Saturday night, January 31, 1998

Amazing to think twelve hours ago I was in a ritzy hotel, now I'm in an island paradise. Hopefully the mosquitoes won't be too bad. Ah, there's my netting. The plane ride was good, arrival a bit confused. I found an ATM for some local currency. It's time to figure out a new exchange rate. I'm not crazy about the beach tourist scene. I'm more interested in arts and crafts so I decide to go straight to Ubud. I never make it to the beaches in Bali. I'd like to go back someday, but I think it would be more fun to sit in the sun on the beach with a buddy.

A German woman, Japanese man and I share a ride to Ubud. None of us has a place to stay. It is getting dark and raining. During the ride, we compare notes and advice from our tour books. Ubud is a village in the mountains with focus on art, culture and food. It's in a beautiful setting. There are lots of hotels and cottages at all price levels. The food is wonderful; the shops are filled with a variety of beautiful things and tourist trinkets. At night there are frequent Balinese dancing and theatrical performances.

In Ubud, the tourist desk in the middle of town gives me suggestions on hotels and inns. I park my bag and walk down the street to check out one of their recommendations. It was nice, so I go back, pick up my bag and get settled in. I have my own bungalow. The back window overlooks rice fields and the front window faces a temple. The bottom floor of my bungalow has a large porch and bathroom. Stairs lead up to an open bedroom with sitting area. Everything is made of bamboo and very tropical. A fan circles above to complete the ambiance. I'm at the edge of town, behind a rice field but close enough to get to restaurants and shops easily.

I unpack and settle in my bungalow. The fellow at the "front desk" suggests BBQ place for dinner so I give it a try. My dinner is a very tasty chicken sate, veggies, rice, tea and a banana pancake for dessert. Everywhere I look there seems to be a temple or stature with a flower in its ear. The buildings are open, the plants are a lush tropical green. I take a short walk but I'm tired after a long day of travel with the stress of figuring out where to go and where to stay. Back in my room, I pull out the mosquito net and tuck it around me on the bed. Time for a good night sleep!

Sunday, February 1, 1998

Up early with the sunshine and sounds of motor scooters on their way down the path to the rice fields. The silence that follows is filled with birds, crickets and frogs singing to the sunrise; a rooster crows. Everything is penetrated with moisture. It is warm but if you move slowly, it's not bad at all. The warm humidity invites lanquidity. Someone is sweeping in the temple next door. The day begins. I take a quick shower. My walk takes me through rice fields, water flows everywhere. Small huts dot the landscape. Men and women weed the fields. It's peaceful. The scene has an eternal quality. I take lots of photos but it's a view that can't be captured. The sound of water is everywhere. The heat and humidity envelop me. The place is expansive and timeless and evades capture. I'm very glad I to be here.

I return to my bungalow and have breakfast, banana pancakes and tea on my front porch. Breakfast is such a simple luxury. Everywhere I look is beauty. The young man that brings breakfast stays to talk about how inflation is bad. He tries to sell me a day tour for $65. Always an angle, services for rich American tourists? It feels funny to be seen as the rich moneybags. Oh well. I'll walk around and see what happens.

I've invented a husband for myself. He's home working because he couldn't get time away. The guidebook said the Balinese ask a lot of questions, they're right. Even in a place that sees lots of tourist traffic, it's strange for a woman to be traveling alone. It's strange for anyone to be alone. I'm going to relax and just look around. As I walk to the tourist info office, a repetitious inquiry follows, "transport? transport?". During the initial onslaught of requests I try to answer no, in a polite way. Eventually the offers become annoyances and I learn to ignore them. It seems that every young man who can beg, borrow, or steal a car is presenting it for service. I continue to feel like I've got a dollar sign flashing in the middle of my forehead. It's a challenge because the economic crisis in Indonesia is wrecking havoc. There is great uncertainty about what will happen. The exchange rate is almost one quarter of what it was six months ago. What cost one American dollar before now is about 30 cents. Prices have started to change. Some of the upscale hotels have always quoted in dollars. Even so, things are changing so quickly. It's not clear what is the right price for anything.

My day is spent walking around town. I start at the museum, liking the garden and statues more than the paintings. Afterwards, I explore the two main roads in town, looking at shops, other places to stay and restaurants. I sign up for a cooking class on Monday and buy some clothes. A woman weaving on a loom in front of the store draws my attention. The shop is filled with simple clothing made of hand woven cotton. Their things are different than the usual department store stuff. Most of the clothing is in large sizes. It is a mystery because the people here are petite. Do they think that all tourists are this big? Almost nothing fits me, and I've never considered myself that small. Many of the tourists are from Australia, Germany and Holland, are they that much larger?

