My Weblog

Falling in Love With People Who Are Already Leaving

Dear Indonesia,

As I sit on a plane taking me away from you, I can’t help but feel heartbroken about our parting. We had some great times together, you and I.

You taught me how to be creative again. Thanks for that, I had almost forgotten that I once called myself a writer.

You taught me that there are people out there who are doing good things for other people with hearts that are true, and you made me feel less cynical about the world.

You taught me that people are basically good. You taught me to smile a little bit quicker, and to be a more hospitable and generous person.

You taught me that plastic bags will never die.

And that right now, America isn’t a very popular place abroad. You challenged me to think about why this is so, and what I can do as an American to change that.

You taught me that a wave can come and destroy but there are some things that prevail: hope, family, friends and love.

You taught me to always ask questions and never scuba dive without brushing up on my skills.

You taught me that a lot can be learned from a person through three basic questions: Where are you from? Have you been here before? Where are you going?

You taught me that it’s okay to not have plans: the art of conversation is not dead, and not having plans can be the best plan of all. You also taught me that sometimes silence says everything.

You taught me that no matter where you go, everybody knows the song, “Hotel California.”

And that when I’m put in a place with a religion, society and culture that is completely foreign, I can adapt and learn.

You taught me that there is, quite possibly, heaven on earth. It is called Bali.

You taught me that to many Indonesians, I look like a man. And that a family of six can travel on one motorbike. And that fish eyeballs are edible. And that I can listen to the song, “I’ve Got a Crush on Obama” seventeen times in a row, and then watch Kate lip synch it on the eighteenth time, and never get sick of it. That sometimes b.o. is inevitable, no matter how many showers or how much deodorant you cover your body with. And that it is possible to live without People magazine and Perez Hilton.

You lavished me with sun on my face, beautiful mountain views, underwater delights and pink-tinted skies at dusk. For all of these reasons, and many more, I will remember our passsionate affair.

xoxoxoxo

Love,

Alexis

P.S. Please don't tell New York!

A special thanks to Martin, Friska, Kate, Ivana, Shirley, Glenn, Marcel, Lisa, Nina, Ibu Sam, “Relax, Take It Easy” Made, Wawa Wewe Made, Made, Made, Putu Micah, Putu, Badung, Ami, Susan, Azizah, Lars, Opo, John, Martino and Yanti for being great friends and helping me along.

And a very special thanks to the Gugus.

I've Never Gotten the Worm

I looked nervously at the clock on my cell phone for the eighth time that minute, and then over to Badung in the car seat beside me. He looked chilled, as usual. The clock said 1:21, my session for the Ubud festival started at 1:30, and we were still miles outside of Ubud. How had this happened? No matter what I do, I always arrive late.

When Made, Badung, their cousin Made and another friend showed up this morning at my beachside bungalow in Amed, it was great to see them. It was funny because Wawa Wewe, which was a little bit empty that day, was suddenly filled with all of my friends – I felt as if I had an entourage. It made me kind of sad when Made told me that some of his friends hadn’t ever been to Amed (only about two hours away from Ubud), and so they wanted to come along to see it. We talked for a bit as I finished breakfast. Made asked me if it would be okay if we dropped his friend, who had come along for the ride, off on the way back to Ubud at another friend’s house.

I said sure. It sounded as if it would only take a few moments to drop his friend off and then we would be on our way.

“Really? Okay, great,” Made said.

They helped me load my bags into the car, I said goodbye to the staff who had become good friends in the week that I had stayed there, and we drove for a few kilometers down the road that snaked down the dramatic coastline. We then took a left turn off the main road, apparently to the house of his friend’s friend.

“You have plans today?” his friend turned his head around in the front seat as we turned off the main road down the dirt road to his friend’s house. I started to get frustrated. I had explained to Made several times last week – I even showed him the brochure with my session circled so he could look at it and see the time, then again on the phone when he called to confirm that he was picking me up, and again this morning when they arrived --that I had to be back in Ubud by 1:30 for my writer’s workshop. I love the guys so much and they have been so good to me, but we definitely have completely, astronomically different definitions of time. I never thought that it was possible to meet people who could be consistently late more than me.

I started to get upset. If his friend wanted to see someone, why hadn’t they dropped him off on the way to my hotel and picked him up on the way back? But, as so often happens when I am with Made and Badung and time is concerned, what he meant when he said “dropped off” was a “few hour visit where we sit around, drink coffee, smoke cigarettes, and talk about life.”

As I watched the friend’s wife bring out several cups off steaming Balinese coffee on a big, round serving tray, I knew that I was going to be late. I finally just said to Made, listen, we have to go!

We got in the car and the driver, Made’s cousin, was probably a slower driver than my Grandpa on one of his fast days. My stomach sank, and I began to regret signing up for the session in the first place. It’s kind of stupid to actually schedule something at a certain time when you’re in a country that has a specific saying for always being late: “rubber time.” I could be sitting by the pool at Wawa Wewe, instead of stressing out. I finally just had to let it go and realize that I would arrive when I arrived.

Finally, we reached Ubud. We sped down Monkey Forest Road and then out to Ananda Cottages, where the workshop was taking place. I ran up the front steps at 1:38. Not too bad. The woman at the front desk told me very politely to follow the signs. As I turned corner after corner, I began to feel as if I was in a crazy obstacle course. It was through several cottages, past the pool, down some stairs and then down a long walk.

All eyes turned to me as I entered the bamboo-roofed meeting area strewn with colorful flowers hanging on the ceiling. I wanted to melt into the floor as I walked across the only area I could to get to an empty seat – which of course was right in front of the instructor’s teaching area. I had originally planned to check into my hotel beforehand so I could take a shower, etc. but of course that didn’t happen. I got to my chair and did my best to get into the mode.

The workshop was actually pretty good, and I’m glad that I went. The session was being held in a meeting area that looked out over Bali’s famous rice fields, complete with squawking ducks and farmers harvesting rice. I felt lucky and happy to be participating, surrounded by smart and interesting people in a beautiful setting. It was definitely a unique situation and so much better than sitting in a boring conference room someplace as so many “work” type of things are held. The view beyond the instructor was definitely artistically inspiring.

We did exercises along the way and then would share by reading aloud. I got very self-conscious when I realized that so many other writers were infinitely better than I will ever be. But I did learn from the people who read. We had to share something that we had already written, and I read a bit of my Ibu Sam post, which received some good feedback as well as some suggestions. The instructor was interesting and had a lot of information to share that was applicable to what I want to do. I was happy that I’m kind of in the writing frame of mind, from doing the blog, and not rusty.

