asdf  jkl;    asdf  jkl;   I took Typing in my junior year at Livingston High School.  It was a fun, easy elective.  That’s how old I am.  When did they stop teaching that?  I know my kids didn’t take a typing class and can type quicker than I can, and I consider myself a pretty fast typer…uh..typist.  I remember being tested for speed and accuracy and I did damn well.  This has nothing to do with anything.  asdf jkl;  Those are the keys my fingers automatically sit on when resting on the keyboard.  And when I don’t know how to begin, they rest there for a while.

Should I start with a story?  Ok, fine.

Steamy, sauna-like air licked my face and neck as I sat at the second-floor bar looking out to the warung across the street.  Down below, the candles danced on the tables and the lanterns gently lit the romance that ignited the few tables of men and women sitting across from each other.  I could see the sexy outline of a woman, her body language suggesting amour with her date, as she softly threw her hair to one side and tipped her head to expose her long neck.  He stretched his legs out under the table until he met hers, and she playfully slid her foot up his calf.  The sweat dripped down my Bali Hai bottle rimming the glass on the wood bar.  I took a deep swig and hoped it would stay chilled while I sat and watched.  Jendela House. The sign glowed bright against the dark brick of the ancient building. Servers came and went from their tables, checking on customers and food, and the man and his date eventually stood, gathered each other, and walked off.

Directly across from where I was sitting, above the warung below, I could see a rooftop area that was dimly lit, but there hadn’t been any activity since I had sat down.  I had been occupying my perch for quite a while, enjoying a late dinner of mie goreng and a couple of bottles of good Bali beer in an iced mug. There were a number of tables near me, one large party of Germans were out having a family dinner, and a few sets of couples seemed to be sharing their evening and food. I had eaten at this warung before, having been drawn to the music that I could hear down at the street level.  It wasn’t loud, but it was most definitely familiar classic rock and it pulled me instantly up the steps and into this smallish, multi-leveled vibey open-air cafe.  Along with the few tables of happy conversations, there were a few solo diners sitting at the bar that faced out to the street, as there were again tonight, me being one of them. The food was not only good, but the warung had a purpose – it is part of a foundation, Sari Bali,  that gives free medical care to Bali citizens and it is raising money to build a hospital in Bali that will be able to accommodate 70,000 patients.  More reason to spend my money here. So as I sat here and contemplated my life, I innocently watched the world around me do its thing.  And then I saw something I shouldn’t have.

A woman had walked across the rooftop with a tray in her hand and opened a door. My eyes instantly focused on this because the roof had been quiet all night, so it was the first bit of activity I noticed.  She seemed relaxed when she entered through that black door, carrying drinks on the tray.  But when she came back out not a moment later, she was breathless and almost running.  Then I saw a man emerge from the door, tackle her, and fall down on top of her.  I couldn’t see what happened beneath the half wall that enclosed the rooftop, but I know I didn’t see her get up.  I could see his black hair bob up and down and I watched as this blackened figure moved backwards toward the door he came from, as if he was dragging her body.  The door opened, and then shut.  There hadn’t been any sound during this whole 90 seconds except the thunder of my own heart.

I looked at Alex, the owner, and thought I should grab him and tell him what I saw.  He was sitting down with the large German party describing the various deserts offered on tonight’s menu.  Not wanting to interrupt or be an alarmist, I ran through my head what I would say.  I felt an immediate sense of urgency to yell out, but something was stopping me.  The language was a barrier, but it was more than that.  It was the knowledge that this is a corrupt country, and that whatever had just gone down wasn’t my business and if I got involved I may be doing myself more harm.  This is not the States – which is just as corrupt as anywhere else, but in a first-world politically correct way that allows us to convince ourselves that we can stomach it all the more.  But my head wouldn’t settle for that.  If I was that woman, I would hope someone would have the guts to help me!  I know I often over-simplify things, but I truly believe each person makes a difference, so if one person stands up, maybe more will follow, and maybe…just maybe…corruption will somehow stop.  Ok, none of this happened.  I’m sorry if you got really wrapped up…I could always continue it, if you really want.  Woahhhhhh…..don’t go freaking out on me now.  You wanted a story, so I gave you one.  Actually, it all happened up until the man attacked the woman.  There was a woman on the roof, and she went in a door, but no man came out after her.  I just thought it would be fun to try out my writing skills. Because I reaaaaally have to figure out what I’m going to do with my life!!!