I'm having fun, strolling and looking. It's so beautiful here. There is a lot to see, from art to temples. Everywhere I look is a vignette that delights the eye. Small offerings to the gods, shoes lined up outside a doorway, a statue with a flower behind its ear, a water lily blossom. It all moves slowly, the pace is slower because of the heat and humidity. There is also there is an awareness of the rhythms and cycles of the day, year, life that our modern western culture masks with it's busy-ness.

I run into the German woman that I shared a ride from the airport to Ubud. During the half-hour car ride she was drawing conclusions about Bali. "The woman are so lithe and have such clear skin. The men all sit around. The streets are good and modern." Do I do the same? I try not to judge, not to make quick assumptions about places and people. I want to take it in, to experience what I can and enjoy each moment. It's a challenge because we (Westerners) seem to compare everything. In our Western material arrogance we think "they" are third world or maybe second world if we are generous. But are material possessions the only measure of a country or culture? What makes "modern" the best? Is the yardstick for success or happiness material wealth? Does it matter?

Maybe Tuesday I'll take a tour. I try and figure out schedules and timings and other touristic activities. Five months sounds like a long time to travel, but I'm finding that there is so much to see and experience in a single place. There are so many places to visit. I talked to an English woman, a teacher going around the world for 10 months. She describes the Magic Buss in New Zealand. She enjoyed it. Sounds like fun, maybe that's what I'll do in March? I like this travel business, new places and people, the beautiful landscapes and interesting food. It's all attitude. I walk all day and have a great time just wandering around looking at things with frequent stops for refreshment. I try a local dish, black rice pudding. It's a strange concoction of black rice and brown sugar topped with coconut milk, not bad at all. The young locals stop to practice their English while I eat. It's nice.

Monday, Happy Ground Hog Day

The sun is up! I sketch a picture of the window in my bungalow for my batik project. One of the shops in town has a set up where you can make your own batik. They've got the t-shirts and fabric pieces, the wax and dyes for the enterprising art-tourist to experiment with. I hope it works out okay, we shall see. I'll have fun with the project. I'm relaxing this morning, pleased with myself because I've figured out how to manage sleep in spite of the nighttime critters chattering and the early morning roosters; earplugs! They definitely help. Somehow, in spite of my travel nervousness, things are turning out well. One thing leads to another and gradually I learn to trust that they will. Or, in "California speak" the universe provides. Developing that trust is a challenge after years of five o'clock news with the terrible things that can happen. It seems that even though wonderful things happen, they just aren't as newsworthy.

After my breakfast on the porch, I go to cooking class. There are lots of people, mostly from Australia and some from New Zealand, the UK and one other American from Atlanta. The instructor is an Australian woman who married a Balinese man. They live in Ubud and are quite an enterprising couple; a restaurant, home furnishings shop, cooking class, rooms to rent and soon a web site! The class is held in their beautiful tropical home. She tells us about ingredients for Balinese cooking, local herbal remedies, things about Bali, and raising her children here. She and her help make a great meal that includes chili paste used with fish wrapped in palm leaves, pickled stuff, spinach, and black rice pudding for dessert. It is delicious. Food is a great way to learn more about Bali and the culture, meet some interesting people and have a good meal. I like the food here a lot; flavorful without being too hot. The dishes may be modified for western palates, but they taste great to me.

 

Chilis are ground fresh to create a wonderful paste used in cooking.

I walk back to Café Luna. On the way I meet two older Canadians and share a drink with them while they have some lunch. One of them is coy about what he does but it turns out that he has lived in many places during his career as an engineer. Now retired, he is a craft collector and helps his wife who imports things for her shop. I'm not sure why all the secrecy. They thought I was twenty something and might spy on them or beg for insider craft trading? We make so many assumptions about each other. It is nice to talk with them, watch their interactions and hear about their families and travels.

The next stop is to begin my batik. It's easier said than done. It takes practice to keep a steady hand while drawing with hot wax using a stylus. It's also important that the lines melt through to the backside of the fabric so that the dye won't leak. I work away at it, chatting with the fellow in the shop, watching the tourists go by, enjoying it all. I start making boo boos and wax blobs and decide to stop for the day. I'll come back tomorrow to continue my project. On the way home, I get a ticket for the night's dance performance and find a place for dinner.

