Pura Tirta Empul

Tampaksiring.  Today was our day for the holy water temple.  It is a Sunday, so a holiday for many Balinese, but also a special day for blessings.  Ketut's daughter Made (Ma-day...the second born.  There are only 4 names in Bali, determined by birth order...Wayang, Made, Nyoman, Ketut, boy or girl, no difference, and then it starts all over) was kind enough to act as our guide and we left early to avoid the crowds.  The drive itself was lovely, up into the hills with picturesque rice fields spilling down the sides of ravines and a breathtaking view of Mt. Gunung.  Made navigated the narrow twisting roads with aplomb.  She is a cautious driver.  The family knew my special wish to bathe in the sacred springs and ask for the blessing of health and wholeness.  We brought sarongs and a change of clothes because when the Balinese say bathe, they mean it.  We had several explanations of the process, but once we arrived to a sparsely filled parking lot and started walking toward the massive, intricately carved stone temple, nothing could have prepared us for the experience.

Like ducklings, we followed Made, who had her hands full with the large basket full of offerings prepared by Ketut's family.  Inside are several small 3-4 inch square basket containers made of palm leaves, filed with flower petals, rice and sometimes candies, and many sticks of incense.  Made made the initial offerings and then directed us to the changing building that houses numbered lockers for which she had secured 2 keys.  Once inside, I noted that not only were there many many Balinese already in process for the ritual, but that we were the only foreigners.  She directed us to strip down...nothing but the sarongs.  I placed the clothes I had brought for after bathing into the locker and proceeded to divest myself of everything else.  I stood in the locker building clad only in the thin sarong Muzzy bought me from the market a few days earlier.  I'm pretty good at fastening these things, the intricate twist and fold that keeps them in place, but with my strange new anatomy I felt particularly vulnerable.  I was NAKED!  And then there was Muzzy.  He struggled out of his clothes and I used the sarong I had brought to wear in the temple to tie around his waist.  It was a humbling and equalizing position for both of us.  Muzzy was concerned about being respectful and wanted to get it right.  He had no man to guide him through this.  When I secured his sarong he looked up and a Balinese man who was holding a modesty sarong up for his wife looked over and said, "You look good!"  Muzzy replied "I look good?"  The man smiled and nodded.  We trooped out of the bath house, already wet as there is water everywhere, and followed the intrepid Made as she made a couple more offerings, and then over the threshold through a cloud of incense smoke and into the bath itself.  

The parking lot may have been empty, but the sacred pool was not.  10 carved stone spouts along a wall pour holy spring water into a pool that is a little over waist deep.  The springs come from high on the volcanos that make up the island of Bali and the water is pure, fresh and holy.  It will cure you, bless you, and renew you.  There are two pools, separated by a stone walkway.  As you finish your ablutions in the first pool, you climb over this walkway and do three more in the next one. There are two spouts at the end of the first row that you don't use. 

We entered the first pool and joined a line that snaked around about 4 people deep.  Ordered chaos with lots of camaraderie, joking, laughing, children splashing, a shared sacred experience without any self-consciousness.  When our turn came to start praying, it took me a couple of spouts to get my rhythm...my silent prayer, 3 splashes of water on my face, and then a duck under the spout to let the water run over my body.  Immersed in prayer and aware of how lucky I am to be in another holy site so far from my home, I focused myself and began the ritual.

Made told me, "you must think of a dream, for good health."  I did.  As I came up from the first spout she said, "you must drink the water", I did.  The pool filled with floating offering baskets that tumbled from the ledge above the spouts spilling flower petals everywhere, and a line of hefty carp competed for possible food debris as we made our way down the line.  Finally, after crawling in a most undignified manner over the wall separating the first and second pools, we finished and emerged, dripping and shivering, despite the heat.  Made filled a gallon container with holy water to bring back to the family shrine, then led us back to the changing house, which by now was sopping wet with men, women and children changing everywhere.  There was a que for the 4 bathrooms at back which afforded a little more privacy.  We took our clothes and joined the line.  There was no order but also no angst.  What impatience there was was shared...we all had to pee after standing in cool water for so long.  Once inside the stall I did the dance of the flip flops, balancing on one foot and the other as I tried not to touch the floor, not to drop anything, not to drop anything into the squat toilet proper, and not to touch the walls.  I was wet and had neither towel or dry sarong, but I managed to get into my clothes and make it out alive, despite dropping my shirt, invoking the 3 minute rule, and trying not to think about it all too much.  At least it wasn't something to eat.

