Archive for the 'Goals/Dreams' Category

Travellers and Magicians

Published
by
elizabeth
on November 4, 2008
in Australia, Bhutan, Culture and Goals/Dreams
. 0 Comments

Monday, November 3, 2008

When we were in Bhutan, we asked our guide, Dorji, if McDonald’s had arrived in Thimphu, the capital city, yet. “Oh yes,” said Dorji, gravely. “It is the only place in town where you can buy hamburgers. Would you like to see?” I wondered if the hamburgers would be cloaked in chiles and cheese, and if the Playland would be festooned with merry-go-rounds fashioned after prayer wheels. Or maybe the Happy Meals would come with a McBuddha action figure. Instead, we arrived at a small place called The Swiss Bakery, what amounted to a chalet-style cafe, with no iconic golden arches in sight. Inside, we could choose from a menu that consisted of dodgy-looking pastries, coffee and tea, and hamburgers. It dawned on us that, in Dorji’s mind, McDonald’s wasn’t a brand name but an institution synonymous with hamburgers. And since the Swiss Bakery was the only one serving up patties in this neck of the woods, it might as well have been McDonald’s.

We couldn’t bear to let him down, so we ordered a desiccated chocolate cake and settled down at a booth, the only thing that bore any resemblance to a real McDonald’s. Within minutes a Bhutanese woman breezed in the door with a pack of school-aged children dancing in her wake. Her English was impeccable, with a slight British inflection, and the children’s language abilities were equally impressive. These were Bhutanese of a certain class, the ones who go abroad to study and return to cushy government positions. Dorji had told us that they have a propensity towards all things Western, so we weren’t surprised when she ordered a round of hamburgers for everyone. The arrived wrapped in limp plastic steaming with condensation; the whirring of the microwave in the background moments earlier gave a clue as to their heat source. An emaciated patty was sandwiched between a bakery-style bun; there were no vegetables.

As the kids doused their hamburgers in ketchup, they chatted in English. The woman, obviously the mother of the girl dressed in pink, suddenly turned toward me and asked me where I was from. Within moments, the woman, talking a million miles a minute, revealed that she had recently appeared in a Bhutanese film, Travellers and Magicians. Although she worked professionally at the Bank of Bhutan and had never acted a day in her life, she landed a role in the film, and even went to Los Angeles for the premiere, where she was given “the red carpet treatment.” She even got to ride in a limousine. Deki was eager to know if we had seen the film; I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I’d never even heard of it. “Well,” she sighed, “it was back to Bhutan for me. No more limousines. Just my little red car.” She jotted down the name of the movie and her email address as Dorji approached our table. They spoke a few minutes in Bhutanese, and suddenly she was off.

We watched her make her way out to her little red car as the children piled in. “She was in a Bhutanese movie,” we told Dorji. “I know,” he said, “she told me.” He had never heard of it either.

* * *

Yesterday we found ourselves at the Australian Centre for the Moving Image in Melbourne, a must-see for anyone with an interest in film. Home to a number of exhibitions pertaining to the cinematic world, it also contains a number of theatres that play host to a rotating series of independent films and thematically exciting film festivals. An image of Buddha on a poster caught me eye as we passed by. “It’s a Buddhist Film Festival!” I said. Maikael studied the poster, looking at the list of films that were being screened. “Look what’s playing!” he cried. Travellers and Magicians. We glanced at the dates of the week-long festival: it was ending today. “What are the odds that this film is playing today?” we asked ourselves. Miraculously, its one and only screening of the festival was in a few hours.

The film was the embodiment of Bhutan, and everything was immediately familiar, like a giant memory blowing into my mind. Sweeping scenery, flapping prayer flags, dried chiles, terraced rice fields, gray ghos and colorful kiras, balls of rice, Indian trucks filled with hitchhikers, monks, magic, mystery, and folklore. The opening scene showed three men yelping as they scored an archery victory, and we smiled broadly, remembering the day we watched the Prince of Bhutan play in the national archery semifinals. This audience tittered when one character warned another about ghosts on the highway at night. Unless you’d been to Bhutan, you’d never know that warning was no joke.

