sent there. Okay, who else is planning to come visit us?

EARTHQUAKE

2009-09-19T06:08:00.006-10:00

We were jolted awake by a 5.8 earthquake this morning. According to Indonesia Meteorological andGeophysics Agency, the quake measured 6.4 on the Richter Scale. It was pretty exciting. I watched our bed posts sway back and forth over a width of at least one foot, maybe more, but before we could get out of bed, the shaking ended. Three hours later another one happened, but this one was considerably lighter.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/asia-pacific/8264335.stm
has some interesting reports of people's reactions.

Apparently some buildings in Denpasar were damaged and seven people suffered injuries. I'm not aware of anything serious here in Ubud. Charlie told how a row of parked motorcycles fell over on their sides like dominoes. He also described how everybody ran out of their homes, banging on pans and buckets, yelling "Hidup! Hidup!" (Live! Live!). Balinese believe that doing that calms the earth down.

Here's an interesting post by Sidarta Wijaya:

Earthquake for Balinese is not merely a disaster; there is a hidden meaning or a prophecy, in every occurrence of earthquake. Armed with the sacred Palelindon (treatise on earthquake) manuscript, for hundreds of years, Balinese decipher every sign or prophecy behind every earthquake that occurred.

In Palelindon (treatise on earthquake), the earthquakes are categorized based on the time of occurrence. An earthquake that occurs in the first month of Balinese Caka calendar (July) has different meaning from the earthquake that occurs in the fifth month (November) and the meaning an earthquake that occurs on Saturday (Saniscara) is different from the one that occurs on Wednesday (Buda).

From: http://blog.baliwww.com/arts-culture/5924

FOOL'S JOURNEY

2009-09-07T04:29:00.005-10:00

After 20 years in Hawaii, Phil & I sold everything we owned and moved to Bali, Indonesia. The reasons we gave ourselves were: 1) To scale down our cost of living, 2) Get back to basics, and 3) Reinvent ourselves. Little did we know how extreme Bali would be for us. Every day brings something new to learn, observe, digest, or be thoroughly confounded by. I’ve had brilliant Aha moments and I’ve dangled at the end of my rope, sure I was going to die. Clueless as I am most of the time, I now figure I may as well surrender to whatever is.

My original intent was to keep a journal of our experiences and put it together in a monthly e-newsletter, forgetting that even writing a yearly newsletter often fell by the wayside. I did manage to put out one Bali Update, I think back in March ’09, and I do regularly post short notes and photos on Facebook. This blog is an attempt to share more than is possible on Facebook and yet keep myself from overwhelm.

Some background info: I was born in Jakarta, Java three months before the Japanese invaded and occupied Indonesia in WWII and while it was still a colony of the Dutch. My mother comes from Manado, North Sulawesi, a predominantly Christian area with loyalties to the Dutch. It’s because of my mother that we spoke Dutch at home and attended Dutch schools, which explains why, even though I grew up in Indonesia and look Indonesian, I’m not particularly fluent in the language. A definite drawback. As an excuse I tell people I’m from Hawaii.

In 1949 Indonesia gained its independence and in 1957 those with the Dutch nationality were forced to leave and “repatriate” to The Netherlands. I was 16, attending the Dutch Lyceum in Jakarta. My family was in East Kalimantan, Borneo and could not get transport out. I left on the SS. Wilhelm Ruys for the 3-week journey to Rotterdam and arrived the day after a snowstorm. I had never seen snow before and never been so cold in my life. I was the only brown-skinned student at the Lyceum in Vlaardingen. By age 20 I was married, had a baby, and talked my husband into immigrating to America. I spent the 60’s and 70’s in Bible Belt Oklahoma City, OK, straining and chomping at the bit. A life-threatening incident helped me break free and I left to go south, to Houston, TX where I did not know anyone but had once spied a live palm tree. I met Phil and within 10 years talked him into moving to Hawaii. So I know something about moving from place to place, country to country, about discarding your roots, and stepping into the unknown. I thought coming to Bali would be a piece of cake.

Phil and I had visited Bali for a week in 1981, much too long ago and too short a time to claim any reasonable knowledge of it. To drop everything, leave the beauty of Hawaii, our family and friends, our comforts… to do what? Start over again? At our age? In a third world country with mediocre healthcare? Are you insane? This blog may prove that the Fools’ Journey can be undertaken at any age to any place, even if it’s only to the bathroom. But what do I know?