Last night, I went to Susan’s book launch. She invited me last week in Amed. She did the photos for a coffee table book about the best hotels in Asia. When I arrived, the bookstore where the launch was being held was packed. Susan was happy to see me and gave me a huge hug. Charles was there, and as soon as he saw me he broke out into a wide smile. It was actually nice to see some people I knew. As crazy as Charles is, he means well and he introduced me around to several writers and editors that he knows and works with here in Bali. I felt very much “in the know,” and had thankfully had time for a shower and a clean up by then. I met some really interesting, nice people.

Afterwards, Susan invited me to go to dinner with some other people from the book launch. First we went to this place called “Naughty Nuri’s” for a quick drink before dinner. I had been told about this place but never gone – apparently it’s an institution. I was introduced to the owner and the regulars.

The owner is American and is married to a Balinese woman. His daughter, Maggie, is six years old and she was hanging out there with her dad. I fell in love with her – she was incredibly smart and she had those shoes that light up when you tap them. We had some long, interesting conversations about where water comes from and Christmas trees. Each time I would start talking to someone else, she would shout “Alexis!” and have something else to show me. As her dad is American, her English is just as good as any American six year old and it was fun for me to be able to interact with a kid in a common language, as many of the conversations I have with Indonesian children are covering the basics which they have learned in English classes at school. Maggie had some deep insights for a six year old, and I decided that I need to make up a t-shirt that says, “Everything I learned in life, I learned from Maggie.” Six year olds seem to have it all figured out!

We eventually moved on and had a really good dinner at a slightly shi-shi place called Lamak. The food there was pretty good, although it felt a little bit foreign to me to be in such a fancy place. I was glad that I wore my best dress – it can be challenging sometimes to go from backpacker to fancy dinner all in one day when all you have is a small amount of clothes. But I pulled it off and realized that’s one of my favorite things about myself: I’m flexible.

I sat with a big group of Westerners who live in Bali now full-time and again I met some cool people, including a rather serious 9-year old named Dash who was the very definition of “old soul.” No matter what I did, I couldn’t get him to smile. His best friend is a 65-year old guy named Barry and I think that pretty much sums up Dash.

Today is my last full day in Indonesia. I have some shopping to do, and then a massage at my favorite place to get me ready for sitting in a plane seat for about twenty hours over Sunday and Monday. Then, a wine tasting event tonight for the Writer’s festival and that’s all, folks! I’m leaving on a jet plane up to Singapore and then to Paris, so this will be my last blog from Indonesia. More about leaving Indonesia in my next post, but needless to say it’s a bittersweet goodbye.

Give Me Liberty

Since I arrived in Amed, I have found it extremely challenging to do anything except:

-Snorkel
-Swim in the pool
-Lay out
-Sit on my veranda and write
-Dream about the Gugus project being finished
-Contemplate the answer to the question: does it get any better than this?
-Walk into town to use the internet café

Aside from the things listed above, I just can’t be bothered. But then Putu, my favorite staff guy at Wawa Wewe who usually takes me snorkeling, asked me if I wanted to go dive the Liberty about 20 km away. I said no initially, but then yesterday started thinking that I might regret it if I didn’t. Fueled by my successful wake-up-before-ten o’clock adventure that I had on the sunrise boat ride, I decided to go.

A Japanese submarine off the coast of Lombok torpedoed the USAT Liberty in 1942. It was towed to Bali near a village called Tulamben so that the cargo of rubber and railway parts could be salvaged. The Japanese invasion prevented this and the ship sat on the beach until the 1962 eruption of Gunung Agung broke it in two and left it just off the shoreline.

Putu drove me over to the Liberty first thing in the morning. I was the only person with my dive guide, which was nice. We started around 8:45 a.m. from the shore. I’ve never actually done a shore dive before and I have to say it is the thing for me. Instead of a sudden descent from a boat, when you start from the shore it is a gradual descent. Psychologically, it’s almost as if you are snorkeling and then you realize you’re 27 meters underground and you’re not snorkeling, but it’s all cool.

We approached the hull of the ship and at first I didn’t know what it was. A huge rock? A coral wall? Oh, right! It’s the hull of a huge ship. The dive guide told me before the dive that the wreck was 150 meters, but I must admit that I’m horrible with math and can’t do the conversions very well. Every time I hear the number – in this case, 150 – I just think feet. But in reality, 150 meters is about 450 feet. That is gargantuan.

I’ve done a few wreck dives in my day and the one thing that was always consistent was that you could tell that it was a boat once upon a time. The cool thing about the Liberty is that it has been underwater for so long – 55 years at this point – that it is so covered in coral that at first glance it looks natural. It’s only upon exploration that you realize that it was once a huge, powerful ship with a large crew living aboard.

We did two dives, the first one exploring the outside of both pieces of the ship. One really cool thing about the dive was that for some reason the fish were extremely friendly. Not aggressive, just very curious and fearless. At points in the dive I would look to my left or right and notice a fish swimming by my mask very closely, which usually doesn’t happen. Maybe it’s because so many people do this dive. On my first dive, though, we only ran into two other divers there so we almost had the huge wreck to myself.

The guide, Ketut, showed me what were, at one point, front guns of the boat and some guns on the side. He also showed me a coral-encrusted wheel, which I guess was probably used for raising and lowering guns (I’m definitely no expert so who knows). Among many other things we saw a cute yellow frogfish, a gorgeous blue-ringed angelfish, a ghost pipefish and an endless school of mackerel that almost blanketed the water directly above one part of the ship. Towards the end of the dive as we were heading back over the black sandy bottom I noticed that it was covered in garden eels. If you look from a distance you see what looks like a bunch of long, thin reeds blowing in the wind (or in this case, underwater current). As you approach, however, you notice that they have heads and they are actually tiny eels which retreat quickly one by one when they notice you. One moment, the ocean floor is covered in them and the next minute they are gone.

The wreck was so large that when we finished the first dive and I hadn’t even seen all of it, I was glad that I had been talked into doing two dives. We took a one-hour break and then we walked back to the rocky beach and put our gear back on. Disappointingly, I looked down the beach and noticed about twenty divers doing the same thing as me. The very hypocritical thing about divers is that they never want to see other divers at “their” dive site – they want it all to themselves!

This time, Ketut and I swam inside and through parts of the boat. I thought that I would be claustrophobic but it was fine. We were never in a tightly enclosed area, there was always a big entry and exit. That was quite cool. Although when we were swimming through it was a little bit darker than when outside the boat, it was a novel feeling and I could still see quite a bit. It made me realize that I’ve come a long way from the disastrous dive in Sabang – I actually felt like an experienced diver.

The dive wasn’t exactly ruined by the presence of other divers, but the site was definitely teeming by the second dive. It made me appreciate my first one all the more. This dive was special for many reasons other than swimming through the wreck: I saw a really cool leaf scorpion, my dive guide opened up his mouth and a bunch of “cleaner shrimp” jumped in and began cleaning his teeth, and best of all we saw a 5-foot long barracuda, the biggest I have ever seen. He was hanging out under one part of the boat just chilling out, much to my delight as well as other divers who had gathered around.

