(written the evening of August 16)

an elaborate offering

My friend Wayan texted me this afternoon and invited me to go to the full moon ceremony with him tonight at his Hindu temple.  I was ecstatic.  For the past two days, excitement,  ceremony and an expectant energy have filled the air in Ubud. The offerings in the street have become much more elaborate than usual. Around 5 pm each day, many Balinese, dressed in their finest traditional ceremonial clothes have been zipping down the streets on their motorbikes headed to temple ceremonies all over the village. On their heads, the women carry multi-tiered brightly colored woven baskets filled with offerings they’ve been making over the past few days.  Bamboo poles 30-40 feet high are appearing out of nowhere erected in front of many houses along with Indonesian flags - large ones on bamboo flag poles and mini plastic ones strung up high to criss-cross the narrow streets.  For the past two nights, I’ve heard ceremonial-sounding drums, traditional gamelan music and people speaking through microphones coming from what seems to be a neighbor’s yard. They play late into the night and continue until some point long after I’ve gone to sleep. The banana, coconut and palm leaves are so thick between us though that even from my balcony I can’t see a thing and my curiosity is killing me.

Balinese woman carrying a woven basket filled with blessed offerings

As best I can tell, there are three reasons for all the excitement.  Indonesian Independence Day is tomorrow, August 17.  Four days from now, August 20, is Galungan, a ten-day Hindu Balinese festival that I gather is on par with Christmas in terms of religious importance and accompanying festivities. Although Galungan does not officially begin for four more days, I am told there are two celebrations leading up to it that occur 6 days before and 5 days before … hence all the commotion the past two days.  On top of these two already big events, tonight is a full moon which holds some special significance in the Hindu religion. (Would my Hindu readers please care to educate me more on this please?)  

I’m fairly certain that the Indonesian flags are for Independence day. With all of these events coinciding, however, and the workings of Hinduism and Bali’s unique form thereof already murky and mysterious to me, I’m completely unclear on what celebration or ceremony “matches” what event.  Or maybe it’s just all thrown in together kind of like those times when Christmas day falls on a Sunday and Christians celebrate both Christmas and regular mass/church at the same time.  

the "parents" at my guesthouse in full ceremonial dress

At any rate, when Wayan offered to include me in the goings on this afternoon, I was quite eager to see what was behind the proverbial curtain.  Having seen all my neighbors get dressed up the past few days, I knew that my regular travel garb would not be appropriate attire for the evening.  Wayan only instructed me to find a sarong and a white shirt, but was unavailable to help me procure them. There are 10 million sarongs for sale in Ubud in many different colors and styles.  As for white shirts … well, there’s a zillion options there too.  So I went to ask two sisters I’ve come to know, Nyoman and Wayan (yes, I know this can get confusing with the names!), to assist me in choosing the right items. 

When I told them the situation, they became like excited schoolgirls.  They insisted that I borrow some of their clothes for the event and ran to raid their closets.  Instead of a plain white shirt, they brought back some beautiful lace kebayas (a woman’s long-sleeved ceremonial blouse) and a gorgeous silk sarong with matching sash.  I tried on each kebaya but, alas, the assessment was that “Putu’s nu-nus are too big.”  Although I appreciated their admiration, having larger nu-nus than these tiny Asian women was presenting a problem.  

They put the issue aside for the moment and began fitting me for the sarong. The sisters giggled and chatted as they wound the lovely silk cloth around and around my torso. They tucked here, tied there and tightened it all up.  With all this attention, I felt like I was being dressed for a wedding! After about 5 minutes of skillful assemblage, they pronounced me finished … at least on the bottom half. The result was a VERY form-fitting sarong.  

Balinese woman on her way to a ceremony

The ladies began chatting between themselves. I kept hearing the names of other women, presumably bigger-busted friends of theirs, and the next thing I know, Nyoman shouted, “Wait here, please” as she darted out the front gates. Wayan and I shared some hot tea and girl talk and soon Nyoman was back with a pretty purple kebaya with not less than 100 buttons in the front (I’m only slightly exaggerating here).  Nyoman and Wayan pulled and tugged and laughed some more about my nu-nu’s, but they finally managed to pour me into the tiny top. Form fitting as the entire outfit now was, I was definitely very glad I’d spent the last 8 months with a trainer at the gym.  Even so, I wished I had tinier figures like theirs although obviously the grass is always greener … the sisters kept patting my round backside (a “gift” from my grandmother Thompson) and my nu-nu’s saying, “Oh, Putu has a sexy body.”  Tomato, tomahto. We always want what we don’t have, right?

Now that I was dressed, Nyoman and Wayan whipped out a comb and some gorgeous hair ornaments from Japan and put my hair up in the proper fashion for the evening. They raided their garden and picked the prettiest orchid right off the plant (only in Bali!) and clipped it into my hair. I was now picture perfect according to my handlers who grabbed their cell phones and took loads of photos of their masterpiece. It was quite fun.

me with my friend Wayan

On emerging from the sister’s front gates, I had 3 blocks to walk between their home and mine.  All the Balinese people that own the 50-60 shops in the middle along with their friends who have no work typically sit on the stoops of their businesses if there are no customers inside … which sadly means that they are often sitting outside watching the world go by on Hanoman Street.  I was tenuous walking in front of all these Balinese people expecting outright sarcastic comments about my traditional attire if not at least looks that said, “Geez. There’s another one trying to go native.” Clearly, this fear had everything to do with my own insecurities and nothing to do with these kind friendly people.  Literally every Balinese person that I encountered in those 3 blocks praised my efforts to participate in their culture exclaiming “Pretty woman! Dressed like Balinese!” “Oh! Traditional costume!” and “You look very beautiful!”  The women who were normally shy emerged from behind their hands and shared their beautiful, full smiles with me in all their glory. The men who always offer me “taxi” or “transport” as I pass said nothing about business.  At least for this moment, I seemed to have transcended from “tourist with dollars to spend” to one who was, if not part of the community, at least included.  When I arrived at the lovely gates of my guesthouse, I considered continuing my solo parade, wanting this new sense of inclusion to last longer, but reluctantly walked through my front gates as I’m sure any proper Balinese woman would do. 

It was 5:30 and Wayan wasn’t picking me up until 7:00. That meant I had to sit still for 90 minutes so I didn’t mess up my costume or my hair as I knew there was no way I could re-do either properly. During the down time, I began to wonder what going to temple would be like. No doubt there would be no English spoken. Would there be a long sermon like the Christian churches have? Was I going to end up being bored out of my mind for an hour or more, not understanding anything that was being said or done? How long do these ceremonies last anyway?  If the sounds of the drums near my house were an indication, they could go on for 5 hours or more. Had I made a big mistake in accepting Wayan’s invitation? There was only one way to find out. 

Seven o’clock arrived and my level of excitement was back up again. Dressed up in such an unusual costume, I felt like I was going to the prom. Wayan arrived and oohed and ahhed over my outfit. Then he stunned me. “I guess you know,” he began, “in the Hindu religion, women are not allowed in the temple if they are menstruating. I forgot to ask you earlier today if you are menstruating now.” That immediately went up to the top of the list of things you won’t hear in the West before a night out on the town. Luckily, I was in the clear (what a buzz-kill that would have been otherwise!).  

Being dressed as I was, it would have been inappropriate for me to ride “Western style” behind Wayan on his motorbike so I rode “side saddle” for the thirty minutes it took to get to the temple.  Miraculously, my hairdo, including the flower, survived the trip. 

We drove past the entrance to the temple on our way to park the bike and I caught a glimpse of a full gamelan orchestra, bright lights and many people dressed in costumes. I could hear a lot of activity and bright cheerful music rising over the wall. I felt like an impatient child chomping at the bit to get inside as Wayan was taking an especially long time parking the bike. He had told me on the way that it would be ok to take photos and video inside the temple and I was impatient to capture everything.  Finally we walked inside … and right past the area with the gamelan orchestra, the children dressed in traditional ceremonial outfits, the people gathering.  It was hard for me not to whip out my camera, but Wayan was continuing on into another part of the temple and I felt I ought to follow.  We walked through one more “room” before we finally came to a large altar-looking shrine where Wayan removed his flipflops and sat down on the grass “Indian style.”  I did the same but sat back on my heels as I saw the other women doing.