EVERYBODY LOVES A PARADE

2009-08-30T21:30:00.007-10:00

SHE MARRIED FOR LOVE

2009-08-30T00:57:00.007-10:00

Dayu preparing Ikan Pepes (spiced fish steamed in banana leaves)

When we were looking for a cook, Agung (our back-up driver) referred us his niece Dayu, a cook with extensive experience working in villas. We immediately liked her goodnatured intelligence and confidence. She turned out to be a gift from the island's culinary gods. Licking my childhood-food-deprived lips, I immediately started listing all the foods I remembered growing up. Some dishes she was familiar with, others were specialties from different islands or regions that I had to look up on the internet. My mother was from northern Sulawesi, my father's family was from Java (more specifically from Jakarta), and we lived in Kalimantan Timur (Borneo), so I grew up with a variety of tastes. Dayu's cooking, however, turned out to be almost overwhelmingly Balinese. When I learned that she had had Kolak Ubi (a sweet potato dish) for breakfast that morning, I begged her to cook it for me, remembering the soupy soft dish my Auntie Nini used to make. Well, I learned that Balinese Kolak is not exactly Jakarta Kolak. Or should I say, Auntie Nini Kolak? The dish I was presented with was carmelized sweet potato. Still good, but not as good.

One day I pulled a recipe for Bubur Manado from the internet. God, I used to love that. Dayu followed it perfectly, yet it came out more like Bubur Bali than Bubur Manado. Same with Western foods. If for instance you're in the mood for a hearty vegetable soup with big chunks of carrots, potatoes, tomatoes, onions, etc., don't be surprised if you get a delicate soup with aromatic spices and vegetables cut in exquisitely tiny pieces. Thus, every meal Dayu prepares becomes an adventure in Fusion cuisine. Phil's digestive tract is still adjusting.

Dayu's other gifts came out soon after we hired her: Here's a woman who loves to organize. She gave the kitchen a thorough cleaning, wiping grooves and corners that Charlie and Peter never even knew existed, and organized the appliances, pots, pans and pantry. But the best part of all: She has gone through my box of months-old stashed receipts and categorized them so I can make sense of it all! Whoohoo! No more bookkeeping chores for me. In a brilliant move on my part I raised Dayu's position to Villa Manager.

Okay, before I tell you her love story you must know something about Bali's caste system. Unlike the caste system in India with its sad class of Untouchables, Bali's seems to be more of a tribal and linguistic way of identification. Still, it's there and the rules are to be obeyed.

Dayu 's family belongs to the Brahman or Priest caste, the highest of Bali's four castes. Ketut, her handsome lover, is of the Sudra caste, the lowest. Shades of Romeo and Juliet... A man can marry down, but not up. Ketut is not even allowed to ASK the parents for Dayu's hand. The only acceptable way is to kidnap the bride and keep her safe from being returned to her parents. Since Ketut's family lives on the island of Lombok, he called Dayu late at night, hoping to lure her out of her parents' house to the harbor where they could take a ferry to Lombok. Unfortunately, Dayu was so sound asleep that she did not hear her cell phone. It wasn't until she woke up at 4:00 AM that she noticed his frantic messages. She quickly bundled some clothes up and snuck off before anyone else woke up. Once safe in Lombok, they wrote a formal letter to Dayu's family declaring their intent to marry. There were some other complications, but eventually the wedding took place and Dayu forfeited her high caste status and name. A Sudra now, she should be called Made (Mah-deh) instead of Dayu. But since she married for love, she'll always be Dayu to us.

A month after she started working for us, Dayu learned she was pregnant. Fortunately she is not plagued by morning sickness (what a blessing), but another concern has popped up. In Bali a wedding is not just a simple one-day affair. There's lots of protocol. Since Dayu married in Lombok, another wedding must be held in her parents' house. And with a baby on the way, the wedding must be held as soon as possible. No, not for moral reasons. It's to appease the ancestors who otherwise might make trouble for the baby or the mother.

But weddings are expensive and Ketut doesn't have any money. Well, when does a Balinese EVER have ANY money? These lovely ceremonies actually eat the families alive. There are reports of young people fleeing from their culture and religion just to survive. I don't blame them. I can hardly stand one hour a week in church. Here they have ceremonies all the time, one after another. Out of 30 days of the month, Balinese spend 10 days in ceremonies, more if you're of the Priest class. I'm a wimp, I could never last. Just in the hour that I've been sitting here writing, I've watched 6 big trucks pass by, filled to the brim with men in their white temple gear, going where? ... the beach more likely for another ceremony. No wonder people like to hire Javanese workers.

