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Published: October 5th 2010
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Before I dive into the entry a quick update on where I am. I've temporarily left the beaches (no surf) and am in Ubud. Ubud is in central Bali, on the eastern half. It is a center of tourism and a great base from which to explore the surrounding country. Now on to the meat...
I lack the descriptive firepower of Tom Robbins, so I'll use a simple metaphor: Ubud is like a banana. On the surface it is bitter (is a banana peel bitter-- I've never tried) and hard to swallow. It reveals nothing about the true character of the place-- simply an illusion to satisfy the tourists' appetite. (Which apparently isn't so refined.) You can buy crap that you can tell yourself you need. A knife. A painting of a deity you have no understanding of. A Bintang (Bali beer) t-shirt.
Then with a simple motion, (like peeling a banana...ah, yes) you find a sweet interior that is both soft and wonderful. And so close to the surface. If you stayed a day you might miss it. But even that seems unlikely.
The rice fields and jungle are right there. There. Over there. Temples abound and
On the edge of Lake Batur
Beautiful farmland all around. And plenty of fish. This lake and the volcano are about an hour north of Ubud. don't just exist there. Or over there. They are everywhere; in the home, the street, the jungle. Spirituality isn't hushed away into the corners of the culture either. It sits in the open, in the eyes and actions of everyone.
Bali feels like a place of intention. It isn't intention an outsider can necessarily grasp, but one to be appreciated nonetheless. If I have been taught to find order in things that exist I would have a brain hemorrhage attempting to discern the meaning of everything that occurs here.
The ibu (older woman) at the home I am staying puts out 75 offerings everyday. Flower petals, eggshells, rice, slices of banana suffice. When they are placed, where, or how remains a mystery. Today a seashell has been placed in the doorway of our home. A procession stops traffic. Some participate. Others seem indifferent.
The home itself is a place of intention. The most sacred directions are north and east (lucky New Englanders) and most elements of the home pay homage to these points. Each home is not a singular building, but a series of buildings usually aligned in a square with a courtyard and a decorative entrance.
Plants are essential to the Balinese home, as are shrines and places of worship. They are fascinating. Balinese are artists by nature and use space in such a creative and meaningful manner. Here the eye with which life seems to be viewed feels like the third.
(I won't venture on a philosophical rant, though there has been plenty of time for musings, but I'm overwhelmed with the belief that life doesn't need to make sense. It just needs to be lived.)
Back to the intentions, or perhaps...contradictions. Balinese will sit around casually for long stretches, drifting in and out of conversation, appearing to be waiting for a piece of business, or something, or other. Then as soon as they hop on a motorbike it's as if they have their in-labor wife on the back. Or a dying grandparent. Why? I can't figure. But it is contagious. Passing trucks, dodging chickens and dogs, and using the horn to communicate becomes habit.
(A habit I am not particularly fond of is being stopped by the police-- technically it's not a habit, as I'm not compelled subconsciously or the other to indulge in such an activity. They are corrupt
Pucker up
Tide pool gem. and ineffectual. I was subjected to a random police check, where they promptly asked for my international driver's license; which, of course, I don't have. They made me "step inside" where they informed me of the ticket I would receive. I was already well aware of the process, thanked them for the offer, but declined the ticket. Instead, offering them a token 100,000Rp ($11) for the generosity in informing me of local regulations. They accepted and let me on my way.)
Maybe it's the humid air, the diet of rice (the food is actually pretty amazing), or the frequent massages (not that kind), but Bali attaches to you like a bad hangover. Except it's not debilitating at all; it's nourishing. Last week I opened my eyes and found myself laughing at a traditional Balinese Yoga class. (Laughter is part of the practice.) Just me and 100 of my closest Balinese friends. Sometime later I found myself staring into the eyes of a white snake-- not the woman who was dancing with the snake around her neck. And today I start volunteering at the Ubud Writer's and Reader's Festival-- a four day international conference. (Maybe the next blog will show
My morning Yoga partner
It's cool. I switched spots. vast improvement.)
That's all for now.
I'll leave you with this. Sometimes you keep your shoes on. Sometimes you take them off. But whichever you choose, no matter-- everyone wears flip flops.
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Slocum
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Awesome!
When are you coming back? You are coming back, right?