The cab driver had driven the same block of storefronts a couple of times now. He was staring at the address on the receipt, up at the postcard sized street sign and back again. Finally a babbling of Bahasa in the darkness and he pulled into a deserted parking lot. The wobbling headlights of two scooters wove into the open lot from what felt like nowhere. A Balinese man in a black sarong and a large chest tattoo peeking out from behind his Dickies button up got off the one scooter and opened his arms.
"I am Ketut. I am your pick up." He shook our hands enthusiastically. "This is my son, Arak."
Arak smiled, bleary-eyed. I hopped on the back of Arak's bike and Moozh on the back of Ketut's and they wove, with our 10kg bags on their laps, down a glorified sidewalk in the pitch blackness.
No more than two minutes down the road, we pulled into a small nook that read "Amomaya House" in brightly coloured letters. A statue of Ganesh, mid-dance, met us just inside the large, hand carved wooden gate. An infinity pooled rippled in the centre of the courtyard. We followed Ketut through our patio to our sliding front door. Breathtaking A/C and a huge king bed greeted us.
"What time you want breakfast tomorrow? My wife, she make you Bali coffee and banana pancakes."
Oh my god breakfast. Wonderful, I wanted to say. That sounds fantastic, I thought. I want breakfast at lunch time, I concluded.
We agreed on eleven.We didn't unpack. We didn't explore. We didn't even brush our teeth. We collapsed into bed and woke the next morning to beams of sunlight and the sound of cockerels in the distance.
Wandering out and rubbing our eyes, Ketut met us at our stairs. We nodded at his call for coffee. Balinese coffee is simply fine coffee grounds stirred into hot water and left to steep. You wait until the grounds settle to the bottom and then you can drink it. The last gulp invariably leaves you with a gritty, mouthful of black teeth, but at least it wasn't instant. Ketut introduces us to Nengha. She is my family, he says. She hands us our coffees and smiles shyly. That morning she starts to teach us (meaning me) Balinese. Bahasa is the official language of Indonesia but each island in Indonesia has their own language. While Bahasa is said to be quite a simple, straightforward language, Balinese is said to be extremely convoluted and hard to learn. But Nengha's instruction to say "Suksma (sook-seh-mah) instead of the Bahasa "Terimah Kasi" always elicited excitement from the locals.
"Ooooh, you speak Balinese, yeah."
While Bali has always had a vibrant tourism industry, though unfortunately hit by the Kuta bombings of 2002 and 2005, Elizabeth Gilbert's memoir, Eat Pray Love, gave the place, and the village of Ubud in particular, a considerable boost. While Kuta at the southern tip was one of the original three k's of backpacking (Khao San Road, Kathmandu and Kuta) and the nearby West coast beaches of Seminyak, Sanur and Legian have all settled into their world renowned beach destination status, Gilbert's novel gave the interior of Bali, a land of endless rice patties and warungs, a chance in the spotlight.
But what comes of Bali from someone not of the Eat, Pray, Love persuasion? Does Ubud seem to hold any less magic? Any less peace or potential? If anything, it could be said that there is more to discover without the framework of Gilbert’s memoir. Without expectations about what kind of, if any, spiritual or romantic peace you will find, Bali offers an embrace like no place you have ever been before. Descending into Bali is like coming up from underneath water. There is a discernible slowness to life, the movement of daily occurrences seeming peaceful, simple. People are unhurried. They open their shops when they please. Eat when they please. They extend favours and accept IOUs. They watch each others shops while each other go shopping or out for lunch. If they're anything like Ketut, they enlist the services of their entire family in order to share the wealth around and ensure the success of their family through their own opportunities.
Two weeks into our stay, Ketut and his beautiful wife Maya, sat down with us one night, lit in the porch light, and tied protection bracelets around our wrists.
"You are our family now. We pray God will bless you."
Thusly, they became our family too and we did everything we could for them.
At first, I had thought, "Ketut. Isn't that the guy from Eat, Pray, Love? The little prayer dude?" Having not read the book, I couldn't be sure. But after a full day of meeting Ketuts and Wayans, we thought something must be up. As it turns out, a system of birth-ordering naming came about out of a Hindu caste system. There are a number of names corresponding to your order of birth in your family. First borns are named either Wayan (wah-yan), putu (poo-two) or Ilo (ee-low); second borns are named Made (mah-day) or Nengha (Nung-a); Third borns are named Nyoman (nee-oh-man) or Komang (Koh-mang) and the fourth borns are Ketut. Many when they introduce themselves will use their caste names, but the crafty ones know that the delirious, white tourist needs something to remember you by.