I run into Jan, the Englishwoman again. We have dinner together. It's nice to have someone to talk with. Dinner is a good veggie curry. In the heat, I'm not so

anxious to eat a lot of meat dishes, or maybe I'm being careful. I get a good seat for the dance performance. It is beautiful, the music, the setting, the dancers so graceful and precise in their movements. It's much better that the PBS specials describe it.

Tuesday, February 3, 1998

Oh no, I've got a sore throat. This is the first (and hopefully only) cold of my voyage. Illness happens but the traveler must endure because there is so much to see. I go to Klungkung via public bus to check out the textiles market. I find the right bus and climb on hoping I'll get to my destination. Beyond developed tourist streets few people speak English. Their lives go on without outsider intervention. My journey starts from the morning market in Ubud. Local women get on the bus with their morning food shopping. How they can carry so much balanced on the top of their head amazes me. Everyone seems to know each other. As they get off at their stop, they hand the driver a crumpled mass of small rupia bills. The busses are well-used vans with wide open doors. People climb in and out, crowding onto the few seats. The driver is nice and flags down the next bus I need to catch. It is confusing. I really don't have a clue where I am, but it's a great way to see the locals and have a better feel for the countryside. Eventually I make it to Klungkung. My challenge is locating the fabric market. A few false starts and I find the market building that has most of the shops I am looking for.

Fabric is everywhere and I manage to support the economy by purchasing gold threaded ceremonial sarongs. I'll hang them on my wall at home. I also buy some similar belts and lots of smaller cuts or fabric to use for pillows or a quilt or clothes. They are the many bright colors that I like. It is hot and I am tired. Bargaining is a challenge. I try my best. It's so difficult to know what the right price is because the exchange rate is so out of kilter and the prices are what they can get out of you. I go crazy trying to get a good deal or wondering what is the right value. Fortunately, some form of common sense emerges. I either get it or walk away. It's okay.

Finding my way back via a multitude of busses is a problem. I walk too far, getting very tired trying to locate the bus terminal. When I do find it, the next bus isn't going for a long time. I don't want to wait and change busses. Eventually I bargain a ride for myself. For a price, anything is possible. The driver of a local bus decides to run a taxi service for me. Such luxury to be able to afford the choice. I realize the half hour ride home was about three dollars. Back to my hotel for a quick dip in the pool. It is refreshing in the heat. After a shower, I'm off to a wonderful garden restaurant for a nice meal. Ah, the joys of vacation life. Lunch is a spectacular collection of bits around a cone of rice, presented with great elegance. The garnish decoration is an elaborate fan of cut bamboo leaves connected with a flower, such details delight the eye. The food tastes fantastic. I have vanilla tea which is tea and a half stick of vanilla bean. Relaxation, what a concept, it is so beautiful here.

 

A lotus gracefully floats in a pool of water.

I find a place to do email. It's a small shack on the side of a dirt road. Wires string across the ceiling. The connection is very slow but the charge is about two dollars an hour. It's a strange feeling to bridge two cultures, the tropical Bali and the high tech United States. A number of the people who come in to check email are from the San Francisco Bay Area. We are technologists who need our communication fix.

Next stop, the batik shop to continue work on my project. It takes time to carefully draw the lines in hot beeswax. It's an experiment and I'm having lots of fun doing it. Afterwards I stop at a salon for a massage. Ah, more luxury. This is how a vacation should be. In the evening I see the Ramayana Ballet, wonderful Balinese dancing. A little boy in the back is very busy dancing with great vigor and concentration like dancers on the stage. A dessert of lime tart and tea finish off a fantastic day.

Wednesday, Feburary 4, 1998

I'm staying in Ubud for at least a week. Why rush away anywhere else when it is so nice here? On one hand, there is a looseness to my travel, on the other, I wonder and fret over where to go next, what to do, how to get there and multitudes of details. I got a ticket for Ambon and then on to Banda Neira for the Earthwatch project and bargained a lower rate for my room because I'm staying longer. I'll be here for this week and in Banda for the next two weeks. It's good to have it sorted out.