The storyline revolves around a government worker who is dying to leave Bhutan for America, and when an opportunity arises he tries to make his way to Thimphu, a journey that takes days from his tiny village and is thwarted at every opportunity. The government worker meets a monk along his journey, and when he tells the monk he is leaving for America, his “dreamland,” the monk warns him against chasing empty dreams. The monk shares a fable with the government worker to illustrate his point, which becomes a parallel storyline.

I squealed when Deki’s unmistakable face appeared on the screen, the starring woman in the alternate storyline. Leaning across my seat I whispered to Maikael, “Can you believe we met that woman?” She was a pretty good actress for a government worker, and we found it ironic that she was starring in a film about the dangers of chasing Western ideals. The film was as much about Buddhism as it was about Bhutan: just as I experienced when I visited, the two things are inextricably bound together. Bhutan is struggling mightily with the encroachment of the Western world; most people used to be relatively happy with their lot, but with television in most homes, people see there is more to want. Buddhists believe the only path to happiness is to desire less.

So there we were, watching a Bhutanese film starring a Bhutanese woman we knew in a movie theatre in Australia, on the only day at the only time it was showing at a one-week film festival. It was all a little too bizarre, and I knew the Bhutanese would say it was no coincidence. We were meant to see that film.

At the end of the screening, a graduate student of Buddhist philosophy, visiting from Sydney, was on hand on answer questions about the film. He wasn’t Bhutanese, but with his shorn head and long, gray robe I guessed he was Buddhist. Someone asked him to give his interpretation of the film, and he stated that the central theme was a struggle between accepting our lot in life and aspiring for something greater. “At the end of the day, do we remain content with what we have, or crazily chase after our dreams? Which is better?” He explained that he wasn’t there to say which one was right, and that Buddhists believe that you have to inquire and question and struggle with yourself to find the right answer; the reason, he explained, why the ending to the film was intentionally left open-ended. “You have to give meaning to your own life,” he insisted.

This Buddhist man had unwittingly summed up the central struggle of not only the film but my own life. For years I have wondered if I should accept the fact that my life didn’t turn out as I had planned and continue with the status quo that I had set for myself, or if I should try to aim for something that’s more in line with who I am as a person. The greatest thing I’m struggling with now is that I don’t have a dream to “crazily chase after.” In the past, I have tried to solve the big questions of my life through occupational means, convinced that choosing a new career would be the key. In fact, I’m fighting not to fall into the same trap again, as new career ideas are percolating in the background.

That night, I had the most vivid dream. I dreamed that I was a substitute teacher for a small, mixed classroom of elementary and middle school children. When I took over the class we were working on an art project that I was helping the kids to finish. As I stepped into this role, largely unprepared, I felt immediately comfortable and at east, as if I had been a teacher my whole life. Suddenly, I found myself in a conversation with my “dream self,” who I can only guess is my subconscious, that great ruler of the dream world. This has never happened to me before.

I asked my “dream self” what this meant. “Does this mean I should be a school teacher?” I asked. “No,” she responded, confident and clear, “it’s a symbol. You will be a type of teacher, but not in a traditional way, or the way you think.” In fact, I have always regarded my role as a counselor as a teacher more than anything. In the dream I was teaching art, and my “dream self” somehow seemed to know that what I would teach people would have to do with creativity.

I’m not sure what the dream means, but I can only guess that seeing that movie unlocked something in me. I am vowing to make a conscious effort to avoid immediately jumping into a new career or endeavor when I return from this trip, to begin a quiet search for the different ways that being a teacher might manifest itself in my life. The astrologer in India told me that I would come into contact with many spiritual people during this year, and so far that is holding true. The path I’m on is invisible at the moment, but I feel my feet are treading on something, real and true.

Verjuice Virgin

Published
by
elizabeth
on October 29, 2008
in Australia, Culinary and Goals/Dreams
. 3 Comments

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Until today, I was a Verjuice virgin.