"My name is Made Jayya. Jayya because my mother is Indian."
"Putu Eka. You remember me. E-K-A."
Touts, as they are called, aka hawkers, are relatively mild in Bali. If you are not visibly Indonesian, you will be sold something every time you walk past a storefront. But unlike Thailand or Cambodia, you can say a simple 'no thank you' or 'just looking' and you will be left alone until you bring up otherwise. They haggle with good humour and start out with a price so outrageously high, it is an obvious sign to the terms of engagement. I start high, we talk, you WILL buy. The parlay is part of the game. Moozh being the genius haggler he is, essentially did our Christmas shopping for us just by wandering through Ubud Market.
"200,000? No. Thank you."
And then came out the smile, THAT smile, the smile that charms. Moozh could get them down from 200,000 Rupiah to 50,000 in a matter of moments and we were walking away with hand made silver jewelry and sarongs, Balinese artwork and souvenirs from Timor.
Ketut's brother Wayan happened to own a car rental company through which we were hooked up with a scooter for $1.25 a day. Filling up a tank costs about a $1. Solid investment. We were able to see world renowned temples and rice paddies that were right in our backyard.
Moozh had his tush goosed by a saucy monkey at the Sacred Monkey Forest, a nature reserve and sacred temple complex nestled within Pedangtegal, one of the fourteen villages that makes up 'metro' Ubud. On the outskirts of Ubud village sits Goa Gajah, a temple also known as the Elephant Cave, due to a figure that guards the mouth of the cave. A mere 1.5km from Ubud, Petulu holds a bird sanctuary of thousands of white herons that are believed to be the souls of the victims of a massacre that occurred in the area back in the sixties. Each evening the birds mysteriously descend into their roosts along the rice patties, the road beneath powdered with downy feathers and splattered in bird droppings. In Tegallalang, 5km north of Ubud, you find the UNESCO World Heritage Site terraced rice paddies.
Half of our driving was spent finding food. The Guardian put out a list of must-eats and we are nothing if not fans of lists about food. We had gado-gado (which literally means mix-mix), a steamed vegetable salad with satay sauce at Dewa Warung, smoked duck upon a rice paddy at Bebek Bengil aka The Dirty Duck Diner, and babi guling or suckling pig at Ibu Oka. There was Soto Ayam, the best chicken soup you've ever had, and phenomenal (and local!) single origin coffee at Seniman Kopi, and BBQ ribs at Naughty Nuri's. We ate at community warungs, where food takes forever because it is made fresh when you order it. We ate at restaurants known the island over. Our well-established habit of seeking out street food was completely replaced by thatched roof warungs and roadside restaurants where we could still get a meal for a little over a dollar each with $1 beer (or two) each.
We met up with the first tattoo artist in Ubud and got ourselves inked up. Lionk at Creative Tattoo was one of the first tattoo artists on Bali and has been profiled in tattoo magazines across the world. I got a traditional Balinese armband and Moozh got a half sleeve and chest piece incorporating some Japanese artwork. My forearm swelled up like Popeye (Damn tender skin!) and Moozh said nothing was more uncomfortable than a the nipple getting tattooed but it was the perfect memory we could have had.
Armed with our bike, we opened up our roadmap of Bali and picked out our first trip. A popular tourist destination and pilgrimage spot, Tanah Lot is location on the central west side of the island. It is recommended by most, locals and tourists alike, as the best sunset on the island. At low tide, one can walk out to the temple upon the sand, but at as the tide rises the temple becomes isolated, whorling water and churning sand sealing it off. The sun hung behind thick clouds and waves crashed turbulently against the cliffs as an Indonesian pop star lip synced to music while she filmed a music video. The entire place was light with a strange, diffused 'yellowness' from the setting sun, but the froth and the crash of the waves were mesmerizing. As Moozh fiddled with the camera, I wandered around and what continues to be the strangest interaction of my life. Caught up in watching the water, I noticed that people where behind me, likely trying to take pictures. I stepped aside, apologizing.