There was not a congregation waiting to start a service as I had expected. In fact, there were only 5 other people praying there when Wayan and I arrived and everyone seemed to be on their own schedule. It was simultaneously casual and formal. The method of praying was very precise, yet Wayan smoked a cigarette throughout his prayers. 

Three little girls dressed all in white were milling around near the shrine. One of them approached us carrying a yellow vegetable (or fruit?) resembling a small pumpkin that had been hollowed out and now held water.  She sprinkled each of our heads with water. Wayan explained this was for cleansing. He then lit several sticks of incense, stuck them in the ground in front of each one of us and opened a plastic bag containing flowers and sliced up leaves that I had seen used to make offerings.  He explained that one prays three times, only using flowers the last two times. He demonstrated, wafting the incense toward him with his hands, then placing his hands together and raising them to his forehead.  Prayer number one. Mine: “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” 

I know some of you are wondering what God I was praying to. I keep it simple. I believe there is one God. I believe that this God is universally called by many names and that by virtue of believing in God and praying to God, I’m simultaneously a Christian, a Jew, a Hindu, a Buddhist and a Muslim. To me, it’s simple. God is love. We humans mess it up with all judgements and divisions with which we complicate it.  So who was I praying to?  God.  Simple.

After a minute, Wayan opened his eyes, selected  a flower from the plastic bag and “dipped” it into the smoke from the incense. He placed it between his forefingers and again raised his hands, pressed together, to his forehead. I did the same. My prayer number two: “Bless my family and friends.” I spent some time thinking about each person individually and it felt nice to “reconnect” with each one through this thought and prayer.  Wayan repeated these actions once more and I followed suit, “Keep me safe on my motorbike, from monkeys and all other perils that I don’t even know yet exist. Return me to America safe and sound, but definitely not unchanged.”  

We awaited holy water from the priest. I guess the priest wasn’t available because one of the little girls dressed in white came again, this time with a lovely silver pitcher filled with water.  First, she sprinkled some of the holy water on our heads and then three times poured some into our cupped hands which we were supposed to drink. Holy water or not, although I’m willing to brush my teeth with tap water, I only drink water that I know is/was bottled. Not really thinking this the time to ask about the source, I just raised the water to my lips, but let it fall on the ground. The little girl presented us with a bowl of rice soaked in water which we took and applied to our foreheads and throat. It reminded me of Ash Wednesday services in the Catholic church when the priest marks the people’s foreheads with ashes.  

Wayan told me we needed to go pray in another room so he stood up and I attempted to. My ankles were weak from sitting on them. I hobbled into the second room where we  repeated the actions from the first room, but without the water.  And then we were finished. There was no official start time, no sermon and, in fact, no priest.  It was very individualized and people simply prayed when they arrived for as long as they liked. It was that easy. Click here to see a short video of prayer in a Balinese Hindu temple.

We left the prayer rooms about 20 minutes after we had entered and did what comes naturally after praying … gambling! Of course I’m being sarcastic, but that’s exactly what happened next.  There were two groups of men gathered around two different games, each in full swing. One was easy to understand. There were three dice on a plate under a bucket and a large game board with numbers to match the dice. Players would throw money onto the square they bet on and when all bets were placed, the dice were rolled under the bucket and then revealed.  You win if your square matches the dice.  The other game was more complex and I never understood it.   Click here to see the goings-on in the temple I encountered after praying.

me with the only other Putu I've met so far (the boy on the far right) with his sister Elo

The gamelan orchestra, practicing for the upcoming Galungan celebration, struck up.  I filmed them for a bit and then went to play with the kids.  Balinese kids crack me up. Normally shy, they come out of their shells in front of a camera and inevitably end up posing with mid-air karate kicks and some funny hand gesture using their thumb, forefinger and pinky finger. I’m told it’s the gesture affiliated with a Balinese political party and that the kids are merely emulating their parents in making the sign, but don’t understand what it means. If the number of kids making this sign is any indication, then I’d say that particular political party must always win by a landslide.  Balinese kids love to have their picture taken and get a big kick out seeing it played back for them on the digital camera.  Although they are sometimes a bit aggressive among themselves to be “front and center,” they’re very polite to me and always thank me after I take their picture - a charming and delightful twist!

Balinese kids striking a pose

In the video, you’ll see a chunky little boy in a yellow shirt who seems so badly to want his photo taken as he keeps walking in front of the camera and dancing.  He was the rare exception, though, when I approached him to take his picture.  He got shy and ran away … but later continued to walk and dance in front of the camera.

After engaging with the kids for a bit, I began looking around for the women so I could mingle with them for a while.  Finding none, I searched out Wayan who was losing at gambling. It seems he forgot to pray for good luck.  He told me the women had all come to pray earlier in the evening and were home now.  As he was out of money and I was out of batteries, we decided it was time to go.  My first Balinese temple experience was a unique treat.

The good news was I didn’t get Montezuma’s revenge. About two weeks into my trip, I decided I probably wouldn’t have anyway and started eating food sold by street vendors and using tap water to brush my teeth … and haven’t stopped since.

Additional photos for this and other blog entries can be found on the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of this blog.

 

 

Indonesian flag

It’s appropriate, although entirely coincidental, that I address this topic on the 63rd anniversary of Indonesia’s independence so before I get to anything else, Happy Indonesian Independence Day, everyone!

Before I left the US to come to Asia, many of my friends and family members suggested I sew a maple leaf on my backpack.  They were concerned I might be at risk from terrorist attack in my travels due to my American nationality and thought that claiming Canadian identity with the maple leaf would keep me safe.  I now think that it wasn’t a bad idea, but it’s not terrorists or Indonesians from whom I’d like to hide my identity.  I don’t believe I’ve met any terrorists so far and most Indonesians think I’m Australian (guess they get more white folks from that country here than from the US). When I tell the Balinese I’m from the US, and particularly from Kentucky, the universal response is “Ah. Kentucky Fried Chicken!”  I won’t go into how very sad that is since my beautiful state has so many better things for which I wish it were internationally known.  The point is, the Balinese I’ve met don’t care about American politics. Either that or they’re too polite to discuss them.  In fact, many of the Balinese I’ve met want to move to the US. Either way, I’m eternally grateful.  

No, the only people from whom I’d like to hide my identity are other white touists.  Two women from Slovenia moved into the bungalow below me yesterday. We met at breakfast and afterwards I helped them find several things around town they were looking for.  I introduced them to “my Balinese family” who are, as a result, including them in some local, non-touristed Indonesian Independence Day events.  I ran into these ladies before dinner tonight and discovered they had been horribly overcharged for a tour guide they had hired for the next day.  I helped them cancel that guide and hooked them up with one of my friends for a much better rate.  Then I took  them and their two Canadian friends to the most fabulous restaurant in Ubud … a restaurant that seems to be a secret from all the other tourists!  For all this, I was thanked by being treated to a round of US bashing over dinner … a dinner that lasted two and a half hours! 

Yes, I will readily admit that this is a case of “I can talk about my sister, but you can’t.”  I have many problems with US foreign policy and don’t mind discussing it with others … A LITTLE BIT.  I’ve discovered that my time limit for discussing it with other Americans is much longer than my tolerance for discussing it with non-fellow countrymen.  And it’s cumulative.  Perhaps if one of my Canadian friends here hadn’t already spent several hours the other night telling me how her national identity was defined by being “NOT American”, I might not have gotten touchy so early on in the conversation tonight.  I must confess that it didn’t take long for me to have my fill this evening.  And when I was told that “all of Europe thinks the American government organized and was behind 9/11” I got downright pissed off … after, of course, being completely flabbergasted.  Has anyone else heard this crazy conspiracy theory?

