< Back To This Issue's Index >

"Prepare your seatbacks and trays for landing." I hear, and suddenly I am no longer standing inside a Gauguin painting, but seated in an Asiana plane, which is preparing to land in Bangkok. The dream, so vivid! Was it a promise of what was in store for me in Asia? It didn't take more than a couple of days in Bangkok to figure out that if a lush paradise had once existed here, it had long since been covered over by skyscrapers, highways, and malls. My next Asian destination, Kathmandu, proved to be a paradise of a different kind. It was a medieval silver and jewel-toned village overrun by men with guns, and no, it no more resembled the soft, pastel paradise of my dream than Bangkok had.  Apparently, I was too late. And so I let it go.  July 3, 2002 I am peering out of a Garuda jetliner at an emerald island surrounded by a velvet sea as we prepare to land in Bali, Indonesia. My forehead pressed against the window, I am suddenly very tired of the life of a Global Orphan. I want to be home. "Please," I pray. "Let this be it."  I step off the plane and into the dream. It smells of incense, sandalwood, cloves, and jasmine. In "Traveling not Leaving", Andrea Bocconi writes, "The sense of smell bypasses rationality...the nose is animal, instinctive, ancient. An encounter with another culture is an intensely olfactory experience, even if we are not aware of it." I do not know why or how I know it, but I am home.

Women in brilliant sarongs stand at the edge of a river bathing, washing clothes, laughing and chattering...Children splash in the water and chase each other through tall grasses onshore.  Foliage drips with flowers and exotic fruit. Men sit in circles carving wood. Drums beat softly in the distance. Birds warble and palm trees dance a slow dance in a gentle breeze.

I move into a house in the midst of the rice paddies above the old artist village of Bali called Penestanan. It is like moving into a zoo, so full of creatures that I must wear earplugs at night to sleep.

In the taxi, we wind along narrow country roads headed to the culture and art center of Bali called Ubud. We pass verdant sculptured rice paddies, distant volcanoes poking through clouds, soft in the mist, and women wrapped in sarongs sauntering gracefully along the side of the road with pyramids of fruit balanced on their heads,. Men wear the soft sarongs too, only in earth tones, and sport batik headbands over dark hair. Children run through the fields, their faces turned to the sky, watching kites soaring on currents high above. Lush foliage sways in the breeze and at the base of the mountains are rows of fringed palm trees.  I wake before sunrise the next morning to birdsong so loud, I'm sure I must be in a bird sanctuary. In the morning light, I look more closely at the interior of my $9 per night bungalow. Its every niche is crafted with aesthetic taste. The door is handcarved with ornate precision. The Indonesian four-poster bed is draped in a lacy mosquito net, the hand-woven batik textiles gracing the walls and draped across the bed are works of art, and the ceiling is peaked and thatched in bamboo.

I go for a short walk and discover more art imbued in everything from the sidewalks (inlaid with leafs and little pebble designs) to the sublime - strikingly beautiful temples, and simple but tasteful, open-air, multi-tiered homes with thatched roofs.

Miniscule wovenpalm containers of flowers, rice, money, and burning incense are set out on the ground and atop shrines everywhere I look. This is the source of Bali's aroma; that and the profusion of frangipani, jasmine, and clove cigarettes.

Bali is one of thousands of islands that make up the Indonesian archipelago, and a small one at that - only  2,147 square miles. Located only 8 degrees from the equator, Bali's climate averages a comfortable 80 degrees year round.

Even with its population of three million, one can still get lost on the island. There are hundreds of villages that have not changed in 50 years.  Bali's volcanic mountains, some of which reach over 10,000 feet, provide fertile volcanic soil and abundant rainfall resulting in a land where crops almost grow themselves. Because so little physical labor is required to sustain life, the Balinese have plenty of time left over to pursue art, music, and religion. 

The Balinese believe that the island was a gift granted them in sacred trust and so they devote a great deal of time to offerings, processions, the making of art, and temple ceremonies. 
.