All in all, the two dives were probably up there amongst my most memorable. I realized, as I was filling out my nerdy dive book, that I have now done 40 dives in my life. There are definitely people out there who have dived a considerable amount more, but I’m on my way.

Tales of An Internet Junkie

My friend Jeff, in Nashville, e-mailed me a few weeks ago regarding working from the road. How was Internet access on my travels? By way of this post, I’m going to answer Jeff’s question because maybe some other people are wondering, too.

I have come to realize on this trip that I’m an Internet junkie. I haven’t even seen a TV, let alone watched it, since I left Banda Aceh about a month ago. The Internet is what I crave – information when I want it, how I want it. E-mail is my main mode of communication at the moment and even when I’m back home I’m (embarrassingly) much better at e-mailing someone than picking up the phone and calling them. So in that way, I guess that I am a product of my generation.

Since I left Banda Aceh – where I had free, 24-hour wireless around the clock, of all places! – the blog has gone from free (well, $8.95 a month for my Typepad service) to not so free. When I was in Sulawesi on Bunaken Island, the Internet was painfully slow. But right where the boat picked people up to take them to the island of Bunaken, in Manado, there was actually a high-speed internet place with broadband which was as fast as anything I’ve used.

I realized in Bunaken that it was a good idea to write everything up on my computer, and then figure out how to transfer it over to a computer with internet. This saves time and money as opposed to sitting at a computer with Internet and typing everything up and being charged by the minute. Usually I burn it onto a disk or sometimes the Internet café will take pity on me and let me use their memory stick, which has happened a few times and is really nice. This way, I can also spell check on my computer before I upload – but if you’ve noticed I don’t always do a good job of this. In Banda, each of my posts were looked over a few times lovingly and edited thoroughly. If I made some sort of mistake, I just logged back on and changed them. Now, it’s a little bit more on-the-run blogging, unfortunately, and I apologize if the quality has decreased a bit.

But I do want to stress how much I have enjoyed doing the blog and haven’t really considered stopping it. I am sometimes challenged by making sure that I am actually doing things to blog about, rather than getting stuck inside some boring internet café, but most of the time it’s not a problem. I realize now, however, how much I took the wireless in Banda for granted. I could blog whenever, instead of making it a planned event.

In Ubud it took me a few days to figure out what the locals already knew. There’s a place on Main St. called Highway that has extremely fast broadband that I can just plug into my computer. The only problem is that it is expensive – about $5 an hour. I balked at first but then, in the end, realized that I could be in and out of there in about ¼ of the time that it would take for me to do the same thing someplace else so in the end it all evened out. There’s also a really good wifi hookup at a restaurant called Dragonfly and if I’m not uploading any pictures then that’s where I like to go.

Uploading pictures – that’s the beign of my blogging existence. I think that pictures add so much and I’m actually excited about showing off my fun, little hobby. I’ve never been good with a camera and then once I met Rusel I don’t think I touched a camera for three years. It’s been fun to experiment with my crappy, five-year-old camera that will most likely get sent home from Paris because Rusel is bringing his regular digital camera, which I can use as well as an amazing new bells-and-whistles camera that he just bought for the trip. But uploading the pictures can really be hard. At Highway it’s quick and painless but in other places it’s anyone’s guess.

My rule of thumb at this point is the islands, or places near the water, are generally not the best places to get any work done. And most people don’t go to islands to work, as I’ve come to notice. So it’s really no big deal. The best thing is probably to check the guidebooks. Obviously the more remote, the less likely it is that there will be a good Internet connection but then again some places surprise you.

And then I came to Amed. Beautiful, amazing, magical Amed. With dial-up Internet. That’s right. Dial-up Internet. The last week has been so wonderful but the Internet issue has unfortunately turned some of my now sun-bleached hair gray. I am in the final final stages of the Gugus project. My amazing friend Steve “G” Gaydos copy edited the final document for me and sent it to me on Monday. I was unbelievably excited to see it in my e-mail in-box. Unfortunately, that’s all that I could do: look at it in my in-box. The computer’s connection was so slow that it couldn’t download my thirty page document.

After trying all of the three computers there, I was finally able to download it onto the desktop. Great! Next step, as I am being charged by the minute and it is blowing my budget, is to burn it onto a disk, take it back to Wawa Wewe, look and it and make changes, burn it onto yet another disk from my computer, take it back to the internet cafe, send it to Martin. One slight problem. The one computer that I was able to download it onto wouldn’t let me burn the disk!

Panic. Deep breath. Okay. New idea. I talked the woman who owned the café into letting me get off the internet (so the meter would stop running), make the changes and edits there on the computer, get back on the internet, send it to Martin, done. Whew. Ingenious! Working, working, working. That Steve. Thorough! Working….WHA!? Gone. The computer completely crashed. I had already been there about two hours, just to download one document and edit it. Now it was gone.

The woman looked at me as if I was crazy. I felt like a mad woman. I didn’t know what to do. I decided that I couldn’t take it anymore, that traveling about an hour away to what I had been told was “higher-speed” internet was my only option.

“Broadband? Wifi?” I asked the helpful guys at Wawa Wewe when they suggested driving me to another town. Blank stares. Oh no. Was I going to be traveling there only to be confronted with the dreaded dial – up again? I felt like I was being transported back to 1997. I could feel an Alanis Morisette song coming on.

I was walking back to my room dejectedly and ran right into Charles. He noticed the look on my face and I told him my frustrating story. As a writer, he knows all of the tricks. He asked me if I had burned it onto a disk. Check. Did I have a flash-disk? No. Stupid, but no. He didn’t either because he broke all of his by ejecting them wrong so he couldn’t lend one to me. Did I know that the guy who owned the dog who had the fits at Wawa Wewe I on Saturday night had wifi? Jackpot!

First thing the next morning, I walked over to Only You, the hotel that the German guy owned. His wife answered the door and I told her my sob story, all while petting her dog (this dog was actually cute, and I did feel as bad for him as I possibly could about his experience). Although the wifi and broadband was a rumor, he did have a faster dial-up connection than the one in the village. He very kindly let me copy the document to his hard drive and then he had a memory stick that I could transfer the document over to, and then I put it onto my desktop. Success!

I spent a few hours yesterday editing from the daybed on my veranda, burned the document onto a disk, went back into the village internet café and sent it off to Martin….and fingers crossed.

And the unsung hero in all of this is definitely Rusel, who has been patiently helping me lay the entire thing out. Hopefully I will be able to post it tomorrow or over the weekend.

Last night, when I went back into the village to do my regular blogging, I noticed another guy there on the computers working on his own laptop. At the end of his Internet session, he pulled the cable out of his computer, put it back into the café’s computer that he was sitting near, paid, and walked out. It was then that I realized that I could’ve just done the same, with my own computer, and avoided all of the drama. Sigh.