Now I’ll tell you in advance that this is partly a rhetorical question.  I am interested in knowing whether other Americans have heard this but I’m in no way inviting a political discussion here.  I had enough of that over dinner, thanks, and I will reject any comments along those lines in this blog (yeah, my blood is still a little hot on this topic). 

my sweet brother, John, and his lovely fiancee, Maria

My darling brother John got engaged recently so I spent Fourth of July this year with my family in Pittsburgh where we met John’s future in-laws (or “in-loves” as the sweet Angelini’s like to say).   On the night of the Fourth, we had dinner at the beautiful restaurant where John and his delightful Maria will hold their wedding reception next July. After dinner, we had a perfect view of the amazing fireworks display put together by the City of Pittsburgh.  What put it over the top, however, was the music. 

We enjoyed a mix of live and recorded music that was all very patriotic.  The restaurant singer sang “God Bless America,”  “America the Beautiful” and “The Star Spangled Banner.”   A recorded Louie Armstrong crooned “What a Wonderful World” and a country artist sang “Proud to Be an American.”  Surrounded by my “old” and new families, listening to those patriotic songs and watching the fireworks, I was moved to tears.  For me, those songs as a whole summarized the ideals for which the US strives and they were like a magic mirror that reflected the amazing potential or our great nation, not necessarily the reality.  Being addicted to CNN or Fox as many Americans are, we’re mired in reality.  It was nice to be lifted above all that for a change and be reminded again of our gleaming potential.  

Of course the US is not a perfect country.  How can it be?  A country is, after all, only a group of imperfect individuals.  Would I like to change some things about my country and her foreign policies? Absolutely.  But am I still proud to be an American? You bet.  So scratch that thought at the beginning of this entry … I’m not putting any freakin’ maple leaf on my backpack. I’ll just take a page from the book of the French people I’ve encountered here and minimize my contact with fellow tourists … at least those whose past-time is to bash my dear country.  

“There ain’t no doubt I love this land. God Bless the USA!”

One of my favorite expressions the Balinese say in English is “same same” which simply means “it’s the same thing.” In bahasa Indonesia (the language of Indonesia), if you want to make something plural, you simply say the word twice. Apparently this rule also applies if you want to exaggerate to say that something is REALLY large, small, etc. Naturally, when the Balinese are speaking English, they also apply this same rule resulting in things being described as “little little” or “cheap cheap.” So I guess “same same” means that things are “spot on identical.” For some reason, it’s an expression of which I’ve become quite fond.

Although Bali is considered a remote locale from the perspective of most westerners, many aspects of my daily life in Ubud are actually “same same.” Just as many, however, are “different different.” Frequently, even when doing “same same,” there are funny little nuances that make it “different different.”

Now that I'm no stranger to eating fresh chicken, this rooster who shares my yard is high on the list of my next victim!

I’ll walk you through a “day in the life” scenario to give you an idea of what I mean. Instead of being awakened by an alarm clock, crowing roosters arouse me from slumberland each morning … at 6am.  Different different.  Unfortunately, the roosters do not come equipped with a snooze button, but I usually manage to ignore them until about 7 am when I finally push the mosquito nets aside and crawl out of bed. I must confess that each morning I become more curious about whether rooster tastes just like chicken and whether I could specify the yard from which my rooster meal might come. I much prefer the gentle sounds of the little gecko who hides somewhere in my vaulted bamboo ceiling and sings me to sleep at night.

I wander to my European-style bathroom (no tub and no shower curtain) where, along with flipping the light switch, I flip a switch to turn on the water. This feature seems to be unique to this particular room. Neither of my other two guesthouses require the water to be turned on; nor do other rooms at this guesthouse so I’ve concluded that it’s because the plumbing in my sink leaks a lot if the water is not turned off entirely. For the most part, it’s not a big deal although on two occasions, even after I flipped the switch, the water refused to show itself. Again, this is unique to this particular room but I’m willing to tolerate the odd inconvenience as a trade off for the refreshing breezes on my very private balcony, particularly since the water works 95% of the time.  

view of my sink and dressing area from shower/toilet area

I brush my teeth using the tap water (same same) although I read that I should only used bottled water. Fortunately, I seem to have a cast iron stomach so I can’t be bothered. (Any of you who know me personally know that my stream-of-consciousness-type thinking causes me to often go off on tangents when I talk and never quite come back to the original topic. I have a really funny tangential story here but for the sake of staying on track, I’ll just put it in at the end of this entry. So for an authentic “Beverly experience,” skip down now and read it and then come back. Actually, I guess a REALLY authentic Beverly experience would be to skip down, read the tangent and then forget to come back to this topic. But I digress … what a surprise!)

Although I’ve run into the occasional “squat toilet” on my trip (It basically looks like the front quarter of a urinal placed on its back right in the floor.  There’s no sitting involved in using one. You simply squat and hover.), my bathroom sports a traditional western toilet.  

the infamous "water switch"

Different different - I do NOT take toilet paper for granted as I did in the US. It is not an amenity that comes with my room. It’s very cheap to buy (about $0.20 per roll) but it’s usually only sold in single rolls and so far the stores I’ve encountered only stock 1 roll at a time so I’m not able to buy in multiples to stock up. Also, the rolls that are sold here have “wide wide” cardboard centers so the roll disappears quite quickly. In 5 days at this homestay, I’ve needed to replace the roll twice … and without getting too personal, I swear that the food is not causing me to use more TP than usual. It was a major coup the other day when, at breakfast, I was delivered an unopened roll of TP in lieu of a napkin (they were out) and got permission to take the whole roll to my room! What can I say? When life becomes a little different different, you take your victories where you can find them.  

Still on the topic of TP … it’s not flushable here. Instead of tossing the used paper in the toilet, I place it in a little trash bag (the tiny plastic Wal-Mart kind) that hangs from my shower knob. Definitely different different. Trust me though, it’s not as gross as it sounds. And in defense of Bali, I must say that I had the same experience in New York (yes - New York City!) 3 years ago where my 3 star hotel’s plumbing was too old to accommodate the tissue and I was asked to place it in a small waste basket. Same same in some very upscale houses in Brazil I had the pleasure of staying in a few years back.  

Post-script: After writing this entry I fell into TP heaven when I discovered the Delta Supermarket that stocks multiples! I'm now hoarding 6 rolls!!!

So when I’m finally ready to take my shower, I must first remember to remove the precious TP from it’s perch on the toilet tank and put it on the little dressing table safe out of water’s way. Same with little trash bag that holds the used TP. Because I’ve paid a little extra for my room, I have both hot and cold water (same same) although a number of the rooms in Bali have only cold water and therefore rent for cheaper rates. I prop my legs up on my covered toilet seat to shave (an experience I also had backpacking through Europe many years ago), but other than that, the rest of the showering experience is same same. I must remember to turn off the water switch though when I finish … different different.

Getting dressed of course is also same same although, after dressing, I usually stand in an inch of water that hasn’t yet drained as I put on my makeup. Luckily I’m wearing capri pants all the time. I then dry off the top of my toilet tank as well the seat and replace my TP and the little trash bag. The Balinese are endlessly amused by the western obsession with dry bathroom floors. I must admit, I miss not having to take off my socks to walk into the bathroom, but all in all, it’s not that big an inconvenience. Just different different. Instead of hanging my damp towels to dry on a towel rack in the bathroom, I bring them out to my balcony and hang them on an all-purpose bamboo drying rack. At this point, I’m ready for breakfast. 

a typical lovely breakfast at Suartha guesthouse

In an earlier entry (“At Home in Ubud”) I wrote about the guesthouse breakfasts so I won’t repeat it here. I was never a frequent bacon-and-egg breakfast eater, but I’m missing my typical breakfast of Kashi cereal with skim milk … or at least I feel my waistline is. I have no scale and everything seems to be fitting the same but I just FEEL bigger. It’s probably all the freaking rice I’m eating. Definitely different different!