Having finished "drawing" the lines of my batik in hot wax, it is ready to be dyed. I use different colors and paint them in various areas masked by wax. The wax lines on the white fabric resist the color dye _they will be white after the wax is removed by boiling the fabric. On the way home after a nice lunch, I pick up my finished batik. They boiled out the wax while I was eating. My project is finished. I like the results because they reflect my experiences in Ubud. My batik is a view in my bungalow, but it also represents the fun of learning and creating, and the memory of a place.

After a rest in my bungalow, I take the road heading out of town to a temple ceremony. I pass women walking from or toward the temple. Their beauty and grace is enchanting. Each one of them balances on their heads elaborate structures of food piled high on a plate. The food contents ranges from fruit, bread, and cake to chickens and everything in between. The food is being brought to the temple for blessing prior to being eaten. The women, young and old, glide gracefully in their sarongs and lace blouses. How do they do it? Up steep hills then down a valley of stairs, across a bridge to the temple. I follow them to their destination. Before I can enter the temple, I am told by one of the enterprising women on the way that I can visit the temple but I must wear a sarong. She, of course, has several available to sell. I bargain and outfit myself appropriately. For the price of my sarong, I am shown how to wrap it around my waist to create a sort of long skirt.

At the open air temple a steady flow of people comes and goes. The women place their beautiful food arrangements on a large table in front, near the alter. Families kneel in an area in front of the alter. When there is a large enough assembly of people, the priest and his wife begin the ritual. Each devotee has a small bamboo leaf plate arranged with various flower and folded offerings. Their actions include praying with the flowers, tucking them in their hair, drinking, washing faces and anointing heads with water from the priest. At the end, a small pat of rice is stuck on their forehead and temples. Having completed the ritual, they leave. The blessed food arrangements ate repositioned on the women's heads prior to going home. The next group begins to assemble. The rituals continue even though it starts to rain a normal occurrence in Bali. I am in awe of the beauty, grace and dignity of these people. They seem to have a balance in their world, in their rituals and relationship with nature. I don't know much about their interpersonal relationships because I don't speak the language. The locals I meet are in shops, restaurants and where I am staying. For them, it's a job. They aren't overly concerned with the tourists that come and go in an endless flow of strange big people.

As I am leaving the temple I meet an Australian woman sitting on the steps waiting for the music to begin. We sit and talk while waiting for the bigger ceremony. It is the same ritual, but longer and more formal. A different priest chants. There are more people. The rain stops. It is lovely to hear the gamalin music in the late afternoon light and moist heat. The Australian and I decide to have dinner. We share travel stories over a nice meal. Linda is an interesting woman, a journalist finishing six weeks in Java learning Indonesian. We make plans to meet tomorrow night for dinner. It's fun to have someone compare notes with at the end of the day. Eating dinner by myself makes loneliness feel more acute.

Thursday, February 5, 1998

I sleep okay but wake up anxious, so much to do, so little time. Am I seeing everything, doing everything, taking advantage of all opportunities? But I can't see it all, buy it all, so it goes. I'm on this trip to experience things as they come, not stress over the shoulds or woulds or what nots.

After breakfast, I try to send a fax, but it doesn't go through. Next stop the salon for hair cream and a facial. Relaxation. The hair cream is gooped on your head and then massaged, thoroughly and slowly throughout your entire scalp.

 

A Balanese woman balances an arangement of food on her head. She returns from a temple ceremony with her son.

Very wonderful. Afterwards, I wander too long in the mid-afternoon sun and end up very hot and tired and cranky. Keeping a manageable pace is everything. In my desire to see everything, be everywhere, I keep going instead of stopping and resting. A combination of wanting to find a good restaurant and discomfort with eating alone leave me looking too long for a place to eat. Next thing I know, I'm too hungry to know what I want but too picky to eat just anything. Relief eventually comes with a meal.

I have a 2pm appointment with a fellow from my. I've arranged to visit various carving, furniture and other craft businesses. Our first stop is a furniture place with all sorts of outdoor furniture. Eventually I want to get some garden furniture, but I don't know much about it. I'm not sure about the quality. It seems expensive and a lot for shipping. I decline purchase, much to the dismay of my driver/guide. How could the rich American pass up such a great deal? How will he get a big commission if there is no deal? I go across the street to look at the wood carving. There is a group of about five young men working away at various large carved sculptures. The open air shop is filled with pieces ranging from madens to dragons and everything in between. In the meantime, it seems our van has broken down. Sigh. I manage to get a ride back to my hotel with two fellows from Hawaii. After a swim in the pool, I meet up for a nice dinner with Linda. We exchange stories about our day's adventures.