Lex’s Tips For Working On The Road:

-Try not to! Obviously, if you can help it, try to finish everything up before you leave. If you’re a writer, photographer, etc. and traveling is your thing then you probably don’t need me to tell you how to work from the road.

-Always carry a flash disk, which can be purchased quite cheaply before you leave and weighs next to nothing so it won’t cramp your style. You can then easily transfer things from your computer to computers at various Internet places along the way.

-Carry a few spare burnable CD’s, just in case all else fails.

-Determine free Internet wifi connections from the guidebooks. Go there and order a cup of tea or a glass of wine and hook-up. If you can, book accommodation at hotels with free wifi.

-Make sure that you pack a universal adaptor to give your computer the juice it so desperately needs to run. Also, it might not hurt to bring a bit of tape, as sometimes it's a challenge to get everything working together: adaptor, computer plug, electrical socket.

Sailing Into the Sunrise

There’s a little grass ledge right beyond the pool at Wawa Wewe. The pool wall divides the hotel guests from women offering massages, villagers walking through to get from one beach to the next, and this 11-year old kid whose eyes just break my heart.

On the coast of Amed the most amazing wooden boats can be found. The thing that I love about visiting different beachside towns and villages -- aside from the obvious -- is seeing each different culture or sub-culture’s boats. In Aceh the wooden boats were painted vibrant colors. It would be especially strange to be driving on the road from Banda Aceh to Calang and see an abandoned fishing boat, faded paint chipping off, sitting lonely on the wrong side of the road or up on a hill – after the tsunami, many remain in odd locations.

The kid who comes every day is selling detailed miniature wooden replicas of the boats that you can see just beyond him, out at sea. They consist of one narrow, wooden compartment in the middle flanked by two long pieces of bamboo on both sides, attached to the boat like spider legs jutting out from the middle. The main middle parts are quite narrow and only about 15 feet from tip-to-tip – not much when you think about it. Each ship has a multi-colored sail that looks like a tiny, colorful work of art. Many have faces painted on the front and the hulls are skinny, long and painted like noses.

Because I’m watching my money at the moment, and also because he wants 100,000 rupia (approx. $10) for the boat, each day when the kid arrives I say hello but politely decline purchasing. On the first day, his eyes upset me so much that I gave him 10,000 rupia ($1) just so I would feel a little better. Yesterday, he asked me if I wanted to go on a sunset cruise on an actual boat, belonging to his father. I heard that this was an interesting thing to do at sunrise, so I arranged to do it then instead. I was happy to book it through him.

I ran into Charles last night at the hotel bar/restaurant (It’s a pretty small place) and told him that I had booked the boat. He asked if he could come along and I told him he could. In the end, he’s harmless and if I’m in the right mood he’s even tolerably interesting.

Last night, the wind was violent, even haunting. It would die down only to come back again with a fury. My room sits directly on the water (although on a small cliff) and the bathroom is open air. The ceiling of my room creaked and groaned with the wind – so much so that it woke me up several times. It was a little unsettling.

I woke up at 4:58 a.m. exactly, as I had arranged to meet the fisherman around 5:15 a.m. When I went into the bathroom it was strewn with leaves, berries, and dirt that had blown in over the high walls. I had a foreboding feeling about going on the boat.

I walked out near the pool and Charles was waiting. He started to quote poetry to me – something about the moon – and I got so annoyed I just quit talking to him. I’m a complete grouch in the morning and recited poetry – even on a good day – isn’t really my cup of tea.

Thankfully, the fisherman saved me. He popped his head up the stairs leading to the pool and told us to follow. It was almost a full moon last night so it wasn’t difficult to see as we walked along the rocks to the boat. The area directly in front of Wawa Wewe isn’t beach; it’s more boulders and small rocks leading out to the reef.

We jumped in the boat when it was still dark and headed out. It was then that Charles confided to me that he couldn’t swim. He had almost drowned when he was a kid and has been terrified of the water ever since.

As we pulled away from the island, we could see lights from the tiny homes in the hillside and the land fading from view. To our left Gunung Agung, Bali’s tallest and most sacred mountain loomed over the island and the sea. Because of the wind, the waves were quite choppy. We actually ventured out pretty far in the darkness as the sky changed minute-by-minute with the rising sun.

The fisherman was an expert with the sails and didn’t use a motor at all because that would scare away the fish. The waves were getting a little bit worrisome, though. I tried not to watch as we approached a huge, white-capped wave and I tried to focus my gaze on the horizon. As one particularly bad wave hit and I was drenched in water, I looked back at the fisherman and noticed that he was bailing the boat out with a small bucket; the water was about ankle-deep at my feet. That’s never a good thing – but much like flight attendants are barometers for danger in the sky, the fisherman was totally relaxed so I didn’t worry too much.

Wave after wave came crashing onto the boat and Charles turned around nervously and motioned for the fisherman to head back into land. I was glad that he did. I actually thought that he was quite brave for going out when he didn’t even know how to swim. I’m a really strong swimmer and there were moments when I was uneasy. Promptly, the fisherman changed the direction of the sails and we began to do a u-turn.

It was then that the fisherman began throwing out his fishing line. It was a line with hooks – no bait on them. It was very graceful and almost like a well-choreographed dance to watch his arms throw the line out and then his nimble hands quickly begin to pull the line back in. I noticed that he was actually catching some small, silver fish that I later found out were mackerel.

I looked towards the shore and after a few minutes I heard the fisherman call out to me so I looked back at him and I could see the sun rising up over Lombok, the next island over. It was truly something to see: a bright orange ball rising up over the charcoal-colored water all framed within a tiny wooden rectangle at the back of the boat. To me, these tiny everyday occurrences of nature are religion, God, tiny babies, smiling grandparents, endless highways and my favorite Beatles song played in surround-sound– all rolled into one.

Going back in was a little bit easier because the waves were carrying us into shore. By this time, the sun was high in the sky and the water was illuminated with bright points of light. We could see down through the clear water to the reef below.

When we got back to shore, Nyoman, one of the friendly staff at Wawa Wewe and also the cousin of the boat-owner, greeted us. Charles bought some of the metallic-hued fish from the fisherman, which he had laid on the dark rocks that make up the beach. I hurried up to my room to take a hot shower and drink some coffee to warm me up as I was drenched from head to toe.

And later today, when the kid stopped by the pool, I talked him down just a bit and bought the boat. I haven’t seen any souvenir shops here in Amed and this will be a nice way to remember the soft waves that I have grown accustomed to hearing outside my bedroom window and the sunrise in the boat this morning.

As I worked on my laptop and watched the sun set, I realized that this is the only time in my memory when I have witnessed both a sunrise and a sunset all in the same day.