In the end, we all emerged feeling blessed, feeling cleansed and happy.

Ramayana

The sun comes up, the roosters herald the day.  As I was falling asleep, I discovered we have a large gecko in our room...the ones that say their name, (geee-koh in a baritone voice, no doubt dulcet to other geckos) over and over until they sort of fade away as if they have a sore throat.  I was a bit unsettled.  The small ones seem harmless, but the large ones are formidable.  Of course, the large ones eat more...spiders, mosquitos and other crawly things I avoid thinking about in the tropics.  Ahhhh...in the tropics....what a marvelous thought, what a marvelous place to be, where you hang out a wet t shirt and six hours later it's still wet, but warmer.

Muzzy is off on his morning walk, up the road through terraced rice paddies and jungle foliage.  He will be gone an hour.  I am sitting on our porch, sparkly clean, ready for breakfast and more adventures.

Last night we attended the Kecak performance at Ketut's local temple.  All the village families participate and it is held on the apron before the inner temple so anyone can come and you don't have to wear a sarong or scarf.  The kecak is a dance drama depicting a battle from the Ramayana between Rama and the evil Ravenna, who lusts after the beautiful Sita.  Ravenna sends his sidekick to trick Sita into leaving the protective circle where Rama has told Sita to stay.  The sidekick becomes a charming golden deer and lures her into leaving.  Ravenna captures and tries to seduce the faithful Sita.  Hanuman makes an appearance, as does a monkey army, a couple of comic relief characters, and a dragon.  It's a little complicated, so I won't go in to detail, but it is a beloved story.  The kecak refers to the "cak" sound made by the male chorus of 100+ men.  It is performed in a circle with a tall flaming light device in the middle.  The men form a 4-5 person deep circle around a tall iron structure holding many oil lamps, and the characters act out the drama dancing around it while the men chant.  One old man chants out the story, and the basic time is kept by one voice, continuously marking the beat. It was formalized in the 1930s with collaborative effort from Walter Spies, a famous artist who made his home in Bali and sort of put Bali on the map for western tourism.  This performance was done in our Ketut's village and his son was one of the performers...father and son may not participate together, it must be one or the other.  I saw this performed when we were here in '93, but this time was so special.  Sita was lovely, appropriately coy, loving, and tragic.  I love Balinese dance...its ritualized aspect appeals to my sense of creativity within structure.  In the warm Balinese night, with the candlelight flickering and the shadows playing out, it was the perfect scene of good versus evil, with good ultimately triumphing.

Yesterday I tried the pool...magnificent.  How bad can it be to tread water while tropical birds fly too and fro across the ravine?  Ketut's Place is so beautiful.  He has cages with rescued birds, rescued squirrels, pools with lazy turtles, koi, and plants that we see only in arboretums.  I found the frangipani tree, and the plumeria abound, yellow and purple, behind the ears of beautiful Balinese boys and graceful Balinese girls. This must be the place where sailors saw mermaids.  Today we may go someplace...Gunung Kawi or to the silver shop, or the water temple.  Or we may just go back down into the fray and find the shop with the Flores sarongs.  It's hard to leave our peaceful compound.

And we have our new segment for the Bellingham Bean involving kopi luwak, civet cats, Chester, cosmic Flavia and more....the possibilities are endless.