Anyway, there it is, Dayu needs money for a wedding and the least we can do is loan her the money. Hopefully I'll come out with some good pictures and maybe a video to share.

THE JOY OF HAVING STAFF

2009-08-28T22:30:00.007-10:00

Charlie in his typical Charlie pose

Charlie is the brightest, funniest, and most endearing of our staff. Only 19, he plays in his village gamelan orchestra, carves wood, swims and runs, dances the salsa, yelps when he laughs, has friends everywhere, loves cool clothing, loves everything American, and is presently obsessed with getting a Blackberry which costs a fortune in Indonesia.

Phil feels especially close to him and the two of them have created a peculiar way of communicating. I don’t know how it started but this is how it goes:

Phil to Charlie: Do you know where Charlie is? Is he working or watching TV? Or is he sleeping again?

Charlie: Ya, Charlie. So sorry he likes to sleeping. And TV. But maybe he go out with girlfriend now.

Phil: Not again. When you see him will you tell him that we saw him on his motorbike this morning and he was NOT wearing his helmet.

Charlie: What? He no wear helmet? I tell him already: Charlie, if no wear helmet you pay 10.000 rupiah ($1) to Dr. Phil.

Phil: Does he forget to put on his helmet because he gets too excited about seeing his girlfriend?

Charlie: Maybe ya. Maybe he think Ibu (that’s me, Elsha) say only 5.000 rupiah (50 cents).

Phil: Please tell Charlie that Ibu and I care about him a lot. We want him to stay healthy and safe.

Charlie: Ya, later I tell. Maybe when finis TV.

FAMILY VALUES

Charlie asked us for a loan to remodel his family’s house. The roof has caved in and when it rains there is not a dry place in the house. Father, mother and four kids live in two small rooms. He wants to build a new roof and make 4 bedrooms with 4 doors. All it will take is Rp. 15.000.000 ($1,500). We can withhold part of his salary each month until it’s paid off. We’re happy to help. We suggest that he sleep in the villa’s staff quarters for the time being. He wants to think it over.

The next day he tells me that he will not accept our offer because: “When everybody wet, I want also wet. When everybody hot, I want also hot.”

When I give Charlie the money for his house I tell him to go home and deliver it to his father. His father was in the middle of lunch but dropped everything to buy the materials needed to get started immediately. No building plans are necessary, no permits, you just build.

A week later there is a heavy rainstorm at night with lots of thunder and lightning. We’re dry and snug in our bed but the work has not even been started on Charlie’s house. I think about how he collects our newspapers and plastic bags every day to plug up the holes in the roof with. I have a hard time sleeping knowing that Charlie is bailing water out of his house throughout the night.

Instead of having him pay off the loan, we open a savings account for Charlie where he can deposit his monthly withholding. The money is for his education only and cannot be withdrawn without the addition of Phil’s signature. We do the same for Peter to whom we had lent money earlier for buying a good motorbike. On his days off Peter drives home to Singaraja, a 3 hour drive north through the mountains. I pray for the boy's safety.

OTHER STAFF

We were told that sooner or later every expat would experience problems with staff. I thought surely we would be exempt because we treat them well, pay them well, and include them in a lot of fun. Our driver Denny, who we loved and nicknamed Obama, would tell everyone what great bosses we were and how lucky the staff was. So it was very sad to come to the decision to let him go.

Too bad too. It deprived me of some fun. I liked calling him from a crowded place and yell into the phone, “Hello, Obama! Yes I’m finished. Come pick me up now, Obama! I don’t care if you’re in the middle of the banking crisis.” You don’t think I was laying it on too thick, do you?

He found a job in Australia, he said, but he was recently sighted driving tourists around Singaraja.

Before we moved into our villa Pak Regug worked there as security guard for the owner’s art collection. We had nothing of value to protect other than our laptop, so I did not hire him. We kept Charlie on for housekeeping and Peter for gardening. And when we developed a problem with the pool, we hired Toni to fix it and clean it 3 times a week. We were quite happy with our staff.

One day, Pak Regug came over to warn us that the villa across the rice fields had been burglarized. He would be happy to provide our villa with his security services again. He would come in at 7:00 PM and stay till 7:00 AM. In between he would do the rounds and check this area and that area at such and such time.

“When will you sleep?” I asked, knowing that he also farms the rice fields next door.

“I don’t need much sleep.” He said.