Life Is But A Dream

For a few days leading up to leaving Ubud, I was in a slight panic. As much of a panic as you can be in paradise, without a care in the world, surrounded by beautiful people, food, flowers, and music.

Where to go next? Should I stay in Ubud for the entire three weeks? If I did that, would I regret not seeing more of Bali? If I did leave my little haven of Ubud, where should I go? How could anything, possibly, measure up to perfection?

I texted my most trusted source of all information on Indonesia: Martin. Where should I go? He had suggested Amed earlier, but everyone I met along the way had a different opinion. The woman at the registration desk of the Ubud Writers & Readers festival suggested an area on the northern coast of Bali where there was amazing diving. Badung suggested Candidasa, the beach-side town where he and Micah often went as children. When Gordana, the head of the IRC office in Banda, went on holiday with her family they went to Sanur and she came back looking like a new woman – well rested, tan, and glowing.

“Do you think that I will like Amed?” I texted Martin.

“I think that you will love it,” he texted back.

I didn’t want to spend too much time stewing over it (there were massages in Ubud to be had and shopping to be done!), so I decided that Amed it was. He suggested the hotel Wawa Wewe, I called and booked a room, and there you go.

And how right Martin was! Amed is such an amazing little paradise. It took me about 24 hours to put my finger on it, but then I realized that it is the Asian version of the Amalfi coast in Italy where I went a few years ago with Roger. We stayed in Positano, drank wine, ate pasta, zipped over to the Isle of Capri and took a very memorable motorbike ride around the tiny island.

In both places, the hills quite dramatically slope down to the beautiful ocean and at night, as you walk along the road, the lights from the homes in the hills make quite a romantic picture. I like to imagine each little hut and the lives going on there – lives so different than my own, yet somehow for one night we are all sharing the same sky.

It’s really exactly what I needed. The pace of everything is so different here from Ubud, as is anything that is located close to the water. The people here are a little bit more genuine and in less of a rush. At night from my bed, I can hear the sounds of the waves lapping up on the shore and in the morning when I wake up, I like to open the curtains and the French doors and jump back into bed and just soak up the view and the sounds before I drift back to sleep for a bit. When I wake up breakfast, which is included in the price of the room, is delivered to my veranda.

At night, I like to dive into the pool just as the sun is setting and swim around and watch the sky go from light blue to deep blue and then pink. Tonight as I was swimming around I happened to look up to the restaurant and I noticed the owner, Made, saying prayers in the small temple located in the corner.

Yesterday, Susan asked me if I wanted to go snorkeling. Wayan, who works at Wawa Wewe, was our guide and we drove to a bay about 5 km away and jumped in the water. For anyone who knows Bunny, I like to call Susan “Bunny-lite.” That’s about all I’m going to say about that one.

Susan has an old, beat up convertible car in the style that I have seen around Ubud many times. Apparently they have the same engine as a VW and a similar look – a little bit more boxy, however. I will get a picture. Needless to say, I love them.

I jumped in the front seat of Susan's car and her dog promptly jumped on my lap. The dog’s butt was literally right in my face as he stuck his head out the window. For the entire journey. They don’t seem to “fix” dogs here so not only was his butt in my face but the entire package. Delightful.

The snorkeling was great. I am debating about doing any more diving here. It’s available, but a lot of the dives start from the shore and I feel as if I saw a lot of it already, for only the $2 cost of renting the snorkeling equipment. I also feel so spoiled after Sulawesi – could anything possibly measure up? I’m feeling so lazy right now and on some level, I feel the need to save up my energy for the adventures that await in Paris and Russia. Apparently the mythical mola mola sunfish, which measure about 10 feet from fin to fin, can be found off the coast of southern Bali but again, that would require leaving Amed and arranging everything and at the moment I’m feeling extremely non-motivated.

After snorkeling, I spent the rest of the day poolside at the hotel. All of the staff at Wawa Wewe II told me that there was a live band last night at Wawa Wewe I, a restaurant with the same ownership located in the village. So last night, I decided to walk into town and have dinner there and check it out.

I arrived just at the same time as Susan and Charles and Susan's dog, Ubi. I heard the sound of two dogs fighting, and then both Susan and Charles screaming and I saw them trying to separate the two. They were finally successful and Ubi ran off in one direction and the other dog ran into the restaurant, Wawa Wewe I.

We all walked into the restaurant and the Balinese woman who owned the dog that had just been in the fight with Susan's dog began screaming. Her dog was lying on the floor, convulsing. Apparently it was having “fits,” which I’ve never seen a dog do before and trust me, it ain’t a pretty sight. Charles ran over and took a bottle of water and began pouring it on the dog’s face.

“I’ve seen this before in India! Back off!” he screamed as everyone in the restaurant, appropriately, backed off. “A dog’s nose is a hundred times more sensitive than a human’s nose! This will shock him!” Charles screamed as the dog started frothing at the mouth. A mother with her small child put her hands over the child’s eyes as she began whimpering. The entire restaurant was quiet and watched. After a few minutes, the dog stopped convulsing and tried to run away, terrified, but his back legs weren’t working.

I was kind of freaked out as well (please see Chapter 27 of my life, entitled: Why Alexis Hates Dogs) as the dog ran out into the garden dragging it’s now-lame back legs behind and the screaming woman had to follow behind and calm him. It was quite the drama.

The thing about some dog lovers that can be…interesting…is that it is never their dog that is to blame. “Did you see how that dog attacked Ubi? That dog should be put to sleep! It has a vitamin deficiency! It is inbred!” Susan screamed, within earshot of the other owner’s dogs.

After all of that died down, it turned out to be a really fun night. The band was great and I loved how people unabashedly got on the dance floor and shook their things. Nobody was trying to look cool or show off, everyone just wanted to have fun.

I was introduced to endless Mades, Wayans, Putus and Kututs. Each first child in Bali is named either Wayan or Putu, each second child Made or Kadek, each third child Nyoman or Komang, each fourth child Ketut – regardless of gender, children can be named either/or but always one. At five, they start over with Wayan or Putu again, yet call them (in English, sorry, can’t remember the Balinese word for “again”) “Wayan Again,” or “Putu Again,” and so on. I was hit on quite skillfully by random Mades and Wayans throughout the night and I noticed that there were many Western women there who weren’t saying no, as I was quite adamantly. I missed Rusel.

The band played cover after cover, and everyone mixed and mingled. Susan, Charles, Evon (the German girl) and a bunch of the staff from Wawa Wewe II were there dancing. I had a great time and what was up until then just a crush on Amed turned into a full-on love affair. It’s truly a great place.

Man Of World

He blew into the hotel restaurant tempestuously just as I was sitting down for dinner. A fedora rested firmly on his head, which he removed for dramatic effect as he looked pointedly at me and said, “Now who are you? Where do you come from?”