"Doofus white girl," I imagined them saying. "Get yo big head out of the way."
The couple, however, couple motioned for me to return to where I was standing. "Picture. Of you."
"Oh. Ha…erm. No thanks." That was how I handled it. I was super awkward but hopefully polite. But nothing like that had ever happened to me before. All that came immediately to mind where the Stranger Danger videos my mom made me watch when I was a kid.
The sun came to simmer closer to the horizon. Wading through the shallows, we tucked ourselves into a nook to wait out the sunset. While Moozh had the camera to occupy him, I took to wandering the shoreline beneath the cliffside and out onto the rocks that stretched out towards the temple.
Weaving through the crowds, I was stopped by a rather official looking man in a red t-shirts, just like the security at the temple. He pointed towards himself and then towards his wife. A petite woman in a bright hijab waved with a huge smile and lifted up her camera. Her husband counted to three and we smiled -rather he smiled and I looked confused. All of a sudden, three other women in hijabs skittered over waving their cameras and ushering their husbands over. I probably posed for three or four pictures. With strangers. Without knowing why.
I wanted to point them towards the pop star, with her flawless hair and makeup, playfully lip synching as she dipped her feet in the water. There is a reason that you should want to take pictures with her. I've been on a scooter all day. My butt's cramping and I have bad BO. I waded back toward Moozh. The sun had emerged from behind the clouds in the form of a perfect fuchsia circle. It sat against a grey blue sky.
It seemed as though the minute the sun dipped belowe the horizon, we had a lifeguiard waving his arms at his, his whistle screaming. In watching the sunset, we had missed how the tide had risen. The sandy footpath of the rocky enclave disappeared beneath the churning water with the rhythmic tide. We hustled our way out of the enclave, thick tide unseating our footing. Moozh glanced back at me, the water rising high around my waist as I tried to gain my footing. He paused, holding his hand out to me. I had this momentary sense of panic, of seeing him swept out and knowing I would not be able to pull him back in. We screamed at each other, all sensitivity towards each other abandoned in the face of panic. We ascended the rocks of the shore, given a hand up by the Balinese lifeguard. He apologized for interrupting our photos of the sunset, while we reassured him that it wasn't as important as surviving the sunset. I grabbed Moozh and held him tight.
"I'm so glad you're safe. That really scared me."
"Me too," he murmured. "But Babe. Now we have to get back to Ubud in the dark."
The sun continued to dip behind the sunset. We hustled our wet butts to our scooter and peeled out as soon as we could, the light slowly dissipating.
The maze-like drive from Ubud was hard enough in the daylight. Soon it was pitch black. The gas light on our bike was blinking. We pulled over to a small house with only two litres of gas left. And then it began to rain.
"At least, we're already wet," Moozh shrugged.
Next we were to buzz up to Mount Batur, an active volcano fenced within high caldera wall, and Kintamani which houses one of the nine directional temples that are of the most important on Bali. The incline of the climb to Kintamani had our bike sounding like a sewing machine. It took a full tank of gas to get forty-five minutes to the top. The panorama was breathtaking. A pristine lake, bereft of any human touch sits at the basin of the volcano. Shadows arch along the inner bowl. A flawless sky make the familiar stacked-plate pagoda temples look like paintings on a postcard. Handcarved chessboards and handprinted batik sarongs line every shop and fried noodles and fresh fruit fill the air.
Coasting down the hill from Kintamani (which took no gas at all), we arrived at Tirta Empul just in time to see a full moon procession and just in time for the downpour. Amazingly small and cheeky children rented us umbrellas as we waded through puddles into the holy water temple where Hindus in Bali come for purification. We watched as a mother waded towards the fountains with her young daughter in her arms, the two of them bathing their heads in holy water and murmuring prayers.
Ketut and Maya brought us to the Full Moon Ceremony at their temple. They wrapped us in sarongs and Moozh even got a traditional folded fabric hat. We were absorbed into the community of people who were dressed in their finest for the ceremony, that came to pray in waves. The women gossiped, the young boys wrestled. Ketut's son, Arak, was the main dancer in the Trance dance which is a traditional dance during the Full Moon ceremony and involves eating as little as possible so as to facilitate falling into a trance when lead by the priest. They prepared a basket of handmade flower bundles and incense for us for offerings.