If you don’t know what Verjuice is, don’t feel bad. But if you’re an Australian who has any interest in the culinary arts, chances are good that, not only do you know what Verjuice is, you stock a bottle in your kitchen cabinet and swear to its magical properties. As far as I can tell, Verjuice is like Vegemite: a distinctly Australian concoction that makes Aussie’s hearts sing. The closest American equivalent is Rachel Ray’s ubiquitous EVOO.

dscf4599One of our goals in visiting Adelaide was to make a day-trip into the Barossa Valley, recently rated as one of the top 10 wine growing regions in the world and only an hour’s drive from the city. The Valley produces many excellent wines, but is renowned for its shiraz. To prepare ourselves, we made a pre-trip stop at the National Wine Center in Adelaide, a modern building adjoining the marvelous Botanical Gardens. Here visitors can learn about the entire wine production process and gain an appreciation for just how difficult it is to create a decent bottle of wine. Through an interactive computer program, we were able to make our own vintage, based on answering a series of questions regarding what affects the wine making process, from soil type and temperature to how the grapes are picked and stored. In one section of the exhibit we could “talk” with chefs who are renowned for pairing food and wine, and I listened with interest as Maggie Beer waxed poetic about eating and drinking locally. “This is the kind of thing I should be doing,” I thought, as I chuckled to myself at the irony of her last name.

dscf4687We awoke to blue glass skies and perfect temperatures and made our way to the Barossa, crossing swooping saffron hills zig-zagged with bottle-green vineyards. The environment here is hot and dry, and the arid landscape reminds me of what I think Tuscany probably looks like: lots of wheat fields growing up beautiful mounds of hills with a solemn gnarly tree perched atop. Our first stop was for Danish at the Apex Bakery in the town of Tanunda, the heart of the Valley, a safe bet given Barossa’s rich German heritage. The region’s first vintners came from Germany, escaping religious persecution: beautiful, petite Lutheran churches sit proudly in the town square of each little town you pass.

Fortified, we spent the morning tasting wines from the iconic Chateau Tanunda, Charles Melton, and Rockford, moving on in the afternoon to Langmeil, Peter Lehmann, and Yaluma, buying a few bottles along the way. As our stomachs began to grumble at mid-day, we perused the lunch suggestions from the concierge at the National Wine Center. My eye immediately fell upon Maggie Beer’s Farm Store. “Hey, isn’t that the chef who we saw talking yesterday at the Wine Center?” I asked Maikael. Beer is one of Barossa’s most famous chefs, who began the movement of eating regionally, and I felt like I needed to see her operation in action.

dscf4690Maggie’s Farm Store sits alongside a lovely green lake filled with turtles bobbing there heads along the surface of the water. A sign advertising a 2 o’clock cooking demonstration greeted us at the door. “Learn how Maggie uses her signature ingredients (Verjuice!) to create her signature dishes.” “What the hell is Verjuice?” I thought. The store is a foodie’s dream, chock-full of gourmet foods labeled in pretty packages. Diners can choose a picnic lunch of their choosing to enjoy on the outside patio overlooking the little lake, and each comes with a suggested wine pairing. This is exactly what the Margaret River wine valley had been lacking; a concerted effort to pair local food and wine using the best of seasonal ingredients. We chose our lunches, which were packed in a charming woven basket: inventive vegetable pates, fresh-baked rolls, and savory tabbouleh salads, dressed with a fresh sprig of rosemary that I couldn’t help but twirl between my fingers. I was completely content, much how I imagine most people feel when they commune with nature or encounter something beautiful.

dscf4698At 2 o’clock we were herded into a packed room for the cooking demonstration. I was hoping The Woman Herself would be conducting the class, but instead a vivacious blond woman, who Maikael referred to as The Minion, glided into the room. She explained that Maggie has her own cooking show on ABC, the equivalent of PBS, and that we were sitting on the set of the show, which was modeled after Maggie’s own home kitchen. Everyone nodded enthusiastically; we were clearly the only ones not in the know about Maggie Beer. It dawned on me that Maggie Beer is the Australian equivalent of our Julia Child or Jacques Pepin, and I wondered if Maggie’s kitchen would be torn down and resurrected in Australia’s version of the Smithsonian Museum, just as Julia’s had.

Soon we moved onto the elusive Verjuice. “Do you all know what Verjuice is?” quipped The Minion. Everyone nodded again, smiling, as Maikael and I exchanged befuddled looks. Verjuice, she explained for our benefit, is an acidic juice, much like lemon juice, that is derived from unfermented young Riesling grapes. Maggie created it when she had an overabundance of grapes, and then began using it as a base for drinks, and then finally as a stand-in for lemon juice in her cooking. And thus the Verjuice Revolution was born. She even has an entire cookbook dedicated to the topic, Cooking with Verjuice. Small plastic cups were passed around with the mystical juice, and everyone held it to their lips as if they were cradling holy chalices, sipping delicately. Everyone nodded in rapture.