As a result, I’m going to join the gym today; particularly since I traded in my “push bike” for a motorbike this morning (which I’m told to drive “slowly slowly.”) To my surprise, there are 2 gyms in Ubud. One has the locals as its target market. It has very old and bare-bones weight machines and no cardio equipment. Still, it’s more than I expected to find here. Only men use the weights and they workout barefoot. (The Balinese usually take off their shoes before entering rooms/buildings/etc - another topic for another time). The gym offers a pilates class at $1US per class. I suspect they’re all in Balinese or Indonesian and not English. I’m concerned that I won’t understand “squeeze your buns really hard” in bahasa so I’m going to pass on this one.

the Ubud Fitness center - primarily used by expats

The expat gym is just as you would expect … everything’s newer and higher tech than the Bali gym and filled mostly with white people. It’s smaller than most gyms I’ve gone to in the US, but I also suspect there aren’t as many members so probably there’s not much of a wait to use the equipment. Unfortunately, they don’t offer yoga or pilates classes as I was hoping. The only class offered, aerobics, is at 5pm, but I prefer to workout in the morning. I’m told that I can use the aerobics room room to do my own yoga/pilates so I’ll just pack my laptop to the gym and, before hitting the cardio equipment, I’ll put the DVDs that sweet Julia Schaberg loaned me to good use. One complete side of the beautiful teak-floored aerobics room has floor to ceiling glass doors that are always open … right out into a jungle of banana and palm trees. A monthly membership for the equipment only (no classes) is about $41 US. This, of course, is comparable (slightly higher) to the price of gym memberships in the US. Since I’m living in Bali, however, where the cost of living is MUCH lower than in the US, it seems very expensive … but my health is worth it.

the lovely aerobics room at Ubud Fitness Center

Along those lines, many of you have asked me about the cost of living here. Bali and Southeast Asia in general are very inexpensive compared to the cost of living in the US.   It’s even more so for me because I’m staying long term (a month or longer is considered long term) and I’m able to negotiate much better rates for things; usually 40-60% off the already low rates. For example, I just rented a motorbike this morning for 30 days for $45!  The normal day rate is $4.5 US so I did very well on this particular deal.  (Yes, Mom and Dad, as you can see I have a helmet.)   

Putu on the ubiquitous motorbike

Naturally, I still eat every day, but since I don’t have a kitchen, I eat all my meals out at restaurants. Although some traditional Balinese meals are eaten by hand (like the nawar I had at Nyoman’s house the other day), most Balinese use a spoon and fork to eat their meals. A slight difference, however, is that the spoon, not the fork, is the primary eating utensil. I am told that impaling food on the fork as we westerners do is considered uncouth - akin to someone impaling food with their knife in our society.

my favorite warung - as yet a secret to local tourists so I'm guarding the name!

Eating out in Ubud is definitely different different in terms of impact on the wallet. The most expensive meals in the most posh restaurants in Ubud cost only $6-7/entree. Add bottled water and tax (10% - ouch!) and you’ve got a really nice dinner for $9 per person. Wine is an additional $4 per glass (I haven’t tried it yet, but I’m not expecting much). Those same restaurants also have plenty of good selections in the $3-5 price range. 

I’ve also discovered the warung where food is just as good but less expensive … and most of the time, tax is included. Warungs are in general more humblein appearance than restaurants and range from a hole-in-the-wall dive to beautifully lit and decorated businesses that I would have put in the “restaurant” category. For the most part, the appearance of the warung is a good indication of price and one can get a good meal for somewhere between $1.5 - $5 per person. I’m easily able to eat very well (meaning I’m full and have eaten fairly healthy - chicken or fish, veggies and rice) for around $6 per day or less. Different different.  

Warung Kacu

The things that are most expensive in Ubud, naturally, are items and services tailored toward the expat population. Only one internet cafe in town has true high speed internet where I can upload all the info and photos for this blog in about 2 hours time instead of all day. For that lovely service, I pay about $100 per month (ouch! that is certainly different different!). And of course, I’ve already discussed the comparatively high-end gym. Yoga classes also seem to be something the Balinese do not do so they are priced as high or higher than in the US as well. As a result, I’m going to use Julia’s fabulous DVDs and wait until I get to Thailand to actually take yoga classes. In general, of course, if the Balinese use it or do it, it’s cheap. If it’s purely a foreign service or item, you’ll pay out the nose.  

the warung that belongs to my friends Nyoman and Ketut

Back to our game of compare and contrast … Of course walking down the street is definitely different different here. The first obvious difference is the beautiful offerings to the gods which I see everywhere. They are made of coconut leaves and filled with many different kinds of flowers and incense. The incense and flowers perfume the streets here easily making Ubud the best-smelling outdoors I’ve ever experienced. I’m working on an entry that goes into depth about offerings so I’ll just leave it at that for now. Another difference is the architecture. This topic probably also deserves its own entry when I learn enough to do so. Suffice it to say for now that elaborate stone carvings promulgate the streets. Many are fierce looking demons at the entrances to homes and inexplicably seem to serve the dual roles of sentries guarding family secrets and keeping out evil spirits while simultaneously serving as a welcoming committee straight out of the Addams Family.

monsterish stone carving

Instead of being filled with cars, the streets in Bali are overflowing with motorbikes. I’m constantly amazed at how much the Balinese can fit on a motorbike. The other day, I saw 4 people riding one bike! Three people on one bike is such a common occurrence I don’t even pay attention anymore. And it’s not at all unusual to see people on motorbikes carrying cargo that should require a small pickup to transport. Different different.

 Many of these motorbike drivers don’t have driving licenses. The other day, I had to laugh at the very comical sight of 300+ drivers pulled over to the side of the road at the top of a hill in groups of 30 or so. Word had spread that a policeman had stationed himself at the bottom of the hill stopping drivers at random to check for licenses. The unlicensed drivers were apparently waiting him out, but were victims of numerous heckles from their licensed friends who whizzed on by.

the parking lot in front of Delta Supermarket

As I walk around Ubud, the friendly Balinese always ask me “Mau ke mana?” which means “Where are you going?” At first, I thought they really wanted to know and would bore them with a litany of my plans for the day. As it turns out, the Balinese are not the nosy people that “Mau ke mana?” would imply. “Where are you going?” to the Balinese is like “how are you doing?” to us westerners. They no more want to hear my plans for the day than I want to hear about your toothache. “Mau ke mana?” is merely something the Balinese say to make a social contact with someone walking by. I recently learned that the appropriate response is “jalan-jalan” … “walking walking.”

As I’m walking walking, I say hello to people I pass - I am a Southerner after all!  With some exceptions, the women are shy and giggle when I speak to them. They hide their beautiful smiles behind their hands and apologize for their English - which is usually quite good despite their objections to the contrary. The Balinese men, however, are more outgoing. As a result, I’m now “married for 5 years” to a husband who’s back in the States for some mysterious reason I have yet to invent. As the typical response to this is “Oh! Then you need Bali boyfriend” I’m thinking of throwing 5 kids into the mix. I’m starting a “name my husband” contest beginning now! Anyone care to volunteer photos of their kids I could claim as my own??!!

fried chicken feet

My guesthouse has 4 bungalows for rent and I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know a very funny Canadian girl and a pleasant Kiwi from New Zealand who stay in two of them. A French couple stayed two nights in the bungalow below me, but they didn’t speak to any of us. (I’m simply reporting!) Lindsay, the Canadian, had been traveling for almost a year and she was jonesing for a taste of the west. I discovered the other day that movies not yet released for DVD can be purchased in Ubud for about $1.50 US - cheaper than we can rent them back home … when they finally are released! So I obtained 3 movies (note to any customs officials and piracy police that happen to be reading my blog that I did not use the word “bought”) and held a cinema party for Lindsay and a couple of my new Balinese friends featuring “The Love Guru” on my balcony (befriending a tech addict who’s stupid enough to lug a wide-screen laptop throughout Southeast Asia definitely has its perks!). Although I was happy to accommodate Lindsay’s need for a fix, I had only been in SEA for a week and felt guilty indulging in pure westernization this soon so I added the Indonesian twist of fried chicken feet in lieu of popcorn (tastes like fried pork skins). Same same; different different. Even my Balinese friends who had introduced me to the snack passed.  