Yeah right! And you don’t eat rice either.

I did not know if his burglary story was true or if it was conveniently imagined to get his job back. By now I do know that the Balinese are quite facile with their stories. I also know that it’s best to keep good relations with the community or life can be made quite unpleasant for expats. So, just in case this was a veiled “threat” I decided to hire him at a minimum wage. He made it quite clear that that was unacceptable. We compromised. I told him that I expect him to stay awake. No problem, he said. Oh sure. He would be fast asleep, curled up on the bale by the pool, before we would even go to bed. Twenty burglars in heavy boots could step over him without waking him up. I told him that people pay money to sleep here. I will have to charge him for every night he sleeps. If I didn’t know that he needs to come up with Rp. 3.000.000 ($300) this month for his temple’s big anniversary ceremony, I would have fired him right away.

HOW TO GET THINGS DONE

2009-08-28T21:55:00.001-10:00

OUR INTERNET SAGA

We need a phone line to connect to the internet. Telkom, the state telephone company, says it does not have enough numbers. Our neighbor Remco finds someone who needs money and has a telephone number for sale. We share the cost of Rp. 3.000.000 ($300). After much back & forth Telkom says, Okay, we’ll connect you. The line is supposed to be installed in our villa, but when the Telkom technician finally arrives (after days of futile waiting), Remco’s staff directs him to Remco’s house instead and the box is installed there. No problem. We buy a long internet cable, plug one end into Remco's laptop, stretch it across the yard that separates our houses, and plug the other end into our laptop. Small obstacle: If Remco turns off his computer we won't have access to the internet. He needs to keep his laptop on at all times. All is well until Remco falls in love with Ayu and rents a villa in Padang Bai, an hour's drive away from Ubud. He’s moving in three weeks. What to do with the phone line? Back to Telkom where the clerk in Customer Service tries to be helpful. It will cost Rp. 400.000 ($40) to move the line to your villa, she says. The technician will be here this Friday. That afternoon we call the technician to find out what time on Friday we can expect him. He says he’s not coming. Oh, why not? Because our line is bad, he says. Excuse me? It’s been working just fine. No, he says, It’s bad. Hmm... that must be code for Give Me Money. I decide to give our electrician a call. Pak Wayan (not his real name to protect him) is the only electrician I trust because he was trained by an American and I’ve seen the work he has done. Definitely professional. He also does plumbing.
“Pak Wayan,” I say, “I know that you know how to tap into a phone line.”
“It will get me into trouble with Telkom” he says.
“I don’t want you to get into any trouble with Telkom,” I say, “But I also know that you know how not to get into trouble with Telkom.”
“I’ll be there next week.” He says.
Within two days we have a landline and internet and wifi.

TELEVISION

Since the television in Kubu Merta belongs to the villa, we need to buy our own TV for Kubu Santi. From previous shopping experiences I know that the moment a shopkeeper sees me walk in the door he raises his prices. I may look Indonesian, but not really. And as soon as I open my mouth, they know I’m a mark. So I ask Pak Wayan to buy us a TV. He gets one at the local price, I give him a commission, and everyone’s happy.

However, there’s one more step. The television cable and parabola are still at Kubu Merta and need to be moved to where we live now, to Kubu Santi, a distance of about 150 feet. Indovision, the state company that installed it, is not answering their phones or emails. For weeks we try to contact them to no avail.

One day we're visiting with our neighbor Herman across the driveway and it occurs to me to ask him if he has a friend at Indovision. Well, he does not know anyone who works there, but he does know a guy who knows something about cable television. “Are you home tomorrow?” Herman asks.
The next night Phil and I watch a movie on HBO.