The demonstration, which I later learned from Maggie’s website was officially called a “Verjuice Workshop,” showed every possible use of the elixir, from roasting fennel to sauteeing mushrooms. As samples were passed around, people swore it tasted better because of the Verjuice. The Minion was obviously preaching to the choir. When a bottle of green tomato pasta sauce was uncorked, a woman from the back row piped up, extolling its virtues. “It was a winner at my last dinner party. A real winner!”

After the demonstration, people stopped to snap photos of the kitchen-cum-television set; even me, who had never seen the show. I was smitten.

As we strolled out of the shop after enjoying a cup of Vanilla Bean and Elderflower Ice Cream (elderflower!), I paused at the front door to read about the history of the this space. What started as a simple retreat from city life in Sydney and a passion for local food had grown into a mini media empire. In between it had been the home of the Pheasant Farm Restaurant for over 15 years. What struck me was this woman’s ability to grow and adapt with the times, while consistently keeping good, local food as its core focus. That’s what the Barossa Wine Valley is all about.

dscf4693I’ve been thinking more and more about incorporating food and writing (and travel?) into a future career. I recently had a vivid dream that an editor stumbled across my website and admonished me for not writing more about food. It seemed like a divine message from the great beyond. While I have zero training or experience in the culinary arts, when my heart sings over learning about something as simple as unfermented grape juice, I wonder if I’m not on the right track.

State of the Union

Published
by
elizabeth
on October 22, 2008
in Goals/Dreams and Stress
. 3 Comments

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Today we hit the double digit mark: we’ve been on the road for 100 days, which seems somehow momentous. Just as presidents give an update after their first 100 days in office, we’ve decided to give our own “state of the union” address. How are we faring? What have we learned? What have been our favorite and least favorite parts of the trip? How will our lives be different when we return?

Surprisingly, Maikael and I share many of the same favorite experiences. We both loved Portugal’s Douro Valley and Turkey’s Cappadocia, places we plan on returning someday soon. Maikael was captivated by Pamukkale and the Bedouin camp we stayed at in Jordan. We both enjoyed Bhutan; Maikael for the hikes to cliffside monasteries, and me for the cultural aspects. The place I have felt most alive is Bali; we both agree that the highlight of that experience was the Ubud Bungalows Think Tank. Maikael resonates most with Australia. But the most memorable aspect hasn’t been the sights but the people we’ve met by chance along the way. Maikael put it best when he said that, from these people, we’ve been given the gift of exposure to the multitude of ways in which one can live their life.

We are very fortunate that nothing calamitous has happened: we still have our passports, our money, and our bags (insert knocking on wood here). There hasn’t been a single worst experience, but we hit our lowest point in India, when everything just felt too difficult. Another tough aspect of the trip has been the ongoing stress and worry. Contrary to popular belief, we are not living a Carnival Cruise commercial. Juggling our household, ongoing trip planning, website, and Maikael’s career has been more difficult than we could have imagined. It’s hard not to bicker when you’re tired and constantly adjusting to new things. We’re doing our best and learning not to be too hard on ourselves, or each other.

We’ve both learned a tremendous amount about the act and art of traveling, and will never travel in the same way again. We both agree that seeing less usually amounts to a richer experience. We are learning to take a proposed itinerary in the Lonely Planet and cut it in half for the time allotted. I’ve learned that I’m quite content doing nothing: if I can eat good food and meet interesting people, I’m genuinely happy. (Belgium is next on my list after meeting a lovely Belgian couple in Bali who told me that there are French fry “huts” on every block.) I could do without long, crazy, hot hikes. Packing light is not only doable, it’s preferable. We’ve both become braver and more assertive through this process. I would no longer hesitate to travel to a non-English-speaking country: while it’s a challenge, it’s very achievable. I know how to travel smarter (always know when your major holidays fall). I’ve learned that tuning into my intuition rarely fails me. Most importantly, I’ve learned that travel, like life, is a personal experience. I take recommendations of places to see and things to do with a grain of salt, because how another person experienced it is bound to be different than my own.