my beloved balcony at Suartha homestay ... best breezes in Ubud and a fabulous location for entertaining

 When I’m not hosting movie parties or attending amazing Balinese dance performances, I usually spend my evenings after dinner at the internet cafe checking email and updating the blog. I’ve discovered that it’s best if I finish by about 10:30 pm if I’m planning to walk the 7 blocks back to my guesthouse. As night falls and businesses shut down, the streets in Ubud empty and are taken over by gangs. These are not the gangs you’re likely thinking of. The scary gangs I fear are comprised of street dogs. During the day, the mangy Balinese street dogs are often downright timid. They usually wander around alone or just curl up in a doorway or on the sidewalk. They never make eye contact and obviously fear motorbikes. At night, as the town surrenders the streets to them though, it’s truly a Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde situation as I discovered to my horror two nights ago. 

Lester's look-a-like ... obviously in innocent looking Dr. Jekyll mode. Don't be fooled!

I was having a particularly difficult time getting some video footage uploaded to the website and ended up staying at the internet cafe until 12:30 am (for the convenience of all expats and tourists, it’s open 24/7). While I wouldn’t exactly describe Ubud as a sleepy little town, I definitely feel safe here and wasn’t a bit worried about walking home by myself so late … until I met Lester.

The streets were empty when I left the cafe just after midnight except for the odd motorbike … and an army of street dogs. At first I just noticed that the dogs were more active than in the day. They were roaming the streets a little faster, congregating in groups and enjoying more butt-sniffing than I had witnessed in the daylight. Several actually made eye contact with me as I walked by. Hmmm - forget the US! This was different different by Ubud standards! So I picked up my pace and told myself not to emit vibes of fear. After all, I love animals and they love me.

I turned onto my street and within a block I ran into Lester and his gang of 6 stooges. They were standing in a group on the far side of the street already growling among themselves. One of the stooges was whimpering and limping. Normally I would guess he’d had a bad run-in with a motorbike (likely tourist driven) but the way this gang was carrying on I thought it equally plausible that Lester had smacked him around a bit. I didn’t stop to find out. I hugged my laptop to my chest and picked up my already brisk pace. Lester tore himself from his cronies and ran to the middle of the street where he met my eye and glared at me. He let out a low growl that said, “Tourist, this is my turf. Get out.”

Balinese street dog

I’m slowly picking up bahasa Indonesia, but there are still many many words I don’t understand. I must have studied bahasa Balinese dog in a past life, however, because I understood every syllable that Lester uttered. Underestimating my linguistic abilities, Lester started barking at me, “Get off my turf NOW or I will bite your ass! Sniffing is for wimps like my stooges here!”

My favorite dog in Ubud ... at least during the day. At night I'm sure he gets just as mean as the others ... understandable for a dog wearing a bell. How embarrassing!

As in almost any situation where there’s linguistic confusion, the speaker will inevitably speak LOUDER thinking that in doing so, the foreign language will become clear as crystal to the listener. True to form, still thinking I didn’t understand, Lester’s cronies took up the cry magnifying the already clear message. Instead of just warning me and letting it go at that, Lester and his gang hopped up on my sidewalk and began following me, barking and growling unabated. I only had 3 blocks to go to get to Suartha Pension, my golden refuge. I wanted to run, but felt certain if I did that Lester and friends would read that as an invitation to attack. Having recently been bitten by a monkey I had already gotten my money’s worth from my tetanus and rabies shots and would not have considered a street dog bite to be a windfall.  

As in almost any situation where there’s linguistic confusion, the speaker will inevitably speak LOUDER thinking that in doing so, the foreign language will become clear as crystal to the listener. True to form, still thinking I didn’t understand, Lester’s cronies took up the cry magnifying the already clear message. Instead of just warning me and letting it go at that, Lester and his gang hopped up on my sidewalk and began following me, barking and growling unabated. I only had 3 blocks to go to get to Suartha Pension, my golden refuge. I wanted to run, but felt certain if I did that Lester and friends would read that as an invitation to attack. Having recently been bitten by a monkey I had already gotten my money’s worth from my tetanus and rabies shots and would not have considered a street dog bite to be a windfall.  

the beautiful gates of Suartha pension with their stone demon guards

I kept walking faster (still not quite running) but started to fight back verbally with Lester, uttering slurs that should have made any Balinese street dog blush. Lester, however, had apparently been around the block a time or two because he kept pace, both literally and verbally, with me the entire way to my home. I did run the last 15 feet and bolted through the elaborately carved wooden doors, slamming them behind me, leaving Lester to face the stone carved demons outside the entryway. I hoped that they recognized their role at this moment was singular - to scare the bejeezus out Lester. Fifteen minutes later, cozy in my bed, I still shivered as I heard the street dogs howling, “Putu, we know your name and now we know where you live.” But now that I have my motorbike, Lester needs to look out! Definitely different different.

. . .

Tangent … (from 5 hours ago when I was talking about using tap water to brush my teeth) … Care to jump with me from the South Pacific to South America? Five years ago, 2 days after I quit practicing law, I moved to San Miguel de Allende (SMA), Mexico where I lived for four months. I had visited SMA before but it was a short vacation during which I stayed at a 5 star B&B and ate exclusively at high end restaurants so I had no worries about “Montezuma’s revenge.”

When I moved to SMA though, I was cooking for myself and had been warned repeatedly to wash everything thoroughly in a sink full of water and a tablespoon of bleach. And most importantly, they said, don’t drink the water or even use it to brush your teeth. The hard and fast rule was bottled water only.

I was doing just fine with this for the first week, but one night I stayed out too late with my friends and had too many margaritas. The next morning, suffering from a hangover, I dragged myself to the bathroom still only half awake. I started my morning routine: use the bathroom, wash my face, brush my teeth … all in tremendously slow motion. Halfway through brushing my teeth I realized with horror that I had used water straight from the tap. I was definitely awake now. I just knew that I had to sanitize my mouth and in my fear, all rational thoughts fled straight out of that gaping hole below my nose. Logical thoughts like using mouthwash or even just taking a “wait and see” approach were lost in my panic. The only thought that presented itself to me was that bleach makes vegetables safe.

I raced downstairs to my kitchen and grabbed the bleach from under the counter. I poured what was probably 1/4 cup into a glass and topped the glass off with bottled water. Thoughts that didn’t go through my head:

      - It only takes one tablespoon of bleach to purify a whole sink full of water. 


      - Bleach can actually eat through cloth.

      - What the hell are you doing chica loca?

Congratulating myself on my brilliant solution, I turned the glass up and gargled the bleach-water. Since most of you have probably been smart enough never to have done something this stupid, I’ll save you the anguish and share my experience.

I immediately knew that I’d made a bad decision and spit it out faster than the speed of sound. In the nanosecond that the concoction was in my mouth, it burned my throat and removed a layer of enamel from my teeth. For a week after, my throat and the inside of my mouth was raw. Definitely do not try this at home no matter what.

The good news was I didn’t get Montezuma’s revenge. About two weeks into my trip, I decided I probably wouldn’t have anyway and started eating food sold by street vendors and using tap water to brush my teeth … and haven’t stopped since.

Additional photos for this and other blog entries can be found on the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of this blog.

I now have a Balinese name … Putu.  I was given this name by my new friends and culinary guides, Nyoman and Ketut, because I am the firstborn in my family.  In Bali, the order of one’s birth is very important.  Firstborns are named Wayan, Gede (pronunced G’Day) or Putu. The second child is named Made (pronounced Mah-Day) or Kadek (Kah-dek).  The third child is Nyoman or Koman and the fourth child is called Ketut.  If there are five children, you start over again with Wayan/Gede/Putu.  These names are used for both men and women except for Putu and Koman which tend to be exclusively female names. 