By far the most…memorable part of our stay in Bali had to do with our stay in a Balinese hospital. Mere hours after we returned from the Full Moon Ceremony, Moozh woke up in a hot sweat. He held his chest. "My chest just hurts." After trying to do any self-diagnosis, we decided it was wisest to consult a doctor. A 24 hour medical clinic was located just down the hill and after some brief tests by the doctor, who diagnosed Moozh with angina, we were packed up into an "ambulance" -which consisted of a HiJet with the back seats taken out- and transported to Denpassar. En route, the attendant asked Moozh how he felt, how the pain was. Moozh said it was getting worse. With a concerned look to the driver, who stepped on it, the nurse put one hand on Moozh's shoulder and the other on the IV, which hung from a hook screwed into the ceiling. I glanced around the ambulance, which was completely bereft of paddles, medication, or anything else that could help if Moozh actually did have a heart attack, I grabbed Moozh's hand and held it tight.
For 36 hours, we lived in the hospital. Moozh tried to remain calm as he talked to hospital personnel who spoke little to no English about why the pain wasn't getting any better and could they run any different tests. I called in to our travel insurance during the one and a half hour window of opportunity, only to find that hospitals in Indonesia don't accept direct payments from travel insurance companies in Canada. What we gained out of the experience was the knowledge that Moozh's heart is as clean as a whistle but he was in "gastric distress", which can commonly be misconstrued as a heart attack or angina. I had my first encounter with travel insurance and I now know what questions to ask. I also know I don't ever want to experience a hospital stay abroad ever again. We had one more night in our plush bed with our delicious Balinese breakfast and our pool. One more day to buzz around Ubud, to eat good food and take some more pictures. We had 24 hours of travel ahead of us, out of Asia where food is cheap and life is simple, back into the first world, back into a fast and busy world, back into a world of English speakers, back on the road.
Repeat after me: Life can be simple.
Things I learned in Bali:
Spicy Jepal (grilled cheese with egg and bird's eye chili) = best breakfast ever.
Smoked Duck at Bebek Bengil will change your life.
It takes your butt two days to recover from getting lost on your scooter in the Bali backwoods for three hours.
Honking in Asia has nothing to do with being in the wrong.
Quote from Bali: Moozh: My first ambulance ride was in a glorified Jeep Safari! It had curtains!
"I am Ketut. I am your pick up." He shook our hands enthusiastically. "This is my son, Arak."
Arak smiled, bleary-eyed. I hopped on the back of Arak's bike and Moozh on the back of Ketut's and they wove, with our 10kg bags on their laps, down a glorified sidewalk in the pitch blackness.
No more than two minutes down the road, we pulled into a small nook that read "Amomaya House" in brightly coloured letters. A statue of Ganesh, mid-dance, met us just inside the large, hand carved wooden gate. An infinity pooled rippled in the centre of the courtyard. We followed Ketut through our patio to our sliding front door. Breathtaking A/C and a huge king bed greeted us.
"What time you want breakfast tomorrow? My wife, she make you Bali coffee and banana pancakes."
Oh my god breakfast. Wonderful, I wanted to say. That sounds fantastic, I thought. I want breakfast at lunch time, I concluded.
We agreed on eleven.We didn't unpack. We didn't explore. We didn't even brush our teeth. We collapsed into bed and woke the next morning to beams of sunlight and the sound of cockerels in the distance.
Wandering out and rubbing our eyes, Ketut met us at our stairs. We nodded at his call for coffee. Balinese coffee is simply fine coffee grounds stirred into hot water and left to steep. You wait until the grounds settle to the bottom and then you can drink it. The last gulp invariably leaves you with a gritty, mouthful of black teeth, but at least it wasn't instant. Ketut introduces us to Nengha. She is my family, he says. She hands us our coffees and smiles shyly. That morning she starts to teach us (meaning me) Balinese. Bahasa is the official language of Indonesia but each island in Indonesia has their own language. While Bahasa is said to be quite a simple, straightforward language, Balinese is said to be extremely convoluted and hard to learn. But Nengha's instruction to say "Suksma (sook-seh-mah) instead of the Bahasa "Terimah Kasi" always elicited excitement from the locals.
"Ooooh, you speak Balinese, yeah."