And what have we learned about ourselves? How will our lives be different when we return? We both feel a willingness and confidence to try new things - that bathroom remodel we’ve been dreading for years seems like no big deal after buying train tickets in India. Maikael and I have also come to realize how much our lives had become dictated by habit and routine. In many cases, we spent our time unwittingly doing things that we didn’t even really like. I doubt we will resume our subscription to cable TV after we return home. We would both like to be more intentional in how we shape our careers and our free time. I would like to start some new endeavors and get into the best shape of my life, starting yoga or another spiritual practice. I’d also like to get back to the things that used to make me happy: taking dance classes, singing, performing. My creative self desperately needs to be rekindled.

At the end of the day, we are generally happy and healthy. We have higher highs and lower lows than we are accustomed to in our everyday lives, but we are never, ever bored.

Small Gifts

Published
by
elizabeth
on October 13, 2008
in Celebrations/Holidays, Culture, Goals/Dreams and Indonesia
. 1 Comment

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Maikael and I always take any opportunity to go on outings with other travelers. It’s more fun, it helps our budget, it opens us to new experiences and, most importantly, it keeps us sane. When Paul and Ishara began discussing a trip to Tirta Gangga and Sideman Road, we had no idea where or what these places were, but we said we were on board. Paul set about hiring a driver for the day ($30 for eight hours!), of which there is no shortage in Bali. Everyone you pass on the street calls, “Transport? Taxi?” as you pass by, some even pantomiming turning a steering wheel in case you are deaf or don’t speak English. The lazier ones half-heartedly prop up a sign on their knee as they rest on a stoop. One side reads, “Do you need transport (taxi)?”, and when you invariably say “no,” they flip the sign which reads, “Maybe tomorrow.”

We set off for Tirta Gangga; I had absentmindedly flipped through my Lonely Planet guide the night before and learned that it means “Water of the Ganges,” which I could only pray was cleaner than the real Ganges in India, and that it is a water palace. I didn’t know what a water palace was, but was excited to have two folks in our stead who had visited Bali multiple times between them and would knowledgeably create the itinerary for the day.

On our way we stopped at Goa Lawah, which Ishara kept referring to as The Bat Temple, but which I preferred to called The Bat Cave. As our van pulled into the temple’s parking lot, which was packed, we noticed a line of people, decked out in their Sunday best, snaking their way down the beach towards the sparkling water. A row of Crayola umbrellas bobbed along in the brilliant sunshine. There was obviously something special taking place today.

dscf4041We wrapped colorful sarongs around our waists, mandatory temple garb, topped off with a bright yellow sash. The scene inside the temple grounds was festive and merry, not at all like the somber affairs that I usually associate with religious occasions. I stood in a shaded doorway watching groups of smiling Balinese gather for family photos. A gaping cave stood at the the front of the courtyard, where lines of people knelt and prayed before the mouth. Bats screeched and hung like coal stalagmites at the edge of the dark abyss. Incense loomed heavy in the air as parades of devotees wound their way around the courtyard, carrying baskets heaving with fruit and other offerings.

dscf4053As we made our way through the scene, we noticed a woman who must have been the high priestess making blessings under a great thatched roof dais raised high above the crowds. Her scarlet hat was gilded with gold and topped off with a dazzling crystal; more crystals studded her finery, creating epaulets over her shoulder. She looked simply grand. As we admired the scene, the only non-Balinese wedged into the crowd, a woman caught my eye and placed her palms together in prayer. I did the same and nodded to her, preparing to take my leave. Suddenly the mass plopped to the ground, and the woman pulled me down with her. I realized that she had been asking me without words if I’d like to pray with the group.