After seven days in Bali, I’ve met 25 Nyomans, 2 Gedes, 4 Mades, 17 Wayans, 2 Komans and 5 Ketuts of both genders.  Apparently the second and fourth children (or the sixth and eighth!) are shy. I’m the only Putu I know.  Because of the obvious confusion, some people are called by nicknames.  The majority, however, go by their birth order name so if I can’t remember someone’s name, I’ve got a pretty good chance of getting it right if I call them Nyoman or Wayan.

Nyoman and his wife Ketut

Today, thanks to Nyoman and Ketut, a husband/wife team that run a small warung (restaurant) down the street from me, I had a grand culinary adventure that was peppered with a lot of cultural education.  At the suggestion of some friends, instead of taking a commercial/professional cooking class, I opted to have Nyoman and Ketut teach me to cook Balinese food.  We struck the agreement yesterday afternoon over a delicious chicken curry lunch and this morning I showed up at 8:30 in front of their warung. 

I thought we had agreed that I would accompany Nyoman, the husband, to the market to buy the food. Apparently we had a bit of a miscommunication, though, because Nyoman and I went to the post office and ran a couple of other errands he needed but we didn’t go to the market.  After the errands, we sat in his warung for 30 minutes or more having wonderful conversation about Balinese Hinduism and the social climate in Bali, but no market visit.  Sometimes it’s best to just go with the flow so that’s what I did.  Afterall, I’m on Bali time. 

At 9:30, Nyoman’s wife, Ketut, showed up with many bags full of goodies from the market.  She divided them into what was needed for the restaurant and what we needed for our cooking class.  What was “needed” for our cooking class was enough to feed 10 armies … or in this case, Nyoman’s family. I suspected as much yesterday when Nyoman figured the going rate for his services should be 200,000 rupiah (about $20 US) … which was actually more than several of the “professional courses” offered in Ubud. We modified the menu and negotiated a price of 130,000 ($13 US).  Nyoman tried to tell me that this was just the price of the food alone, but given that I eat out very well here for less than $6 per day (all at restaurants), his story didn’t fly with me.  Still, I figured I was paying for the experience as well as his expertise so I certainly didn’t begrudge him the extra money.  

This is a tricky area because few prices in Bali are fixed and understandably all Balinese want to make the best bargain for themselves as possible.  If you don’t know your market, you will certainly be overcharged.  I’ve just decided not to take it personally when someone tries to overcharge me.  Otherwise, I would just be in a huff all the time. 

Nyoman had suggested we cook at his house because the kitchen was much larger than in the warung so we hopped on his motorbike with about 10 pounds of food in a very large bag and zipped off.  We hadn’t discussed where he lived and I had assumed he was local.  It turns out that he lives in a village about 45 minutes outside of Ubud so I got some lovely views of the Balinese countryside en route. Click here to see a glimpse of the Balinese countryside.

Gede's Offerings

 In lieu of a car, most Balinese own one or more motorbikes so most Balinese homes have a little driveway-like ramp at the entrance to their compound.  Nyoman and I pulled up the ramp into his compound and I got to meet his lovely family. His oldest brother, Gede, had just finished making beautiful offerings (the first I’d ever seen that contained coffee!) that he was about to deliver to each of the family temples inside the family temple (I checked again with the family today and am still told that both the pillar-type structures and the area containing them all share the same name of “temple” so I guess you’ll just have to be confused along with me).  Gede speaks almost perfect English and we had a very nice chat about offerings. (I’m still researching that topic and plan to write about them soon when I feel I’m better educated).  I met Nyoman’s father, Wayan, who seemed to understand a lot of English and his other older brother, Kadek, who told me he is planning to move to the US in 6 months. Nyoman’s mother, Made, grandfather, Wayan and grandmother, also Wayan, were there as well.  

Kadek with "THE CHICKEN"

Yesterday, we had discussed the menu - one chicken dish, one vegetable dish and a third dish that I was unclear about. Nyoman announced upon our arrival that he had not yet bought the chicken and that he was sending his brother, Kadek, to get it.  Ok, no big deal, I thought, envisioning a styrofoam tray with several boneless skinless chicken breasts wrapped in plastic - the way I’ve always bought chicken.  Ten minutes later when Kadek returned, it became a big deal.  He held a live chicken in his hands.  I shouldn’t have been surprised. I knew the day would come in my Asian adventure when I would come face to face with a live animal that was about to become my meal. I just hadn’t expected that day to arrive so soon.

Disassociating from the source of meat seems to be only an American trait and a newly acquired one at that.  Afterall, my grandmother used to kill her own chickens for dinner.  

I had never encountered it though and immediately began a very rapid-fire conversation with my conscience that in a nutshell went something like this: “You eat chicken so you ought to see where it comes from. Get over your illusion that it’s just ‘born’ on a little styrofoam tray at the grocery. I wonder if it’s too late to opt for a full vegetarian menu? Even if you do, they’re going to kill it anyway for dinner tonight. But I don’t want to watch it die. Maybe I could turn my head. No, you owe it to the chicken to see what happens.”   I owe it to the chicken????!!!  Time to get out of my head!  

I made peace with the inevitable (at least as best I could) by adopting the Native American tradition of thanking the chicken for its sacrifice and nourishment. I did this aloud when I thought no one was around … and was teased mercilessly by Nyoman who had been just around the corner the whole time.  That’s ok. I felt as good as I could about the chicken’s impending doom. 

Nyoman chopping up the jackfruit

Nonetheless, my stomach was knotting up on behalf of the poor chicken as I saw Nyoman sharpening the knives.  The knives made long, drawn out sounds as he scraped them across the sharpening stone. I looked at the chicken who sat on the bare earth with her feet tied together so she couldn’t run away.  She seemed pretty calm.  I wondered if she knew this wasn’t looking good for her.   Nyoman approached with the newly sharpened butcher knives.  My body tensed up as he walked toward the chicken.  Oh no!  Is it going to be awful to watch? My heart was racing! And then Nyoman walked past the chicken, grabbed a large unfamiliar vegetable called a jackfruit and began hacking away.  Whew!  

 At this point, we started peeling and chopping all the ingredients and my mind was taken off the chicken. There was garlic, ginger,  small onions that resembled garlic, two other ginger-type roots called isen and kuynyit, the longest green beans I’d ever seen (about 24” long!), jackfruit which seemed to have the texture that was both like a squash and a mushroom and tiny green chilis that looked so cute and innocent I knew they’d be deadly.  This was a full family project.  All three brothers as well as Nyoman’s father and grandfather chopped and peeled.  I helped out for a bit until we determined that my mincing skills were not up to par and that I might lose a finger if I continued my attempts in the Balinese cutting style.

(left to right) Kadek, 3 neighbor children, Grandpa Wayan, Father Wayan & Nyoman

We sat on a tile floor with a woven bamboo mat for a “table cloth” and a 5” think cross-section of a tree for a cutting board. The women were about 20 feet away in the actual kitchen - an earthen-floored room with a live fire in a concrete block for an oven, several cooking pots on top of the fire and a gas-fired wok.  When the men would finish chopping something, it was usually delivered to the kitchen to be boiled by the women  in the oil-filled wok. The delicious aroma of sauteed onion, ginger, garlic and chilies filled the air.  As there was a plethora of cooks and the action was split between the outside cutting room and the tiny kitchen several meters away, I abandoned any attempt to actually cook in my “cooking class.” With no regrets, I picked up the camera instead which freed me to dart back and forth between the two action-filled areas. 

Grandmother Wayan offering me a fried rice treat

Although there was no chance of me withering away, Wayan-the-grandmother kept filling my hands with food (3 different kinds of fried rice treats and 2 oranges) while the main meal was being prepared.  So grandmother’s are the same the world over … they love you through your tummy.      