“I’m American.” I said. He made the sign of the cross over my head and he said, “All of your sins are forgiven! The SIN of Bush!” he almost shouted. “I am a writer, have you read my column? Here it is,” he whipped out the Bali Times from under an arm and pounded it onto my table, pointing at his column. I looked down at the paper, “Paradox in Paradise, Spirits of the Island.”

“I’m a writer, too.” I said. “Oh is that so? For which publications do you write? I write for a magazine in India, which has 3 million readers. In India, a very small readership!” He laughed quite loudly. So loudly that the group of French couples that arrived today as I was taking a nap looked over at us, disapprovingly. I guess, as I’ll be in Paris next week, I need to get used to this look. I shot them a look to say, “I’m not with him!” as he said, “Get it? In India, three million readers isn’t so much because there are so many people there.” Again he laughed, but this time he looked for confirmation that this was a funny joke from the girl who walked in with him as well. She looked at him and the corners of her lips curled up slightly, and then looked away.

I remember when I first became friends with Basia, so long ago. She used to tell me her traveling stories and I would listen, in awe. She was the first person who told me about her adventures and made me realize that I could do it, too. By the time that I had met her, she had already done a huge backpacking trip around Europe, ending at her grandparent’s house in Poland. She and her friend had such a great trip that at her grandparents’ house they sat around with a map and determined their next big trip: India. As much grief that Basia would cause me further down the line, I do owe her for making it sound easy, and showing me that anyone can do it.

As they were backpacking across Europe, Basia and her friend Anna came up with a saying for this certain type of man that they would meet occasionally on their travels: “M.O.W,” which stands for “Man Of World.” It’s hard to explain but easy to spot. He’s older, knows a little bit about everything and isn’t afraid to tell you all about it –do you have a few hours? He’s traveled everywhere that you have -- and then some – and done it with more panache. Dramatic, dangerous with a flourish, slightly patronizing. Bombastic and charming all in the same minute. Perpetually single: love affairs are more his style. The very definition of “Peter Pan Syndrome.” Interesting for a conversation, but tiring and tedious long-term.

Exactly the man who was now sitting at the table next to me.

“So, what kind of writer are you?” the M.O.W. asked.

I don’t really know how to explain my writing at the moment. Short stories? Non-fiction? Unpublished works of art?

“Well, I’m actually kind of a freelancer. I just finished an internship in Banda Aceh.”

“And what were you doing at your internship?” I explained to him my work with the IRC, and then tried to shift the conversation over to the girl who had arrived with the M.O.W.

“And what do you do?” I asked her.

She laughed self-consciously before she said anything.

“Don’t laugh! I’ve been telling her that all day!” he barked.

“I’m a healer. Everyone has the power, within himself or herself, to heal their minds and spirits. I’m a medium for this channel. I open up the room inside of people so they can realize their own power,” she said with a German accent.

By their body language I could tell that they weren’t together together, they were just having dinner together. She looked uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed by him. The girl was lifted up a little higher in my esteem.

“I’m a traveler, a writer, a nomad!” He said, ensuring that the conversation went back to him. “I’m Indian, English, Spanish, Welsh. My family is one of the wealthiest families in Calcutta. I was married for twenty years but I left my wife over a fight we had three years ago and never returned,” he said. The owner of Wawa Wewe, who is friends with Charles (who apparently is a regular), came over to our tables, which were positioned, on the floor. He started talking to Charles and so the German girl came over and sat closer to me. We began chatting.

“So, you’re American, are you? Have you read Jack Kerouac?” he asked, interrupting us.

“Yes.” I said.

“Allen Ginsberg?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know who Arthur Miller is?”

I scoffed at him.

“Yes.” I didn’t like this quiz, but I guess I passed.

“Okay, good. I need an American’s perspective on the column that I wrote last night. I will read it to you.”

He lifted his car keys in the air and jangled them.

“Wayan! Get me my laptop out of my car! Wayan!” he shouted.

I remember the hardest thing about traveling in India was understanding the caste system, and the feeling of entitlement that so many in the higher castes had towards those in the lower caste. I saw it again, now, in Charles. He didn’t say please, or thank you as Wayan got the keys and delivered his laptop. It was expected.

As Wayan was getting the laptop, Charles seemed to be stuck on the topic of America. “You know, I have family in Minneapolis and New York. They keep telling me to come visit. It is my dream to start in California and travel across America by bus and write about it, just like Kerouac. My family there says that they don’t understand why people hate Americans, because everyone that they know is lovely,” he said.

“You know, it’s very fashionable right now to criticize America. Fashionable, and not very original,” I said. “Trust me, it’s been done.”

Just then the laptop was delivered and he read his column to me, the German girl, and the owner of the hotel, who was appropriately named Made. The writing was actually really good. His column was about modernization, and it actually praised the works of many American writers, as well as Janis Joplin and Bob Dylan. It talked about how, when he was in college in Calcutta, reading the works of American writers helped him think beyond India and realize that there was a bigger world.

“I like it,” I said to him.

“As an American, do you think that people in Bali will understand all of the references?” he asked me.

“You know, I think that most people will be able to relate. Even if they’ve never read Ginsberg, everyone has heard of Janis Joplin and Bob Dylan,” I said.

“You’re right. You’re right,” he said. From there, he started telling the German girl and me about the last three years of his life. Basically, after having a fight about design with his wife – they had a textile company together – he left everything and went to England for two years and lived there with some “very, very rich friends.” He was dropping names so fast I could almost literally see them hitting the floor. From the UK he came to Bali and has been here since September. I could tell, by the cadence of his voice, that this was a story that he had told again and again.

“So, you stay in Ubud,” he said to me. “Did you like it there?”

“I loved it there. I ended up making some really great friends and we had a good time.”

“Ex-pat friends, or local friends?” he asked.

“Local friends,” I replied.

“Okay, good. Don’t become friends with any ex-pats there. I wrote a column about it, which was very controversial. So many people come to Bali and just get stuck here. I call them driftwood. Don’t become friends with the driftwood.”

“Well….you’re an ex-pat,” I said to him.

“NO! I am not an ex-pat. I have a working VISA, I am a writer. I am NOT driftwood!” the M.O.W. almost spat at me. I didn’t want to argue with him, but he was about as ex-pat as they come.

Around this time, another woman arrived, very flustered and distracted. A dog arrived with her and promptly began running around like crazy, checking everything out.

“I’m so late! I slammed my phone in my car door and broke it. Then, as I was leaving Ubud, my car broke down. I was already late leaving Ubud anyway because I had to wait for three hours at the bank,” she said in an Australian accent.

“This is Susan,” Charles said. She extended a hand, and then sat down. We talked for a while about the writer’s festival, where Susan is launching a book. I told them that I was taking a session there, and of course, Charles had an opinion.