While Bali has always had a vibrant tourism industry, though unfortunately hit by the Kuta bombings of 2002 and 2005, Elizabeth Gilbert's memoir, Eat Pray Love, gave the place, and the village of Ubud in particular, a considerable boost. While Kuta at the southern tip was one of the original three k's of backpacking (Khao San Road, Kathmandu and Kuta) and the nearby West coast beaches of Seminyak, Sanur and Legian have all settled into their world renowned beach destination status, Gilbert's novel gave the interior of Bali, a land of endless rice patties and warungs, a chance in the spotlight.
But what comes of Bali from someone not of the Eat, Pray, Love persuasion? Does Ubud seem to hold any less magic? Any less peace or potential? If anything, it could be said that there is more to discover without the framework of Gilbert’s memoir. Without expectations about what kind of, if any, spiritual or romantic peace you will find, Bali offers an embrace like no place you have ever been before. Descending into Bali is like coming up from underneath water. There is a discernible slowness to life, the movement of daily occurrences seeming peaceful, simple. People are unhurried. They open their shops when they please. Eat when they please. They extend favours and accept IOUs. They watch each others shops while each other go shopping or out for lunch. If they're anything like Ketut, they enlist the services of their entire family in order to share the wealth around and ensure the success of their family through their own opportunities.
Two weeks into our stay, Ketut and his beautiful wife Maya, sat down with us one night, lit in the porch light, and tied protection bracelets around our wrists.
"You are our family now. We pray God will bless you."
Thusly, they became our family too and we did everything we could for them.
At first, I had thought, "Ketut. Isn't that the guy from Eat, Pray, Love? The little prayer dude?" Having not read the book, I couldn't be sure. But after a full day of meeting Ketuts and Wayans, we thought something must be up. As it turns out, a system of birth-ordering naming came about out of a Hindu caste system. There are a number of names corresponding to your order of birth in your family. First borns are named either Wayan (wah-yan), putu (poo-two) or Ilo (ee-low); second borns are named Made (mah-day) or Nengha (Nung-a); Third borns are named Nyoman (nee-oh-man) or Komang (Koh-mang) and the fourth borns are Ketut. Many when they introduce themselves will use their caste names, but the crafty ones know that the delirious, white tourist needs something to remember you by.
"My name is Made Jayya. Jayya because my mother is Indian."
"Putu Eka. You remember me. E-K-A."
Touts, as they are called, aka hawkers, are relatively mild in Bali. If you are not visibly Indonesian, you will be sold something every time you walk past a storefront. But unlike Thailand or Cambodia, you can say a simple 'no thank you' or 'just looking' and you will be left alone until you bring up otherwise. They haggle with good humour and start out with a price so outrageously high, it is an obvious sign to the terms of engagement. I start high, we talk, you WILL buy. The parlay is part of the game. Moozh being the genius haggler he is, essentially did our Christmas shopping for us just by wandering through Ubud Market.
"200,000? No. Thank you."
And then came out the smile, THAT smile, the smile that charms. Moozh could get them down from 200,000 Rupiah to 50,000 in a matter of moments and we were walking away with hand made silver jewelry and sarongs, Balinese artwork and souvenirs from Timor.
Ketut's brother Wayan happened to own a car rental company through which we were hooked up with a scooter for $1.25 a day. Filling up a tank costs about a $1. Solid investment. We were able to see world renowned temples and rice paddies that were right in our backyard.
Moozh had his tush goosed by a saucy monkey at the Sacred Monkey Forest, a nature reserve and sacred temple complex nestled within Pedangtegal, one of the fourteen villages that makes up 'metro' Ubud. On the outskirts of Ubud village sits Goa Gajah, a temple also known as the Elephant Cave, due to a figure that guards the mouth of the cave. A mere 1.5km from Ubud, Petulu holds a bird sanctuary of thousands of white herons that are believed to be the souls of the victims of a massacre that occurred in the area back in the sixties. Each evening the birds mysteriously descend into their roosts along the rice patties, the road beneath powdered with downy feathers and splattered in bird droppings. In Tegallalang, 5km north of Ubud, you find the UNESCO World Heritage Site terraced rice paddies.