At some point during all the commotion, the chicken met her doom and I didn’t even know it.  I’d like to think that, knowing my squeamishness about the situation, my sweet Balinese hosts deliberately sacrificed her away from my virgin eyes.  Papa Wayan brought her to me, dead, and indicated that I might want to watch the rest of the process.  I was most grateful for his consideration. 

After the chicken was washed in boiling water and plucked, it began to resemble an edible product with which I was more familiar and comfortable.  Mmmmm … I was really hungry and the thought of eating chicken no longer turned my stomach.  

Kadek skewering the chicken for roasting

Even with 8 people participating in the preparation, it took 3 hours to make the meal.  Several times, Gede lead me away from the food preparation to show me around the family compound, including an in depth tour and explanation of the family temple and the different gods honored there. I discovered that he’s incredibly artistic as he showed me elaborate offerings that he had made as well as a portrait a friend painted of him doing Balinese dance.

Gede and his super fancy offering ... for sale in his basket gallery!

Finally the meal was ready! Apparently, chairs don’t exist for this family so we instead of gathering around the table, we all hopped up right on top of the table, sat cross legged and ate our meal in the traditional Balinese fashion … with our hands.  It was spicy, as Nyoman had warned me traditional Balinese food would be, but it was amazing!  They all almost fell off the table laughing as I bit into a chili and tears involuntarily rolled down my face.  

As I predicted, the food I paid for was enough to feed us all with enough leftovers for everyone’s dinner tonight and at least as many ingredients for some other dish (or 5!) tomorrow, but I had gotten more than my money’s worth in experience and interaction with this lovely Balinese family.  

Your Putu eating Balinese style

I was invited to accompany the family to an important ceremony next week called Galungan Kuningan.  I hope that actually comes to fruition.  In the meantime, Kadek and are I going to start trading English for Indonesian lessons on Friday.  I thoroughly enjoyed my afternoon with these delightful people and have a feeling this isn’t the last you’ll hear of them.  Click here to see a video of my \”cooking class.\”

Additional photos for this and other blog entries can be found on the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of this blog.

Today will just be a short post as I’ve got a full day of adventure and cultural learning planned - somebody’s gotta keep you folks entertained, right?!  I know, I know.  It’s a tough job.  Anyway, just wanted to give you a quick tour of the homestay where I “landed” after several days in Ubud.  Also a quick explanation before the video ….  

My Dreamy Bedroom at Suartha Homestay

In Indonesia, housing is constructed a bit differently than in the US.  Instead of the typical single American structure that contains all the bedrooms, guestrooms, kitchen, family/gathering room, etc., the Indonesians have a family compound.  The compound  is 200 square meters and begins with a stone wall that surrounds the perimeter of the family’s property.  Inside that wall are a number of individual buildings, each of which has a specific function - much like the rooms of our houses.  For example, one building is the kitchen.  One building is where the heads of the household sleep.  Sometimes each of the children have their own building or it might be a single building divided into a separate room or bunglaow for each child, etc.  There is always a family shrine/temple which is an ornate stone pillar with a small opening at the top where offerings to the gods are placed each morning, afternoon and evening.  Often in addition to the pillar-type temple, a walled-off “compound” within the compound exists and is also called a family temple but it contains a number of ornate “pillars” each of which is also called a temple.  At this point in my education, any “holy” shrine type place is called a temple but I’m working on learning more about the names and significance of each of these so I can speak more accurately on this subject, but so far “temple” is the only word I’ve heard any Balinese use to describe these structures.  I’ve read that the geographic placement of each of buildings within the compound is strictly dictated by religious beliefs (a modified version of Hinduism is practiced on Bali) but I’ve noticed substantial variation in the 40+ homestays I’ve visited.  Again, this is something I intend to learn more about.   

example of a "pillar type" family temple

In addition to the various buildings used by the family in the compound,  a number of families have additional buildings where they house guests; most of them paying guests like myself.  This type setup is called a “homestay” or “guesthouse” and is different from a hotel because you can actually live in the family compound.  I prefer this type of accomodation because, in theory, I will be able to get to connect with a Balinese family and observe their daily routines.  In actuality, so far I’ve not see the family in whose compound I’m living.  I hope that will change soon. Most families who have guesthouses hire someone to manage the guesthouses as the families already have their own jobs and duties to attend.  Sabuki, the young man from the neighboring island, Java, who runs Suartha is very soft-spoken, pleasant and approachable.  Like many Balinese, Sabuki has many lines of business.  In addition to running Suartha Homestay, he also rents motorbikes and “push” bikes and offers reflexology and massage.   The Balinese homestay is somewhat comparable to a bed and breakfast in the States except that these rooms (often called bungalows) are separate stand-alone structures from the family house and are not the only source of income for the family.  Like a B&B, however, the rent at a homestay usually does include breakfast.        

Banana Pancake and Fruit Salad Breakfast

For breakfast so far at each of my homestays (I’ve experienced 3 since my arrival in Ubud 6 days ago), I’ve always had a generous serving of fruit (bananas, papayas, mangos, watermelon, and pineapple) supplemented with a “main course.”  The main course varies.  I’ve had eggs and toast, an egg and tomato sandwich and my favorite - banana pancake which is really more of a thick crepe with banana slices baked into it.  It’s so sweet and moist, syrup isn’t even used.       So, with that introduction, let me show you around what is my home for the next 36 days ….  It’s called Suartha Guesthouse on Jalan Hanoman (that’s “Hanoman Street” for you English-speakers) and it has the best breezes I’ve experienced in Ubud!    Soon I hope to have a “movie picture” link to the video, but in the meantime … click here for a video tour of my home in Ubud, Bali.

Additional photos for this and other blog entries can be found on the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of this blog.

Although it was my second full day in Ubud, Bali, it was a day of many firsts.  Today I ate from a palm leaf in lieu of a spoon, I showered outside and I was bitten by a monkey. Anything interesting happen to you today?

Although I know you’d like me to skip straight to the monkey bite, exercise a little patience. These other stories will just take a minute.  

I spent all day yesterday house hunting …. Yeah, you’re right.  I should start with the monkeys.  So remember how I chose Ubud because of the exotic-sounding “Monkey Forest Road” that runs through the middle?  It’s called Monkey Forest Road because it skirts the edge of - you guessed it - the Monkey Forest Sanctuary which is so named because - damn you’re smart! you guessed it again! - it’s home to a zillion long tailed macaque monkeys.  Who could resist that? So I paid 20,000 rupiah (about $2) for a bunch of bananas to try to sweet talk the little critters into coming close to me.  [As an aside, I spent more money on the bananas than on my own dinner tonight!  I treated a friend to dinner this evening for showing me around today.  Our fabulous dinner for two including beverages came to $3!]  I was obviously not the first person to try this trick because the monkeys, all one zillion of them, were onto me - literally! - as soon as I walked into the forest.  

The first one begged at my foot.  “How cute! Here you go little guy - a banana for you.”  I was told it was okay to pet them so I reached down figuring, he’s eating the banana I just gave him so surely he knows I’m a good gal and blah blah blah.  Have you ever fed a dog and then tried to pet it while it’s eating?  Apparently dogs and monkeys think alike.  Giving them food does not entitle you to pet them while they’re eating it.  And this monkey did exactly what the dog would do … he stopped eating the banana and bared his teeth at me.  Monkeys have very big teeth! So I backed away - way away - and walked on. 

Naturally, I was a bit more tentative in approaching the next monkeys I encountered.  Apparently, I was too tentative for their taste because the next one climbed up my leg, sat on my hip and tried to help himself to a banana out of the bunch in my hand.  Even though he approached me and wrapped his little body all over mine, I didn’t want there to be any misunderstanding that I was trying to touch him while he ate so I tore a banana off, held it out from me a little bit and he jumped off me grabbing it on his way down. 

