MOVING, MONSTERS & MIRACLES

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

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

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!

"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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MAY YOU BE BLESSED BEYOND YOUR WILDEST DREAMS!

VILLA KUBU MERTA: PLACE OF CELEBRATION

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

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

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

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

Okinawan sweet potatoes, urap (spinach with spices)

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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

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

FLOWER POWER FULL MOON MAGIC

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...

 

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HOLY OILS, REINCARNTION AND A HOT ROD

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.