| Embraced
By Bali |
| By Robin
Sparks |
| Photos & Essay by
Robin Sparks Reporting From Bali |
| "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. |
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| 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.
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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. |
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| 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.
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. |
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| 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 hear the
breeze in the musical clanging of bamboo wind chimes and step outside.
Red hibiscus blossoms have been placed in the corners of my door and windows,
and on the plate of fresh papaya set outside my room.
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. |
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| 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. |
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| 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.
His neighbors
assist a man in every task he cannot perform alone without any expectation
of reward, except perhaps the knowledge that when he needs help, his neighbors
will be there for him. For this reason, there are few "bosses" and
"laborers" amongst the Balinese.
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.
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