If you’re done cursing me out, I’ll tell you some of my thoughts.  I have gotten to know myself pretty well, spending all this time alone with me.   For one, I definitely like nice things.  A home, a garden, some land.  I MUST earn money so that I can have a home, a garden, and some land.  And a dog.  I need a home because it is my sacred grounding place.  It is where I am sheltered and safe.  And it is also where I invite my loved ones in to share my nurturing and comforting gifts of love and friendship.  It is where I welcome in those that I love and create some of the best memories.  Secondly,  I avoid goals.  I don’t ever set goals. Please don’t confuse goals with deadlines.  That’s in a box by itself.  I am completely responsible and have been known to work ridiculous hours to deliver the best product on time. Goals are different.  They are personal. I notice that I avoid thinking about them.  I think I’ve figured out why.  The obvious.  What if I don’t meet them?  What if?  I will have failed myself, that’s what if.  Alright, so let’s say I fail.  I tend to say, what’s the point in setting them if I have no chutzpah to even try to achieve them? So the question really is, Why isn’t the reward great enough?  Hands up,please…I need some answers.  Because if I don’t set goals, I get nowhere!!  Goals represent something I have to work for to achieve.  We all know it’s been quite a while since I’ve “worked” at anything.  And quite honestly, I kinda enjoy NOT working.  But I’m 25% into my year of travel and bleeding cash, and a band-aid isn’t gonna stop the flow. So it’s time for me to get serious.  Here’s my goal.  I am giving myself until June 1st to CHOOSE SOMETHING TO WORK AT.  That’s 3+ more months of exploring my options and developing a plan.  Good, I’ve set a goal.  Third…it’s time to stop fucking around with my weight and get serious about losing it.  There. I’ve said it.  Sometimes putting it out there is the hardest part.  I need to hold myself accountable, so going public is one way of forcing that.  Here’s my goal.  Starting tomorrow – wait, fuck that, starting now – I’m gonna do 10  push ups, 10 sit-ups, 10 squats, and 10 lunges.  For every day I complete my goal, I can have a glass of wine.  Because I’ve been having the glass of wine anyway, so isn’t it better to counteract that?  If I don’t complete it, no alcohol!!!  Let’s see how that works, for starters anyway.

Ok, back to Ubud.  It’s reeeallyyy growing on me!!! The longer I stay….the better it gets….

When my driver turned onto the main road in Ubud, my interest peaked as we whizzed by all the stores and restaurants and the people walking the streets. Just the pure energy was completely different and uplifting.  I had my fill of the beach and was ready for some city life.  Ubud isn’t a city, but it is known as the cultural and artistic heart of Bali. It’s considered a village, but it’s more like a hopping town.  I arrived at The White Villas, my new home, and got myself plugged in.  The owners, Tina & Christian, weren’t arriving until Thursday, but their Balinese staff were more than capable of taking great care of me and making me feel at home.  They had a list of tours and activities that I might try, and we sat together and planned my week.  I quite liked my new surroundings.  I was a five-minute walk to the main road, but far enough away from the hustle & noise.  I liked walking around the “hood”, past the roosters that wander about, past all the stray dogs, past the offerings, past the local Balinese neighbors going about their day-to-day.  I sat on the back of the motorbike as the staff drove me to town when I didn’t feel like walking, and had some really nice talks about Balinese culture, Hindu religion, and learning the language.  Now that I’ve spent some time in Southeast Asia, I am starting to differentiate between the different Asian cultures.  For one thing, and I know I’m gonna get slammed for this comment, Americans are so culturally different from the Chinese in sooo many ways, and I find myself getting annoyed at *some* of the Chinese’s behaviors, or lack of awareness and respect for being in a country other than theirs. I hate – really hate – when people use an entire nationality as a generalization, so that is why I am saying “some”. But a lot of “some”, in this case.   When they speak to each other, it is so friggin loud it’s like they’re yelling.  Actually it sounds like they’re fighting, and if someone doesn’t crack a smile I’m not sure that they’re not.  Turn down the volume!  No one else talks that loud!  And have you ever noticed that burping is like…as common as breathing??  I am flabbergasted at the older Chinese women that burp in public as loud as a car horn and from deep down in their bellies. It’s like a contest – the longer, the louder..the higher the score.  It’s shocking to me!  I’m sorry, but I’m not the only one who thinks it’s gross – the Balinese think it’s gross too!  I’ve literally asked them!! So if the majority votes that it’s gross, shouldn’t the Chinese be the ones curtailing their cultural differences rather than the rest of us just accepting them?  Listen, I am nothing but respectful, and I googled “Chinese burping in public” just to make sure I’m not crazy, and I now know that it is socially acceptable – to them – in China.   But not to the rest of the friggin world, so when in China…burp away!! And I will try to hide my surprise.  But when in Bali…..cover your mouth please!! And an “excuse me” would be nice for the ones that sneak out!!