Bali Bliss

Bali...every moving day is a lost day, which promises new adventure at the end.  4 hours on the plane, arrival in Denpasser, no visa charge (I think it is because it's low season), and then finally, out the doors where a handsome young man named, appropriately, Krishna, holds a sign with our names on it.  As soon as we get through the gate, 2 guys grab our bags and Krishna tells us to wait while he goes to get the car.  We are not in Thailand anymore.  As we wait in the parking garage, one of the baggage rustlers whispers to me that we need to tip him and his friend $20.  I am astounded...I paid for pick up service, and don't mind tipping, but $20 to roll a bag a half a block?  These guys were dressed better than we were! The banner painted on the glass airport doors says "Shop Eat Play".  Obviously Bali is not the place it used to be.  I could go on and on and on, and probably will, but my oh my this place has changed, and not necessarily for the better.  Of course, it was another hour+ to Ubud from the airport, and I watched eagerly for some sign of that old Bali held like a small bright turquoise gem in my mind still existed.  There were flashes, but on the whole, it has changed changed changed.

Since we are very near the equator, we have 12 hours of sunlight, 12 of dark, so about 6:00 Bali time, the sun went down.  We came into Ubud in darkness.  Krishna drove us up (or is it down?) Monkey Forest Road where smart new SUVs lined the already too narrow lanes.  Any available parking space was filled in with motorbikes.  All of this in front of vaguely familiar guest houses and cafes, now accompanied by Ralph Lauren and various chi chi shops.  When we got to Bemos Corner, I didn't even recognize the place!  The only way I knew where we were was the old palace standing on the corner.  A slight jog to the left and up Jalan Suwata.  It was filled with shops and whatnot, no more empty spaces, private home compounds or rice fields.  I remember trudging up this road sweating, wet from a sudden downpour, thinking, oh, yes, we're almost there, only to discover one more hill before stumbling along the pocked dirt road, cursing myself for not bringing the torch, and finally spying the sign, Ketut's Place, Your Home in Ubud.

The front steps were crowded with people going out for the night.  We unloaded the bags which were whisked away by a silent young man and I stood amidst the lights and confusion, tired, spaced, wondering what the hell I had done.  I spied a little man in a long white shirt with tufts of greying hair peaking out beneath his baseball cap, and realized this must be Ketut.  I finally went after him as he retreated into the compound and said, "Are you Ketut?  Do you remember me?"  A smile spread across his face and he took my hand, "Yes, I remember.  We are much older now."  Yes, we are.

Ketut's compound is much changed.  It is packed with bungalows, some a full three stories high.  I am tempted to move to one of these so I can see over the rice fields, but I don't want to climb the stairs. There is a pool, and bungalows that fall down the sides of the steep ravine at the rear of his property.  But much is also the same.  It is quiet, serene, even.  Ketut's son Koming is in charge, a handsome young man with an equally lovely personality.  Bromeliads and epiphytes abound, sprouting from the tree trunks.  Birds of paradise bloom, coleus the size of hedges abound, all the house plants we nurture gone jungle.  There are bridges over little waterways, stone arches, weathered stepping stones, so much packed into such a small space.  Ketut is working on Ketut's Place 2 now and is very careful to refer our questions, "You must talk to my son."  It is peaceful here.  I'm a little afraid of walking down the hill to the bustle of this new Bali, the yoga, Jammu, New Age tourist Mecca Bali.  There are still roaches the size of small slippers, and kawa kawa, the large "harmless" spiders that spin their webs between palm trees.  The dogs are still here and our beloved Chichi has been replaced by curly haired Momo and another large brown dog who is not so friendly.  But these are the dogs that keep the evil spirits moving down the road at night.  Morning is still filled with the sound of roosters vying to bring the sun, and doves nesting in the trees.  I am writing on our little patio, waiting for breakfast, which will be delivered here.  Our little bungalow is the one Sarah and Don stayed in when we were here in 1993.  Muzzy still got up this morning and took his walk up into the rice fields above Ketut's Place.  We are much older now, still blessed.
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Bangkok again