They have their own unique blend of Hinduism, a complex fusion of India cosmology, tantric Buddhism, home-grown mythology, animism, and magical beliefs and practices.  At least eleven thousand temples- grace the island.  When Islam swept through the islands during the 15th century, there was a mass exodus of aristocracy, priests, courtiers, artists, musicians, and craftsmen to Bali. The artistic renaissance that ensued, continues today. Virtually every Balinese practices one creative art or another, be it painting, wood carving, dancing, or music, - for art is considered an integral part of being alive. There is a sense of harmony in Bali that is hard to miss. Each village is a closely unified organism in which the communal policy is harmony and co-operation - a system that works to the advantage of every body. The community decides the organization of villages, farming and even the creative arts. The local government is responsible only for schools, hospitals, and roads. Two traditional committees whose roots go back centuries decide all other aspects of life. The first is the Subak, which organizes the complex irrigation system. The other is the Banjar, which arranges all village ceremonies.

In the morning light, I look more closely at the interior of my $9 per night bungalow. Its every niche is crafted with aesthetic taste.

I move into a house in the midst of the rice paddies above the old artist village of Bali called Penestanan. It is like moving into a zoo, so full of creatures that I must wear earplugs at night to sleep. The house is a large traditional Balinese home open to the outdoors complete with a lush garden and lotus pond stocked with fat goldfish. Like most homes in Bali, it comes with a "helper" or pembante. The cost of my magnificent home in paradise? One million five hundred rupiahs, which at this writing equals about $175 a month.
.

Saturday night I go to the Jazz Cafe to listen to the local band. I meet Anne from Switzerland and we become fast friends . She invites me to a healing ceremony for her brother who is dying of Hepatitis C. It is his 40th birthday, and although she doesn't expect the ceremony to heal him, she hopes it will bring him comfort. The tall priest dressed in white looks at the photo of Anne's brother and says that he sees that the man is sick in his liver. The medicine man sits on a high perch surrounded by powders and liquids, containers of holy water and lotus petals. He chants and sprinkles water over Dominique's photo and affects. He then directs us to pray and sprinkles holy water over our heads.  After six weeks in Bali, I write a friend in Nepal, "This place is amazingly gorgeous. Still. I can say this even after losing my wallet yesterday with all the hassle that goes with that. I have no money and no ATM card and I'm still happy. That should tell you something. Bali is magic - black AND white. I went to an Indonesian healer who read from his medical books inscribed on palm leaves by his great grandfather with a bamboo point. There's really no way that words can do life here justice. It amazes me that the whole world has not moved to Bali. I've made lots of friends: artists, people in the export trade, and a new best friend from Switzerland...  I ride a motorcycle. Yeehaw! Hard to keep my eyes on the road with all the blindingly green rice fields, people up to their thighs in water wearing conical straw hats, women carrying huge loads balanced on their heads, ducks crossing the road, girls in school uniforms jumping out of the way when they see me coming...

.
You know that huge duffel bag I have that was packed full, the one with the wheels? Well, a young lady, maybe 23, hefted it onto her head, balanced it there (no hands), carried it up 93 steps to the rice fields, through the paddies to my house, where she gracefully set it down next to my bed. Humbling.
.

I'm getting back in touch with my spirit here...between the peaceful, lovely environment, a new love interest who challenges me constantly with soul-searching questions, with regular meditation, yoga, warm weather, surrounded always by art.... For the first time in I don't know how long, I am resting, slowing down and looking inside, learning to savor life and remembering who I am and why I am here. All my senses are fed in this place and I sense that in the quiet, I will find my spirit once again. I feel love coming back into a space which recently has been filled with fear, insecurity, and loneliness. I am breathing more slowly and deeply, and living in the moment so that I can hear what I know but have forgotten." I write another friend about my first massage in Bali: I go to a little spa run by locals for a 2-hour massage special. I am kneaded, pounded, cupped, stroked, and then scrubbed with a ground up mixture of local herbs and fruits (called lulur) and after that slathered with fresh yogurt and then put into a tub of warm water filled with flower petals. My shampoo and conditioner are brought to me in half a coconut shell.  They also serve me ginger tea while I am soaking in the tub. When I leave, the setting sun is reflecting off the water in the rice paddies, a big colorful rooster struts by and a man is pushing his bike up the hill with a batik headband tied just so. I'm thinking, Oh my God; this is so beautiful I can't believe it's real. I turn back for a final glance, and yes, it is real - and prettier than any postcard I've ever seen.

Go To Page Two ~ More Photos & Text

< Back To This Issue's Index >< Subscribe Free > < Send a Letter to the Editor >