The gardens

Ahhhh

The Balinese people are among the loveliest I’ve ever met.  They are soft-spoken, happy, smiling, engaging, and honest!!  Because they are Hindu and believe in karma, they do not steal and crime is very low.  Actually, this isn’t true all over Bali, but in Ubud, it is very, very safe.  Helmuts are left just sitting on motorbikes – nobody would ever steal them.  When you bargain for prices or hand over money, there is no worrying that you are getting ripped off.  They wouldn’t think of it.  They are constantly doing things for good luck, for blessings, and because if they do good things, they truly believe good things will come to them.  They believe if they are bad, they or their children will have to pay the price for it.  They believe in community, in helping each other.  They usually have 4 children, and their names are given based on their birth order, regardless of gender.  Putu or Wayan is the first-born. Made (pronounced Mahday) or Kadek is the second born. Nyoman or Komang is the 3rd, and  Ketut is the 4th.  If they have more than 4 children, the cycle repeats itself.  They are also given other names to differentiate themselves but they are usually called by these birth order names.  I also learned that each Balinese village has 3 temples dedicated to Brahma; the creator, Vishnu; the preserver, and Siwa; the destroyer.  The temples are used for assemblies, dances and performances, meetings, the preparation of offerings, and festivals.  I think I spoke about the offerings in a prior post, but this is something that is such a huge ritual in Balinese culture, and what I had first viewed as “messy” because they end up being stepped on, destroyed and torn apart, has now become something of beauty, of being present, and of belief.  The Balinese women create these 3×3″ palm leaf baskets in which a daily selection of beautifully julienned local produce and flower petals, usually frangipani, is presented, often 3 times per day, to appease gods and demons that represent the Hindu religion.  These offerings are left everywhere – on the streets, at the doors, on the statues, tables, literally everywhere. They are swept up at some point, usually in the early morning, to make a fresh start for the new day’s offerings.

Gio, the manager at The White Villas, took me on a tour of Ubud and its outer villages so that I could see some of the cultural and artistic trades at work.  We visited Mas village, where woodworkers carved buddhas, animals, and everything in-between learned from their ancestors.  We visited the  UC silver and gold factory and watched the jewelry makers hone their craft. We visited a batik factory and watched the patterns being painted on fabric with wax and dipped in natural  dyes.  We visited the Ubud market and saw an overload of these things being sold.  We visited Monkey Forest where the monkeys will climb on you to get the treats they know you’ve purchased for them. And of course, we did lunch at the famous Ibu Oka, noted for their Babi Guling, roasted suckling pig.  Enak! (Delicious, in Balinese).

Weaving on the loom at the Batik Factory, Ubud.

Silver Jewelry Making at UC Jewelry, Ubud

The next day, I had hired another driver to take me on another tour up to Besakih, the mother temple in Bali, and Mt. Agur volcano.  I woke up feeling a bit queasy, but pushed on wanting to see the magic of Bali.  It’s a 2-hour drive up to that area, so we traveled north through Ubud and out of the crowded streets where the road winds up the mountains and the villages seem more provincial.  I don’t know if it was the elevation, the bumpy dirt roads, or breakfast, but I made my driver pull over so I could neatly vomit on the side of a rice paddy.  And thus began the first of many bouts of puking and diarrhea that would highlight each stop we made.  I puked at Besakih at the top of the temple steps. I puked at a villager’s crop field.  I puked at Tegalalang in the bathroom of a dirty warung, and gladly arrived home at my villa to puke again surrounded by familiarity.  Komang, the sweetest Balinese girl who is on staff at the villa, jumped on her motorbike, sped off to a pharmacy and returned with two wonder drugs – one for each end.  That was my magic in Bali.  Grateful.