We actually made it to Bangkok.  Instead of spending a couple of days decompressing, we plunged right in with khao man gai, foot massages and a frenzied walk to Jok Pochana. After delivering the t shirt,  we sat down to enjoy.  I wasn't feeling well, but figured a sip of cold Leo beer would do the trick, and what a trick it was.  Down I went, head between my knees, shaking, nausea rising.  The mama summoned a tuk tuk and Muzzy helped me in, handing me a bag just in time to keep me from throwing up all over the tuk tuk in front of the customers enjoying their meals.  I was too sick to be embarrassed.  Muzzy got me back to the Riverside and up to the room, where after a good long session of purging, we decided to call a doctor.  Dr. Khaosan Clinic dispatched a young man and his assistant, on duty all night and we decided it was dehydration...what a nice man, great English, thank god.  I am fine, a bit worse for wear, but I think that is the theme for this trip, a bit worse for wear.  We are not quite as hearty as in year's past, and still finding our groove.  That is why we have four days of nothing in Bangkok.

Observations:  early January in Thailand is lovely.  The weather is less humid, not so hot, and while there are many tourists, not nearly as many as there will be at the beginning of February.  We had rain  last night.  Today the air is clean and a breeze blows across the open patio at the edge of the Chao Praya.  The long tail boats ply back and forth, hoping for a fare.  The boatmen bob up and down in the choppy river eating breakfast noodles, marking space while the boat turns back and forth.  We watch the river tides turn, tugboats towing giant strings of barges down river, the yellow municipal river cleaning boats scooping up floating platforms of water hyacinth and garbage, the sight seeing yachts, and the restored wooden junk-like boats with decks of teak and privileged tourists lounging in deck chairs.  And I regain my rhythm.

So, Sunday.  The light is pink over the river this morning and Bangkok is in a holiday mood. It's Sunday. After a good day of rest we are ready to resume our adventure.   Chatuchak.  But first, breakfast at Ricky's.  We finally had dinner at. Jok Pochana. The new location is around the corner from the old one on Samsen Soi 2. The soi curves around and there is a whole alley that Jok Pochana has sort of taken over.  Lek's extended family owns a couple of shop houses and now there are two restaurants...Jok Pochana and Jeng's Noodles. It's actually better in some ways.  There is a constant breeze that wafts down the alley that's very. pleasant. We finally had our feast..    As we were leaving,, we ran into two people who stopped us to ask about the Jok Pochana T shirts.  We got to talking and found out we were talking to ourselves!  Crazy!  Very nice people from Northern California who have a store and now a condo in Chiang Mai..  We. May. Try to visit. Near the end of our trip.

So it begins...all the quirks and craziness of travel.  Forgive the erratic punctuation.  Something seems to be wrong with either my little iPad, the keyboard, or the Internet.  It's Asia, after all.  How can you tell.  Suffice it to say, we are back in the groove, laughing a lot, enjoying breakfast at Ricky's...how can it still be the same after all. These years,, and what makes their. Muesli. with fruit and yogurt. Something I pine for when I am home?  How do the mosquitoes get in with the door closed?  Why do they even bother with traffic signals, crosswalks and parking signs?  What's the deal with rolls of toilet paper for napkins, and all. Of life''s other. Imponderables..   With much trepedation. And frustration, I am going to post...I hope.

Off to see the...

January 7th we begin another adventure overseas.  Our last trip was at the beginning of 2014 and we had no idea of what the end of that year and the beginning of 2015 would bring.  We missed our 2015 trip but we are almost packed and are ready for a break.  I look forward to being in my "happy place",  SE Asia.  We are returning to Bali after 23 years and will stay with Ketut Suratana and his family.  I understand his son is now in charge of the guest house.  He was not quite a year old when we met him in 1993.   I'm sure things have changed, but our daughter Sarah assures us it is still the magical, art-filled world we found on that first trip.  I plan to bathe in the sacred spring.  Our friend, Annette Baker, will be joining us in Thailand for a trip to Issan to see the monitor lizards and the Khmer ruins, and, of course, the markets.  Other than that, who knows what we will find?  I'm sure Mr. Muzzy will take plenty of photos.