We knelt on the ground, my batik sarong next to her lovely raspberry one. She smiled and led me through the prayer, the women next to us giggling as I bumbled my way through each step. First she handed me a square cup fashioned out of pale banana leaves and filled with wilting tropical flowers. She plucked a fresh one from the cup and placed it behind my ear, doing the same for Maikael who sat to her right. Spindly sticks of incense were passed through the crowd, and she instructed me to place mine over the flowers. We then grabbed bits of flower from the cup, waving them over the incense, and brought them to the tips of our fingers placed in prayer. The priestess rang a rhythmic bell as the crowd prayed in silence. I asked for peace and purpose, the same things I always do.

dscf4058Between stages of the prayer she tried to talk to me, despite the language barriers. I said I was from America. I pointed towards my wedding ring, and then to Maikael, and everyone sighed a collective, “Ooooh.” Then it was the woman’s turn. She pointing towards my shirt, saying something in Bahasa that I didn’t understand, and another woman down the line leaned over. “Beautiful,” she translated. I was wearing a ratty old T-shirt, and she was wearing a lacy top that looked like delicate pink sherbet.

When the prayer ended, we were swarmed. “Where you from?” everyone wanted to know. Pictures were taken, and I shook the woman’s hand who had pulled us into the prayer. I’m not sure why she decided to include us, but I felt intensely grateful for the experience, and to her.

On the road to Tirta Gangga we encountered numerous processionals in multiple villages as people made their way to temple ceremonies. Traffic crawled to a stop to allow the parade to pass. Women expertly balanced towers of fruit of their head as they power-walked up steep hills, looking nonplussed. “This must be our lucky day,” I said.

dscf4129We arrived to Tirta Gangga later that afternoon, which felt like stepping into the Garden of Eden. Huge pools of water criss-crossed the courtyard, each containing something beautiful. My favorite was the pool containing large stepping stones, where one can walk amongst ornate stone statues as gigantic koi swim underfoot. When we arrived kids were running on the stones, giggling like mad: can you imagine a water temple as your playground? At the center of the lush gardens sat a lovely emerald fountain, which spouted mist so fine that it looked as if the entire thing was swathed in soft light.

dscf4088There was another ceremony occurring when we arrived, and a mass of people was crowded around the temple under the shade of an ancient banyan tree. We scurried up to the restaurant and grabbed a table to admire the ceremony from above. “Why all the ceremonies today?” we asked our waiter. “Preparations for the full moon,” he said. Within minutes the ceremony ended and the recessional snaked its way right in front of our table: we couldn’t have picked a better seat or a better time to be there.

dscf4205On our way back to Ubud we ambled through Sideman Road, where terraced rice fields stretch as far as the eye can see. We traipsed through the rice paddies, forming a processional of our own, picking our way over the narrow green lanes. As the light began to fade, we came upon a field in which they were harvesting the rice. “I’ve never seen that before,” said Paul, a man who has seen his fair share of rice in traveling around the world so many times. We watched this field of workers, letting rice dance through their fingers as the day glowed amber.

The whole day - and my whole experience in Bali - was an exercise in remaining completely open to whatever may happen, and if I could take that back to my everyday life I’d be the better for it. I didn’t know anything about Goa Lawah. Tirta Gangga wasn’t on my agenda. I had no idea that we had planned our outing for such an auspicious day. In short, had I tried to craft such an experience on my own it never would have happened.

dscf4172I constantly hear people talking about what a special place Bali is. Some call it “vibe.” Others call it “energy.” But whatever it is, there is something that keeps people coming back. It’s not uncommon to meet people who have been here 15 times, who come twice a year, who stay for six months. It’s just the kind of place that casts a spell over you. I’m really sad to be leaving today, to be released from Bali’s magic and all the wonderful people I’ve met here. But more than any place we’ve visited, I know I’ll be back.

Go With the (Energy) Flow

Published
by
elizabeth
on October 12, 2008
in Goals/Dreams, Health and Indonesia
. 1 Comment

Friday, October 10, 2008

The greatest benefit of our time in Bali has been starting the process of relearning what makes me feel happy. There is no agenda, and my days here are truly simple, guided by one question: what do you feel like doing today? I don’t think I realized until I arrived in Ubud how rote my life had become, how much I was doing out of obligation or mimicry, how out of touch with myself I had become. I feel like an infant who is relearning her way in the world. This trip has been a spiritual bootcamp. a slow breaking-down process that has finally bottomed out. Without any of the cues of my everyday life, I am forced to listen to myself more than I ever have before. I am beginning to see that the struggle of the first three months of this trip has been that daily process of looking to myself only to realize that I don’t know who I am: how can you rely on yourself when you don’t recognize yourself? The result was an overwhelming feeling of helplessness and pessimism. Bali has allowed me to begin filling myself up again, to remember who I am and what I enjoy about this world. I am slowly regaining confidence in myself and my choices through making simple, daily decisions based on what feels right and good.