Jaws had finished his banana and approached me again for another. He was the biggest monkey of the gang and we were already off to a bad start so I threw his second banana well away from me and scooted on down the path.  More monkeys clambered up my legs, back, head, etc., often two at a time, and very soon I was out of bananas.    

I sat down on a little ledge to watch the monkeys running around playing.  One large monkey kept grabbing a much smaller one by the tail and swinging him around; very rough play if that’s what it was.  A tiny little guy got scared by those two and came to sit on my lap.  He reached around and was holding onto my arm - a very sweet little gesture.  I was so entranced that I didn’t notice Jaws had come to sit right beside me until he started playing with my purse.

Without thinking, I pulled my purse back toward me.  Apparently Jaws didn’t receive much discipline as a child and thoroughly resented being told, “no.” So he did what any disgruntled kid would do … he bit me.  It all happened in slow motion.  I saw the big teeth but I kind of laughed thinking, “It’s just a purse, dude; really not worth getting upset about.”  Then I felt his teeth on my arm and was still kind of laughing thinking, “This isn’t real. I can’t believe he’s biting me.” Jaws must also be a mind-reader because he chomped down really hard at this point just to give me a good reality check.    

The good news is that I’m already getting my money’s worth from those many needle jabs I got before the trip.  Tetanus and rabies.  Check.  The other good news is that he bit me through my shirt which didn’t tear (go Mountain Hardware!) and didn’t exactly break the skin (There’s a little scrape. Ok, maybe more than a little, but no blood was drawn so don’t worry Mom and Dad.  Other than a sore arm and what I’m sure will become a big bruise, I’m quite alright.) (click here for video footage from Monkey Forest Sanctuary)

one of two food stalls i noshed at in bali

So after all that, I guess eating off a palm leaf and showering outside isn’t really so exciting.  Oh yeah - I also broke the food rules and ate from a market stall which is where the palm leaf was fashioned for me (I’ve yet to figure out how to graciously decline questionable food that’s recommended by a friend).  More good news … my tummy’s just fine and I’m experiencing no disturbing reactions to the food - which was delicious!!!  Hepatitis A booster … check.

Additional photos for this and other blog entries can be found on the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of this blog.

I have arrived in Asia at last! My flight to the Philippines arrived in Manila at 3:30 am - two hours earlier than scheduled. Due to a misunderstanding when I booked the flight, my connection to Jakarta, Indonesia did not depart until 9 pm which meant I had more downtime between flights than it took me to fly from San Francisco to Manila! I was really dreading this portion of the trip … 16 hours in the airport which had now became 18 hours due to Philippine Airlines’ (PAL) efficiency in delivering me to Manila.

Over the phone last week, when I discovered the booking error (my original connecting flight to Jakarta was supposed to have been at 7:30 am, merely a few hours after my arrival in Manila), PAL was less than helpful to say the least. Their line was basically “Tough luck. And no, you can’t leave the airport because your ticket doesn’t allow a stopover in the Philippines. And no, you can’t have PAL lounge privileges despite flying business class from San Francisco because your flight to Jakarta is only coach class.” It was with amazement and great relief that I discovered the agents at the PAL desk in Manila were much more sympathetic and understood the concept of customer service. They not only gave me lounge privileges, but allowed me to leave the airport and even comp’d me a 4 star hotel for the day (which they called a “wash up”) where I could sleep and get a shower during my extensive layover. Hallelujah!

So at 4 am, my taxi driver (also complimentary) drove me to the Park Century Hotel. In the 20 minute drive between the airport and the hotel, I got my first glimpse of Manila and Asia. Within the first 5 minutes, things didn’t really look so different from the U.S. All the signage was in English. The cars mostly looked the same as those in the States. The gas stations looked the same. But then it changed … at least a little. First, I noticed that there was a significant amount of traffic on the roads for 4am - it looked like American rush hour except that it wasn’t “stop and go.” My driver told me that the workday in Manila starts at 6am and ends at 4pm and many people travel from outside the city to get to work. So I basically caught the cusp of Manila’s rush hour. Also, I began to see many unique looking vehicles that we don’t have “back home.” 

They’re called gebnies and they resemble the old tourist vehicles that were used in Yellowstone National Park in … was it the 50’s? According to my driver they exist only in the Philippines - and somewhere in Africa where they ordered 100 gebnies from the Philippines. I’ll blame it on jet lag that, despite seeing hundreds of gebnies, it didn’t occur to me to photograph one until, as it turns out, we were heading into the airport terminal later that afternoon for my evening flight. So I’m sorry to say, this isn’t the best photo of a gebny but this will give you an idea of what they look like.  

My Room at the Park Century Hotel

After checking into the old but still fairly cushy Park Century, I crashed for several hours. My rumbling stomach woke me up at noon and I ventured out of the hotel to the mall across the street to find a bite to eat. I ended up in Rai Rai Ken, a Japanese bento and ramen restaurant that, although I was being waited on, felt more like fast food than traditional restaurant. Like Waffle House, they had pictures of all their offerings so, even though I didn’t know exactly what I was ordering, I knew it looked yummy. How dangerous could a bowl of ramen something or other be? Plus I could identify the egg floating on top so I knew I was getting some good protein. The mystery meat in the dish was later identified as pork liver. Not bad.

Mystery Ramen from Rai Rai Ken

With a full tummy, I wandered around the mall where everyone greeted me as “ma’am.” With the accents it sounded like everyone was calling me “mom.” Several guys dressed smartly in suits tried to give me free things including an alarm that would fit on the doors and windows of the house I don’t have explaining they were just trying to advertise. Most people I talked to guessed that I was from Australia. Although all of this made me giggle and I wanted to stick around for more, jet lag and my full tummy were calling me back to bed so I crashed again for another few hours before heading back to the airport for my evening flight to Jakarta, Indonesia. When I arrived in Jakarta at midnight, I headed straight to the in-airport hotel where a friend had reserved a room for me. There was some kind of misunderstanding though because neither my name nor my friend’s was on their reservation list and they were fully booked. The man at the front desk kindly called around to other hotels until he found one that could accommodate me for the 6 hours I had before heading back to the airport again for my final flight to Bali in the morning.  

My Room at the FM7 Resort Hotel

I arrived at the 4 star FM7 Resort Hotel at 1am. I was extremely dubious that I had been delivered to the right place as I walked up the flight of stairs. The thunderous noises emerging from above sounded more like a disco than a hotel reception desk; much less that of a 4 star hotel. The karaoke room from which the obnoxiously loud noises eminated was closed away behind a heavy wooden door. Given how loud it was in the lobby, I couldn’t imagine how anyone’s eardrums survived upon opening that door. In broken English, the manager assured me that the rooms were completely sealed off from the karaoke sounds. It was 1 am. I had no choice but to trust him. Luckily, he was right. My room was indeed quiet and comfy with extremely modern decor. A basket of complimentary fruit sat on the desk - and I was starving! I recognized the bananas and oranges but there was also a mystery fruit. Since all the fruits were “peelable” I knew they were safe for me to eat (I’ll get into “eating rules” another time but basically, “pretend you’re in Mexico” is the general guideline).  

Mystery Fruit

The mystery fruit was the size and shape of an extremely large strawberry. The skin looked and felt like rich brown snakeskin.  When I peeled the skin away, there were three sections of fruit inside. It had the texture of an uncooked squash.   The closest thing I can compare the taste to is pineapple - but it wasn’t juicy, but was quite yummy.  Each section had a really big seed/pit that was the size, shape and color of the brown river stones often seen in people’s rock gardens.  I ate one mystery fruit and brought the other with me for identification. Still breathing.

For breakfast this morning I had rice, fried fish, hot and sour chicken, cabbage with anchovies and some little sausage things - all of which I neglected to photograph in my hurry to eat before catching the 7 am shuttle back to the airport. I’m looking very forward to arriving in Ubud, Bali this afternoon where I will encounter no more airports for at least 5 weeks!

Additional photos for this and other blog entries can be found on the “Photos of Her Adventure” page of this blog.