The next two days were spent resting, as you can imagine.  White rice and ginger tea for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  By Friday I was feeling better and ready to head out again. I had signed up for a Balinese cooking class at Casa Luna, and it was fabulous. We learned about the different herbs, spices, vegetables and fruits that are indigenous to Bali and used in Balinese dishes. We learned to use a flat mortar & pestle to combine ingredients the Balinese way.  One woman kept asking if she could substitute things and the answer was always “this is how we do it in Bali”.  It was definitely not getting through to her that “the Balinese way” is what we’re here to learn. We made chicken satay, peanut sauce, nasi goreng (Balinese fried rice) vegetarian and with chicken, and a vegetable salad,  and then sat down and feasted.  Yum!! I walked the streets of Ubud, wandered in and out of shops, bought a pair of earrings from a local jewelry designer, and started to feel like me again.  A new pair of earrings can do that.  Iris, I know you understand this.  On Saturday I did some more wandering with a goal of having lunch at Bebek Bengil, famous for their crispy duck. I wandered in just ahead of 3 young girls who graciously invited me to join them for lunch, and I have to say I was thrilled and aching for my daughter at the same time. But this was pretty close to being with her, as they were all around 23 yrs of age.  Daphne from Taiwan, beautiful and smart, works for Uber in Taiwan. Alexia from Cali works for Groupon in Taiwan, and their friend from Pennsylvania (so sorry I’m forgetting her name!) was on hiatus searching for her next job.  We really did have a nice chatty time and we hugged goodbye and wished each other safe travels.

Baskets at the market

Continuing my wandering,  I checked out Yoga Barn, supposedly “the” place to go in Ubud and told the receptionist I was “just looking”.  Took a schedule just to make it look like I was somewhat interested, knowing full well I wasn’t ready for “the” place just yet.  I was, however, ready for a Balinese spa pedicure…and I had passed what looked like just “the” place on my way to Yoga Barn.  So I entered this authentic Zen Spa, left my flip-flops at the door, and proceeded to follow the little guy up the steps to the pedicure area. Had a good laugh at myself, sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair, my feet in a bowl, and the little guy using a dirty towel (God I hope it was just grayed) and an emery board and blow dryer to make my feet feel brand new.  Ahhhh…and the view?  A concrete wall and tin roofs.  Still questioning what I’m doing wrong. Have a look.

Saturday night I enjoyed a Kacek and fire dance performance at the local village temple.  Over 100 men chant the songs that tell the story of the Balinese lovers caught in a jealous triangle.  Almost Romeo & Juliette-like.  The costumes and makeup are fantastic. I think I smiled for an hour and a half straight through to the end of the show – the finale being a fire walker.  Damn, his feet must be numb.  Dirty goes without saying.

Sunday was the best day!! I had rescheduled a tour of Jatiluwih Rice Fields from the earlier in the week when I was too sick to go, and although I had seen some rice paddies, there ain’t nothing like this!!  Tiered, green, waves carved into the mountain sides, cascading down and around making wavy geometric turns.  Art Landscape!  Rice takes 3 months to grow, so it is harvested 4 times per year – oh you can do the math?  Cool.  The paddies are flooded in the earlier stages until the green stalks finally sprout and turns a wheat color.  The villagers here bathe in the stream, and I was amused by this one adorable little Balinese girl proudly washing her tummy with a bar of soap. When I asked to take her picture, she was indifferent but didn’t want to look at the camera.

After the rice paddies, we made our way to Ulun Danu Temple on Lake Beratan.  Just gorgeous.  The grounds were stunning, park-like, and the temple was a picturesque monument jutting out into the lake.

And on the way back home, I scored gold in…baskets.  I sort of have an obsession with baskets here, and I found this local couple who weave them by hand and they are sooo beautiful that I couldn’t decide which one I wanted to buy…so…I know, I better find a home to put them all in.  And poor Laurie gets to store them for me until that happens.

10 push ups, 10 situps, 10 lunges, 10 squats.  Done.