More photos from Asia 2014.

Phra Atit, Banglamphu, Bangkok
Accepting donations to feed the cats

Sugar cane and lime juice

One of the waitresses at the Daw Saw Yee, Yangon

Fortune Teller

My favorite Yangon market lady

Fish, Yangon morning market

Leaving Sittwe for Mrauk U

Myanmar Flag on our ferry boat

Mr. Muzzy on the ferry

Cook on the ferry

Temple entrance, Mrauk U

At the Beach

Finally, we slow down.  There is little for breakfast at the beach where we are staying, in fact, less than little, nothing for the first four days.  Today the Roy Tawan re-opened, the only breakfast place in this little area.  And aren't we lucky!  The coffee is real, and good!  I came armed with my own can of sweetened condensed milk, an addiction I acquired on my very first visit to Southeast Asia in 1991.  Even though I practiced and practiced, no one understands my farang version of "Nom wahn". We ate a goodbye breakfast with a lovely German couple we met here, Barbara and Michael, and Michael generously took my can of milk up to the window to show the cook what I wanted.  He came back with an opened can.  I put it in my little fridge and will take it with me in the morning.  And Roy Tawan has cake!  Really good cake!  So for the next few days until we leave, we have a good breakfast place without having to rent the motorbike to go into town.

After breakfast, we swim.  We swim every day for about an hour.  The water is warm and we bounce over small swells and an occasional breaker.  The gulf in this area is like a large, benign salt water swimming pool with no one and nothing in it.  The shore drops away very slowly and we can go quite far out and still touch the bottom.  There is no effort required.  This is the first time in I don't know how many years I have actually laid in the sun, rolling over to try and get a tan on my shockingly white gams.  I remember those years in southern California when the pursuit of the summer tan started around the beginning of April.  I used to rub a mixture of olive oil and iodine on myself and slowly broil on a blanket.  What was I thinking?  Now I am thinking about that, all these years later.  I think how good the sun feels on my old bones and I don't care that I look like an over-ripe plum in my one piece bathing suit.  Now a simple swim, and a shower to rinse off the sand is enough and I am grateful for it.  We read, we think about lunch, walk to lunch, walk back, shower again, and then its time for an afternoon lay down, because it is very very very hot.  It has taken us four days to slow down.  A little adventure, a lot of slow down.

If I could change anything, it would be the mix of people.  Mostly there are lots of fat old Germans and French, older men with young Thai girlfriends or wives.  I miss the mixture of young and old.  There are a few younger couples, but younger travelers want a Rave, or a more lively scene.  Many of the people staying here stay for months at a time.  The little bungalows are rented for 3 to 5 months and they prepare their own meals, camping on their little porches.  It is a bit like the RV camps in Arizona and alarmingly like an old folks home, only most of these people get around better.  There is a shocking lack of good butts and the European penchant for male bikinis never ceases to amaze and astound.  It is hard to connect, I think, unless you speak French, because the French absolutely do not speak any other language.  The Germans and Dutch, however, speak better English than we do sometimes, but they tend to congregate together.  As exuberant as Americans are, loud, bouncy like friendly puppy dogs, there are none, nada, zip.  We smile, we wave, but like new kids on the block, we are not invited in.  It's okay...couples like Barbara and Michael, and Hasi (we think) and Ingrid from Sweden, make up for the rest.  Its fun to share travel stories and learn about other people's lives.

Now it's nap time.  I've decided to bring home the shell collection Muzzy and I have on our porch and make one of those tacky shell mobiles from them to hang near the fire pit in our back yard.  Really, you say?  Will a gull perched atop a piece of driftwood be next?  Am I ready for the trailer park?