“Nobody can teach you something creative. You either have it, or you don’t. So it’s a waste of time,” he said. “And anyway…..” he said, looking directly at me, “why were you in Banda Aceh, helping people? Why don’t you help people in your own country, like the victims of Hurricane Katrina? Where was your government then? Maybe you should stay at home and do your work where it is really needed.”

As anyone knows, I am always up for a good debate. We were off. We volleyed back and forth, the M.O.W. and I. The German girl and Susan listened.

Soon, Charles said something that offended Susan and she got up, in a huff. “I am going to go and get my bags out of my car,” she said. “I want Room #1! Why can’t I have Room #1?” she asked Made.

I hid my head. Apparently, Room #1 is the best room in the house and I got it because I called in advance (thanks, Martin!).

“You can’t have Room #1 because it’s taken,” Made said.

“By whom?” she screamed.

“I think I have Room #1,” I said. “I’ll help you move your bags into your room,” I said, looking for a way to break off and smooth things over. I was getting tired and it was getting late. The German girl also used this as an excuse to leave, and Charles was driving her home. We all said our goodnights.

The thing is, I really enjoy meeting new people and hearing new perspectives. I even really like being around strong personalities – so many people in the world, quite honestly, bore me. Meeting interesting new people and learning about their lives is, in my opinion, what life is all about. I’m just not interested in a one-man show.

I feel as if my time in Bali is meant to be about centering, and I’m not interested in being with people, at the moment, who need the spotlight. I really just want to curl up in the corner and watch how the tides and winds change throughout the course of the day from the daybed located on my veranda.

P.S. Can you tell who is getting ready for her character development and non-fiction session at the Ubud Writer's & Reader's Festival?

Wawa Wewe

Seriously, I must've been a saint in a former life. I am now in the most amazing place ever on the east cost of Bali. Just when I thought that things couldn't possibly get any better, I arrive here. This is definitely how people get addicted to traveling.

Made and his friend picked me up today from my place in Ubud, and we drove here to Amed which is about two hours away. The drive was interesting and enjoyable. When I asked Made how far away Amed was, he said, "Oh, long way. Maybe two hours." The man has obviously never traveled from Banda Aceh to Calang!

Anyway, nothing like that here in Bali. We stopped mid-point at another tourist area and had coffee. It was nice talking to Made as we sat and looked at the ocean. What is it about waves that automatically make you chill out? As we talked, I realized how cool Made is. We talked about karma, and we share many of the same beliefs. I realized that a lot of Hindu philosophies match many of my own. Made is a great guy. Badung couldn't come with us because he had to go and pick up his girlfriend in Denpasar. I'll meet her next week when I go back to Ubud for the festival.

Speaking of, I signed up for one workshop and one event at the festival. The session that I really wanted was, unfortunately, sold out. That was the travel writing session. So instead, I am taking a session on character development and non-fiction writing. In the end, I already took a class in NY a few years ago on travel writing and so maybe this is better for me anyway. I am on a waiting list for the travel writing session but the woman at registration told me not to hold my breath as it was extremely popular. Again, maybe it's for the best....I have an idea for a book which I've been mulling over in my head and it's non-fiction and not travel related so maybe this is a sign.

So we arrived in Amed at the place which Martin had recommended called Wawa Wewe, which in Indonesian means "Like this, like that," or "Comme ci comme ca." It is absolutely gorgeous. My own little bungalow looks right into the ocean, which I can see right from my bed. The bathroom is open air and also looks out into the ocean. There is a pool that also....you guessed it.....looks right over the ocean.

Right away, I knew that this was just what I needed. I absolutely love Ubud but it will be nice to really relax for the next few days. In Ubud there is so much to do and see that I ran myself ragged a little bit drinking it all in. Now that I'm here I have a feeling that I'll have a chance to just read, write, swim, and sit. Knowing that I'll soon be in cold weather climates makes me want to soak up the sun all the more.

I'd love to upload pictures but there isn't wifi here and the internet that I am on right now is so slow, I can literally feel myself aging as I wait for the page to refresh. I will try to figure something out, but for now my words will have to do!

t

The Tasting Ceremony

Apparently, I came to Bali during a time when many ceremonies take place. It seems that these ceremonies define life here. People save up for years to have cremation ceremonies, for example. If you die, and your family doesn’t have enough money to cremate you, they bury you and then dig you back up whenever they have saved up enough money to do it!

Badung is getting married to his girlfriend in about a year and a half, and the ceremony will cost 15 million rupia, about $1,500 US. He makes about 650,000 rupia, or $65 US dollars a month as a security guard. Half of this money goes to paying off his motorbike and servicing it every month. So he has about $30 US a month leftover for everything else. He said that so far, he has saved about $9 million rupia, or $900 US, for his marriage ceremony. I was pretty impressed by even this. Nobody knows better than I do how challenging it can be to save money.

So if you don’t have the money for the ceremony, then you wait. For example, the Balinese have a ceremony celebrating the fact that a baby is twelve days old. But, if the family can’t afford the ceremony at that time, they have it when they can afford it. This can take place many years later, even.

“This is why so many people in Bali poor. Always saving for ceremony,” Made said.

So yesterday, I was hanging out with Made and Badung and they told me that their village was having a ceremony. This one was for teaching children the different tastes: sweet, sour, spicy, etc. At this point I am feeling a bit like an anthropologist. These ceremonies are so interesting – as I observe, I imagine these exact same ceremonies taking place hundreds of years prior.  I guess it’s the same as anything back home – marriages, baptisms, funerals – but because they are so completely foreign to me they are infinitely interesting.

I had to borrow one of Made’s wife’s sarongs but then I was good to go. I was confused at first, because I thought that Made’s young baby boy was going to be taking part in the ceremony. But we left the compound without him, or his wife. Even though their English is really great, things sometimes get lost in translation.

When I inquired, Made said, “No, Rio isn’t going to be in the ceremony today because I don’t have enough money. I have to pay for my grandmother’s cremation. Maybe another year. And my wife can’t go, because she is bleeding.”

Okay then. I wonder if there is a Balinese word for privacy – I don’t think so.

Made’s grandmother died about two weeks ago, and they buried her and are now saving up for her cremation.  So off we went. I jumped on the back of Made’s bike and sat sideways because I had a long sarong on. I have a new respect for Balinese women – it’s really hard to do anything in these sarongs! They are wrapped so tightly that you have to take small, careful steps. I had to sit “side saddle” on the bike but we literally drove about 200 feet – we could’ve easily walked.

The whole village turned out for this ceremony, which apparently happens only once a year. People were sitting about three or four rows deep, with parents and their babies in the front row. A holy priest sitting in the front row divided the baby girls and their families, which were on his right, and baby boys and their families on his left. There was one girl who looked to be about twelve years old so I guess her family just got the money together this year.