I quickly decided that I wanted to spend my time in Ubud reconnecting with myself, and the great thing about this town is that it offers so many modalities for tapping into one’s self. Every storefront you pass advertises Balinese detox, herbal remedies, crystals, astrology, meditation, massage, yoga, baths - the possibilities are endless. Most of these treatments, which would cost an arm and a leg in the States, are so inexpensive in Bali that you’re not out much from trying something once. So Maikael and I have been running all over town trying different treatments, seeing what happens and what works best for us.

I wasn’t sure where to begin this so-called spiritual journey that I have decided to embark upon, so I started with massage, something I knew I enjoyed. Over the last week we’ve been poked, prodded, pummeled, washed, dried, fluffed, and perfumed before being sent back into the world. We’ve had a massage nearly every day while we’ve been in Ubud, ranging from $4 to $16. At Nur Salon we received treatments in small bungalows set amongst the greenery of a lovely family compound. As the cares of the world melted away I listened to, instead of a CD, nature’s soundtrack: chickens clucking outside, birds twittering on the branches above, the roll of thunder in the distance. I reclined in the stone tub, filled with tropical flowers and heavenly scents, and looked skyward through the fringe of the thatched roof and gazed on gathering storm clouds and ragged tree limbs. I was filled to the brim with pure contentment.

Maikael has always been interested in meditation, and had his first opportunity to join a class at the Yoga Barn. Of everything he tried this week, he felt this was the most effective treatment for him, and wants to continue with it when we return home. I have always been a devotee of massage, but am beginning to recognize the need for something more in my everyday life. I have visited astrologers and mediums three times in my life, and all three have stressed the importance of adopting a spiritual practice. (Two have specifically mentioned Kundalini yoga, something I would like to investigate when we return to Albuquerque.)

dscf4112Shortly after we arrived, Ishara suggested a massage at Bodyworks and a session at Light Spirit with Tibetan bowls, both of which were guaranteed to get my blocked energies flowing. We were skeptical - particularly about the latter - but willing to give it a try. The massage at Bodyworks focused on triggering points down the body’s energy meridians, and when I emerged an hour later, I felt simultaneously relaxed and energized.

The next day we dipped into Light Spirit as dark descended over the slick streets, licked clean after the late afternoon downpour. Two young Balinese men lounged on great cushions, springing to action when the bells tinkled as we passed through the front door. We were placed on large divans set before a gigantic gong. A series of hand-hammered bronze bowls, looking as old as the world itself, were placed on various point on our body: hands, feet, stomach, back. A soft felt mallet struck the bowls, sending vibrations throughout our body as sound reverberated all around us. At first I didn’t feel much of anything, but I soon noticed a familiar, dull ache in my forearms. When have I felt this sensation before? I asked myself. When I used to do acupuncture, I realized, and I suddenly recognized this feeling as energy flowing through my body. As I lay quietly at the end of the session I felt a gentle tap on my forehead, and assuming it was the therapist, I flicked open my eyes. No one was there.

The next day I was sitting at Kafe, enjoying a particularly good panini, when my stomach started to toss, turn, and rumble. “Not Bali Belly,” I thought to myself. But then I remembered what Ishara had told me a few days earlier about the Tibetan bowls, that they release energy quickly and in sometimes unexpected ways. A friend of hers had been sick as a dog for three days after a session, and I couldn’t help by wonder if the same thing was happening to me. After one sick night I’m still not sure whether to blame it on suspect lettuce or those bowls, but I emerged from the whole ordeal feeling renewed and a little more in awe of the power of Bali.