BALI BIZARRE

2009-08-28T20:40:00.004-10:00

Back in June we had a mysterious invasion of strangers. Phil and I were having a leisurely breakfast when we heard a car pull up. Thinking it was someone delivering materials for the construction next door, we did not pay attention. Our parking area is often used for turning the trucks around. But this time we hear a car stop and park. We’re not expecting any visitors, so who can it be? Curious, we walk to the front and see a rickety old van carrying a bunch of people. The doors open and nine people pour out of the car. Talking loudly among themselves they stride toward us as if we had invited them over for a party. Yes, nine of them, dressed alike in crisp blue and black-patterned rayon shirts over black skirts or pants. The women in high heels. Phil and I are puzzled. We don’t know any of them. Who the hell are they and what are they doing here? They’re gathered in the entrance, darkening the lobby. They carry official-looking folders and speak to us simultaneously in rapid Indonesian of which I can only derive that they are from some government office in the Gianyar region and that it involves some kind of permit. Nobody speaks English and no, they did not come to the wrong address. Hmm, nine people from the same office drive 30 minutes to our villa to okay a permit? A permit for what? They don’t say. We’re completely flummoxed. I’m beginning to feel beleaguered. I remind myself that when it comes to dealing with the government I better play nice. I should offer them something. How about some water? They decline. I insist. No, no, they brought their own water. Juice? Cookies? No juice or cookies either. Okay then, no bribing them with sweets. We’re at an impasse. Nobody can tell us what the permit is for and we don’t understand why they’re here. Two of the men give up and go outside for a smoke. The others circle around and hold a conference. Reaching a decision they open their folders and start filling out their documents. Watching them is a funny Alice-in-Wonderland kind of feeling. What are they writing? What are we being approved or not approved for? This is crazy. I make one more stab at understanding what is going on and ask if they need to see the villa, walk through the property. Do they need to know how many bedrooms we have? Or check out the kitchen facilities? No, no need. They continue filling out their mysterious forms. When they’re finally finished they take their leave. The two men outside squish out their cigarettes and all nine of them fold themselves back into the sardine can of a van and wave goodbye. Phil and I just look at each other. What was that about? Until now we have no idea.

THE BALINESE CALENDAR

If you want to know why living in Bali can be so confusing, consider this explanation of the Balinese calendar system:

The 210-day pawukon calendar provides the reference system for most of the religious ceremonies in Bali: market days, personal anniversaries, and the good or bad days for doing special tasks. A single 210 day cycle since no record is kept of successive cycles nor the numbed. They just pass by. During the 210 day can then weeks each of a different length, run there is a week that is only one day long, one that has two days, one that has that long, and so on up to the longest 10-day week. Each of the 10 different length weeks has a Sanskrit - derived Balinese name based upon the number of days that it contains. Thus Triware is the 3-day week and Saptaware is exactly like 7 days week. And each separate day of each of the ten different weeks has its own name, making a total of 1+2+3…10-55 separate weekday names. Actually, however, the one-day week does not have the same name every day. On some days it has no name at all. (From: www.darmabali.com/.../Balinese-calender.html)

KUBU SANTI

2009-08-28T18:25:00.002-10:00

As if our 4-bedroom Villa Kubu Merta was not enough, last month we moved into a newly-finished one-bedroom cottage next door, named Kubu Santi (House of Peace, also the names of the owner’s wife and youngest daughter).

So what are we doing with two houses in Bali, two gardens, a swimming pool, art gallery, restaurant, gazebo, meditation tower, and a staff of six? You thought we left Hawaii to live the simple life in Bali, right? Yeah, notwithstanding our cable TV, internet, and wifi (we finally did get all the western amenities – read about our internet saga above), we are living the simple life. But let me tell you, letting go of the addiction to do everything myself is not easy. I still catch myself thinking, Oh, I should tell Dayu to use the small bowls. Or, I should at least rinse the dishes in the sink instead of leaving them for Peter to wash after he’s done with watering the plants. Or, I need to go to Telkom to pay the bill, instead of simply sending Charlie on his motorbike. Hah! You think it’s easy to do nothing?

But back to the question of what we are doing with 2 houses. Kubu Merta is a grand villa, built to accommodate guests, but not very conducive for family living. The dining room is in a different building from the bedroom. The lobby/art gallery is open and public, not a comfortable livingroom to hang out in in your grungies, and having staff around 24/7 does not give us much privacy.

Sharing the same (very long) driveway as Kubu Merta, Kubu Santi was in the last stages of being finished. One day, out of curiosity I looked inside and was instantly taken with its open design and delightful simplicity. When I had the chance to talk with Komang, the owner, I asked how much he was planning to rent it for. The price was so low I flipped out. Even so, I’ve been here long enough not to pass up a chance to bargain and managed to get the price down even lower. I’m heartless, you say? No worry, Komang is happy. The cost of building a house here is so ridiculously low that our 2-year lease already covers half of his construction. To give you an idea: you can build 2 houses for the price of a car. So even though we had not planned to lease another house, this opened up other and better possibilities. All four bedroom suites in Villa Kubu Merta are now available for guests, we have the privacy we need, and we're close enough to keep an eye on everything. Already we've benefited from the August peak tourist season. And we LOVE living in our private nest. Come visit us.