Half of our driving was spent finding food. The Guardian put out a list of must-eats and we are nothing if not fans of lists about food. We had gado-gado (which literally means mix-mix), a steamed vegetable salad with satay sauce at Dewa Warung, smoked duck upon a rice paddy at Bebek Bengil aka The Dirty Duck Diner, and babi guling or suckling pig at Ibu Oka. There was Soto Ayam, the best chicken soup you've ever had, and phenomenal (and local!) single origin coffee at Seniman Kopi, and BBQ ribs at Naughty Nuri's. We ate at community warungs, where food takes forever because it is made fresh when you order it. We ate at restaurants known the island over. Our well-established habit of seeking out street food was completely replaced by thatched roof warungs and roadside restaurants where we could still get a meal for a little over a dollar each with $1 beer (or two) each.
We met up with the first tattoo artist in Ubud and got ourselves inked up. Lionk at Creative Tattoo was one of the first tattoo artists on Bali and has been profiled in tattoo magazines across the world. I got a traditional Balinese armband and Moozh got a half sleeve and chest piece incorporating some Japanese artwork. My forearm swelled up like Popeye (Damn tender skin!) and Moozh said nothing was more uncomfortable than a the nipple getting tattooed but it was the perfect memory we could have had.
Armed with our bike, we opened up our roadmap of Bali and picked out our first trip. A popular tourist destination and pilgrimage spot, Tanah Lot is location on the central west side of the island. It is recommended by most, locals and tourists alike, as the best sunset on the island. At low tide, one can walk out to the temple upon the sand, but at as the tide rises the temple becomes isolated, whorling water and churning sand sealing it off. The sun hung behind thick clouds and waves crashed turbulently against the cliffs as an Indonesian pop star lip synced to music while she filmed a music video. The entire place was light with a strange, diffused 'yellowness' from the setting sun, but the froth and the crash of the waves were mesmerizing. As Moozh fiddled with the camera, I wandered around and what continues to be the strangest interaction of my life. Caught up in watching the water, I noticed that people where behind me, likely trying to take pictures. I stepped aside, apologizing.
"Doofus white girl," I imagined them saying. "Get yo big head out of the way."
The couple, however, couple motioned for me to return to where I was standing. "Picture. Of you."
"Oh. Ha…erm. No thanks." That was how I handled it. I was super awkward but hopefully polite. But nothing like that had ever happened to me before. All that came immediately to mind where the Stranger Danger videos my mom made me watch when I was a kid.
The sun came to simmer closer to the horizon. Wading through the shallows, we tucked ourselves into a nook to wait out the sunset. While Moozh had the camera to occupy him, I took to wandering the shoreline beneath the cliffside and out onto the rocks that stretched out towards the temple.
Weaving through the crowds, I was stopped by a rather official looking man in a red t-shirts, just like the security at the temple. He pointed towards himself and then towards his wife. A petite woman in a bright hijab waved with a huge smile and lifted up her camera. Her husband counted to three and we smiled -rather he smiled and I looked confused. All of a sudden, three other women in hijabs skittered over waving their cameras and ushering their husbands over. I probably posed for three or four pictures. With strangers. Without knowing why.
I wanted to point them towards the pop star, with her flawless hair and makeup, playfully lip synching as she dipped her feet in the water. There is a reason that you should want to take pictures with her. I've been on a scooter all day. My butt's cramping and I have bad BO. I waded back toward Moozh. The sun had emerged from behind the clouds in the form of a perfect fuchsia circle. It sat against a grey blue sky.
It seemed as though the minute the sun dipped belowe the horizon, we had a lifeguiard waving his arms at his, his whistle screaming. In watching the sunset, we had missed how the tide had risen. The sandy footpath of the rocky enclave disappeared beneath the churning water with the rhythmic tide. We hustled our way out of the enclave, thick tide unseating our footing. Moozh glanced back at me, the water rising high around my waist as I tried to gain my footing. He paused, holding his hand out to me. I had this momentary sense of panic, of seeing him swept out and knowing I would not be able to pull him back in. We screamed at each other, all sensitivity towards each other abandoned in the face of panic. We ascended the rocks of the shore, given a hand up by the Balinese lifeguard. He apologized for interrupting our photos of the sunset, while we reassured him that it wasn't as important as surviving the sunset. I grabbed Moozh and held him tight.
"I'm so glad you're safe. That really scared me."