Busy Doing Nothing

Published
by
elizabeth
on October 11, 2008
in Goals/Dreams, Indonesia and Lodging
. 2 Comments

Friday, October 10, 2008

I can’t remember how long I’ve been in Ubud, or when I’m leaving. I’m not even quite sure what day it is, unless I happen to glance at my watch - if I remember to wear it at all. I’ve never felt so out of touch with the ordinary patterns of life; and yet, our days here have quickly fallen into a comfortable routine.

dscf4030We found Ubud Bungalows purely by chance, a miraculous feat given the sheer volume of accommodations here. We emailed seven hotels, and they were the first to respond, but it’s ended up to be the most fortuitous part of our trip to Bali. We quickly learned that the Bungalows, nestled amongst lovely tropical gardens, are home to countless longer-term guests. First we met Ishara, the dreadlocked-Australian who I am convinced is here to teach me something about my spiritual self. She’s already been to Bali twice this year, and usually stays in two-month stretches, splitting her time between multiple locations (including Hawaii and Vanuatu) as she continues on her spiritual journey, with Australia as her vague homebase. “But I’m homeless,” she says, simply and with a smile.

The three of us were lounging around the pool one day when a guy looking like Michael J. Fox approached. “American and Australian, right?” he asked. The four of us were soon in the thick of conversation, forming a circle in the pool as we debated life’s big questions. Paul has also been to Bali twice this year - Ishara and Paul missed each other by mere weeks, and began discussing all the mutual long-term guests they knew. Originally from California, Paul worked in Munich for eight years before giving it all up to travel around the world. That was 10 years and seven round-the-world trips ago. While Paul and Ishara are both “homeless,” Paul has structured his life quite differently. He travels in three-month blocks, returning to San Diego for a month before setting off again. He has been to nearly every corner of the globe, and if I ever had a question about getting to or traveling within a location, he’d be the first person I’d call. Paul is not a millionaire - through savvy travel, he lives a great standard of life abroad at what would be considered poverty-level in the US.

Our next-door neighbor is Andreas, a German man who left his engineering job behind 15 years ago to travel around the world. Before he stopped working, though, he took two months off every winter to travel. He now splits his time between India and Indonesia, his favorite places on the globe. He is a passionate supporter of India, but recommends you leave Calcutta after 10 days, lest you develop a permanent cough from the pervasive pollution.

I find it remarkable that we have met three such interesting people, who are each leading unconventional lives in three completely different ways, purely by chance (or is there such a thing?). They represent a subset of the ex-patriot community whom I had never considered: people who call nowhere in particular home. They are the ultimate global nomads. Prior to this trip I divided the world into two groups: people who live domestically and people who live abroad. I never considered the range of possibilities that existed on the spectrum between these two poles, and it has sparked all sorts of interesting possibilities as to how I might wish to structure my life.

dscf4029We are a motley crew, with plenty of differences between us. Paul and Ishara could star in a new television version of The Odd Couple. “I’ve got great angels, tons of them,” said Paul to Ishara. “I just don’t believe in any of them!” And yet we all seem to be human magnets, unwittingly drawn to one another. I know there are other guests staying at Ubud Bungalows, but we all seem to miraculously converge upon one another at multiple points throughout the day. Most mornings begin over breakfast with Ishara and/or Paul, and can easily stretch into the early afternoon. The day often continues into the pool - we’re pretty sure there’s a vortex centered squarely over the water — where we trade everything from stock tips to travel advice, while debating world economies and spiritual philosophies in the next breath. If the world would bring its problems to the Ubud Bungalows Think Tank, I’m pretty sure we could bring about world peace within the week.

Despite the fact that there are dozens of restaurants in Ubud, we all somehow manage to end up in the same eateries at least once a day without planning to do so. Yesterday we lingered at Sagittarius for seven hours, as day drifted into night. Our radius of exploring Ubud grows smaller by the day: I have never been so busy doing nothing. But it’s been ages since I’ve felt so engaged, interested, stimulated, and, well, happy. The last time I remember feeling this free was when I lived in the dorms in college, where I had few obligations and nowhere in particular to be. I remember passionate, impromptu discussions springing up in the most unlikely of places, with the most unlikely of people, and I loved every minute of it. I feel a bit like I’m at Big Kids’ Summer Camp. Sometimes we’re so focused on having a local experience that we forget how much we can learn from fellow travelers; indeed, fellow humans. This is the joy of extended travel; having the luxury of time to engage with all sorts of interesting people without feeling riddled by guilt. It makes no difference that I have seen so little of Bali. I am getting exactly what I need out of each day.