Friday, February 6, 1998

I have a lazy day, my cold is worse. It's a good excuse to take it easy. I manage to get somewhat organized. A box is packed to send home. A fax is written to send to Peter letting him know my arrival in Banda for the Earthwatch program. The day's activities consist of a mosey around town, a nice lunch, and a trip to the post

office. Like post offices in Indonesia, there is a man who, for a small fee, wraps and packs my package then helps me sort out the customs paperwork. He literally sews the package up into a shippable bundle. The wrapping is a plastic woven cloth, like old flour sacks. I part with each package, not knowing if I will see it or all the contents again. I am still amazed that every package I sent, from the most modern location to the more remote, made it to my house before I got home!

I feel klutzy and grumpy and tired. The cold gets to me. I trip over my own feet three times; scrapes and bruises everywhere. I'm tired of being seen as the rich American ready to overspend in my frenzy of acquisition. I will have to sort out all this money emotion stuff. Not now, I am tired and feel lousy. In the afternoon I read on the porch of my cottage. Throughout the trip, I manage to find bookstores that have used paperbacks in English, German and French to sell and exchange. I go through an odd assortment of mysteries, bestsellers and the occasional classic or science fiction. Reading becomes an escape from the confusions and loneliness of solo travel.

Saturday, February 7, 1998

My last day in Ubud, it's time to go. I don't feel so great and I'm tired of being the tourist target, "Transport, transport? I'll take you around. I'll give you a ride. Transport?". There are all sorts of angles in paradise. I've talked to several people who are buying up lots of stuff and shipping it home, hoping to make a profit and pay for their travels. One German woman was writing up her accounts in a café. She'd bought lots of small souvenirs to resell. I met a landscape gardener from Detroit who was "investing" in garden benches and stone statues. They're nice but it's another thing to ship it all. What looks appealing in Bali may not be the same back home. Ah well, commerce. The Indonesian economy crisis has made the exchange rate great for travelers. Most of the goods manufactured here have not fully readjusted their prices. That will change eventually, but for now, there are lots of good bargains. Greed sometimes overwhelms common sense. I have done my fair share to help the economy. Fortunately, my interests are in textiles and clothing which is much easier to ship than furniture and statues.

I'm doing fine on my own. This cold sets my mind to wander in loneliness. I over analyze my interactions with the locals. This brings up past relationships, pains and other traumas. I pull them out of their compartments in my mind, look at them and put them away. That's part of what this trip is all about, a chance to let go, move on, keep moving and hopefully get beyond the brain baggage. For me, travel feels voyeuristic. I pass through, I observe. As a solo female traveler I am so different that I don't easily fit into any local situations. I enjoy the watching, seeing how other people live, different landscapes, foods, smells and sounds. Maybe I'll go for a walk in the sunshine and see what happens.

The day is much better when I get out and about. The clothes I ordered finally show up, with an extra pair of pants for the troubles. I walk to the post office to ship them home. Hopefully this package will make it. Now I'll have some nice clothes for work. I'm feeling a bit less hassled by the place or maybe better at ignoring the direct marketing "transport, transport" without feeling rude. Getting my email always makes me feel better, connected back to my world. I meet two people from Phoenix who are now living in Bali for a year, he's a photographer, and she's a speech pathologist. We end up having a fun lunch together, full of advice on computers, web sites and digital cameras. Then it is back to the hotel for a refreshing swim.

 

The statue that guards my favorite restaurant in Ubud.

On rented bikes with Linda, we ride to see the heron nesting trees. Trees lining the country road are filled with herons. They came mysteriously in 1965 to nest in the trees. We sit and have a soda at a viewing porch set up by an enterprising fellow in the middle of his rice field. He serves sodas to the tourists while they view the birds. We ride back through wonderful countryside in the late afternoon, past rice fields, streams, palm trees, rivers, and ravines filled with vegetation. Everyone is out, going to or from their evening bath. This takes place in a convenient stream or canal near their homes, often on the side of the road. We pass family compounds with gates open to the road. A peak inside reveals collections of huts, kids, dogs, ducks, and chickens. There is a rhythmic peacefulness that seemed so idyllic. I'm sure there is the usual gamut of stresses and gossip that goes on everywhere. It is lovely and we drift through the landscape with big smiles to the people who happily smile back. After an excellent final dinner in my now favorite restaurant, I go back to my room for a good night sleep before my early morning flight.