"Me too," he murmured. "But Babe. Now we have to get back to Ubud in the dark."
The sun continued to dip behind the sunset. We hustled our wet butts to our scooter and peeled out as soon as we could, the light slowly dissipating.
The maze-like drive from Ubud was hard enough in the daylight. Soon it was pitch black. The gas light on our bike was blinking. We pulled over to a small house with only two litres of gas left. And then it began to rain.
"At least, we're already wet," Moozh shrugged.
Next we were to buzz up to Mount Batur, an active volcano fenced within high caldera wall, and Kintamani which houses one of the nine directional temples that are of the most important on Bali. The incline of the climb to Kintamani had our bike sounding like a sewing machine. It took a full tank of gas to get forty-five minutes to the top. The panorama was breathtaking. A pristine lake, bereft of any human touch sits at the basin of the volcano. Shadows arch along the inner bowl. A flawless sky make the familiar stacked-plate pagoda temples look like paintings on a postcard. Handcarved chessboards and handprinted batik sarongs line every shop and fried noodles and fresh fruit fill the air.
Coasting down the hill from Kintamani (which took no gas at all), we arrived at Tirta Empul just in time to see a full moon procession and just in time for the downpour. Amazingly small and cheeky children rented us umbrellas as we waded through puddles into the holy water temple where Hindus in Bali come for purification. We watched as a mother waded towards the fountains with her young daughter in her arms, the two of them bathing their heads in holy water and murmuring prayers.
Ketut and Maya brought us to the Full Moon Ceremony at their temple. They wrapped us in sarongs and Moozh even got a traditional folded fabric hat. We were absorbed into the community of people who were dressed in their finest for the ceremony, that came to pray in waves. The women gossiped, the young boys wrestled. Ketut's son, Arak, was the main dancer in the Trance dance which is a traditional dance during the Full Moon ceremony and involves eating as little as possible so as to facilitate falling into a trance when lead by the priest. They prepared a basket of handmade flower bundles and incense for us for offerings.
By far the most…memorable part of our stay in Bali had to do with our stay in a Balinese hospital. Mere hours after we returned from the Full Moon Ceremony, Moozh woke up in a hot sweat. He held his chest. "My chest just hurts." After trying to do any self-diagnosis, we decided it was wisest to consult a doctor. A 24 hour medical clinic was located just down the hill and after some brief tests by the doctor, who diagnosed Moozh with angina, we were packed up into an "ambulance" -which consisted of a HiJet with the back seats taken out- and transported to Denpassar. En route, the attendant asked Moozh how he felt, how the pain was. Moozh said it was getting worse. With a concerned look to the driver, who stepped on it, the nurse put one hand on Moozh's shoulder and the other on the IV, which hung from a hook screwed into the ceiling. I glanced around the ambulance, which was completely bereft of paddles, medication, or anything else that could help if Moozh actually did have a heart attack, I grabbed Moozh's hand and held it tight.
For 36 hours, we lived in the hospital. Moozh tried to remain calm as he talked to hospital personnel who spoke little to no English about why the pain wasn't getting any better and could they run any different tests. I called in to our travel insurance during the one and a half hour window of opportunity, only to find that hospitals in Indonesia don't accept direct payments from travel insurance companies in Canada. What we gained out of the experience was the knowledge that Moozh's heart is as clean as a whistle but he was in "gastric distress", which can commonly be misconstrued as a heart attack or angina. I had my first encounter with travel insurance and I now know what questions to ask. I also know I don't ever want to experience a hospital stay abroad ever again. We had one more night in our plush bed with our delicious Balinese breakfast and our pool. One more day to buzz around Ubud, to eat good food and take some more pictures. We had 24 hours of travel ahead of us, out of Asia where food is cheap and life is simple, back into the first world, back into a fast and busy world, back into a world of English speakers, back on the road.
Repeat after me: Life can be simple.
Things I learned in Bali:
Spicy Jepal (grilled cheese with egg and bird's eye chili) = best breakfast ever.
Smoked Duck at Bebek Bengil will change your life.
It takes your butt two days to recover from getting lost on your scooter in the Bali backwoods for three hours.
Honking in Asia has nothing to do with being in the wrong.
Quote from Bali: Moozh: My first ambulance ride was in a glorified Jeep Safari! It had curtains!