Everyone was dressed in their finest. The men wear these special cloth hats, and the women wear the sarongs with brightly colored shirts. The funny thing about these shirts is that they are completely see-through. Even with the old ladies, you can see right through to their bras.

There was a man on the microphone, before the ceremony began, singing (or screaming?) a song. He was a little bit off-key but nobody seemed to mind. In the middle of the area there was a huge group of offerings in circular bamboo baskets. A lot of them were filled with food and there was a stench emanating off of them as the sun was scorching.

There was an air of excitement. Men sat about and talked or gambled, women sat together and gossiped and children ran around screaming. A gang of kids kept coming up to me, and one would bravely reach out a finger to poke me and then run away again, screaming. I played along for a while but then I decided to start chasing after the boy who poked me, and one of the little girls in the gang started crying at the top of her lungs, terrified. The whole village watched as the mother had to come and take her away. Oops.

We waited around for quite some time – rubber time applies here as well – and then the ceremony began. An older woman, perhaps the grandmother, of every baby sat in front of the child while his or her parents held it. Throughout the course of the ceremony, the older woman would put different things to the baby’s lips: coconut meat, chicken legs, holy water. At one point, the woman took a coconut and put it on the baby’s head and then lightly tapped the coconut with a huge machete a few times.

For the most part, the babies were okay with everything but some of them, of course, weren’t having any of it. One baby had to be walked away to be calmed, and then brought back, several times. I could tell that her mother was embarrassed. Frankly, I was really surprised that this was the only baby that freaked out.

The ceremony ended with when a song by the Balinese gamelan began to play. A gamelan is a traditional orchestra of many instruments, consisting of a large percussion section – which includes bronze “kettle drums,” xylophones, and gongs. The noise is a little bit frenetic at times but I’ve come to like it.

Made told me that he had told the person who runs the NGO, where he works as a security guard at night, about me. He wanted to meet me. So we walked over to the building, which was a short distance, and met the director. He was a really nice Balinese guy. He showed me the computer room, where children can learn computer skills. There is also a separate building where children learn English. It was a really nice little NGO and I got a great feeling from the people there. They asked me about getting more money from donors (I guess Made thought I knew lots about this?) and I told them I would take their brochures and see what I could do.

It was getting late, and I wanted to attend one of the puppet shows, called wayang kulit. I had seen the puppets in many of the shops here and had been told that it was a pretty cool show to see. The puppets are a bit different than Western puppets in that they are shadow puppets made from perforated leather figures. They are manipulated behind an illuminated cotton screen to retell stories or legends.

So Made and Badung took me back to my hotel while I quickly changed clothes and took a shower. No matter what I do here (and this was the case in Aceh as well), I usually always stink. I have become a big fan of baby powder. Anyway, they waited outside my room, on my little veranda. We were sitting there talking for a little bit before it was time to go, when the owner of the bungalows came down looking very stern, with one of the other workers trailing behind him. He began speaking to Badung and Made in Indonesian, so I didn’t know what they were saying.

In the end, they had to show their ID cards to the owner and fill out these forms giving him more information about who they were. The owner told them that one of his guests had their laptop stolen recently, and he had to be very careful about who came and went on the property. I was really annoyed by this obvious discrimination. Just because they were Balinese, they were going to steal something from the guests?

Being the smooth dudes that they were, Badung and Made told him that they were both security guards themselves, and they would help him come up with a new security plan for his hotel. Everyone was happy, I guess. Except for me. I was still annoyed. Maybe the owner should pay a little bit more attention to his worker, who still thinks that he is my boyfriend, or the vicious dog who almost kills me each night when I come home?   

“We tell him that you are a friend of our old friend, Putu Micah. We told him that you are like our family,” Made said. I was touched.

Badung left to go to work, and Made dropped me off at the puppet show (which was really cool) and waited outside until it was over, and drove me home. These guys are really so sweet to me, again I’m really lucky to have them “looking after” me and I owe Micah. Today is my last day in Ubud for a while as I’m going to a beach called Amed tomorrow for about a week. I’m not sure what the Internet connection will be like there, but I will do my best. Then it’s back for the writer’s festival for a few days and then up to Paris!

Old Men, Coconut Drinks and Canadians

Today I decided to finish up my walking tour trifecta and do the last remaining hike listed in the Lonely Planet. I saved the best for last as this walk was truly something special.

This walk took me through town and then down near a temple called Dangin Lebak. As I left the hotel, I decided that I wasn’t going to talk to anyone on this walk at all. My goal was pretty much ruined right away as this guy at the hotel, who I mistakenly thought was the owner, tried to sell me some art. It was a good reminder that I just needed to be rude, and I literally just said, “See you later!” as he tried to explain to me that he had some paintings he wanted to sell me – he would go and grab them for me if I would just wait there.

Seriously, the hardest thing about being in Bali is trying to be alone! I know, I know…..you’re in paradise, Lex, suck it up. I realize that this is a pretty stupid complaint but nevertheless -- sometimes you're in the mood for small talk and sometimes you aren't. My new method is to just completely ignore everyone in sight. I definitely love talking to people, but today I just feel like doing my own thing.

Anyway, at the temple I had the whole place to myself and looked around for a bit. I then left and followed the footpath, which wound through some long grass and then up to a ridge. The path straddled two separate, deep and lush valleys. I walked through an artist’s village and then a man selling coconuts enticed me into buying one and talking a rest to drink it.

He was sitting opposite a building site and one wall was filled with interesting graffiti.  The longer I sat there the more men “stopped by” and soon I was surrounded by a bunch of young men, including the older man. They were actually pretty cool and didn’t speak much English at all, so I didn’t have to deal with the usual wheeling and dealing.

I continued on my walk and was approached by a Western couple that had stopped to take a picture.

“So, are you traveling alone?” the woman asked me.

“Um…yeah,” I said.

“You know, we meet more and more women traveling alone!” she said. She looked like she was around 50 years old, and she explained to me that they were visiting from Canada.

Eeeek, I hadn’t anticipated this one! Being roped into a conversation by a blang! I really didn’t feel like talking to this couple, I wanted to walk and just be alone.

“Do you mind if we walk with you?” she said.

She meant well, I could tell. There really wasn’t anything that I could do. We walked together and they asked me basically the same questions that I get from Balinese people here everyday. Soon enough, we approached the main road and the husband decided he wanted to take a cab back to town. They asked me if I wanted to go with them but I declined. “See you later!” I said.

I came back to my hotel and had lunch delivered to the pool where I have been laying out the rest of the day. Again, I know….life is rough.

I decided that I’m going to go to the beach earlier than expected so I can come back to Ubud for the Writer’s & Reader’s Festival. I’m not going to come back for all of it, but there are a few sessions (one on travel writing, of course) which sound really interesting and the festival itself sounds terrific. This means that I’m not going to lay over in Singapore for a few days as planned but I’m not too heartbroken about that.

I’m off for another massage!