It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like...

Facebook is a funny beast. Besides being responsible for about 2/3 of my thesis procrastination, and the only reason I know which of my friends are currently getting married and/or procreating (not to mention what they ate for dinner, how many final exams they have left, or just how annoying this "effing rainstorm" is), Facebook is the main reason that I have not forgotten what time of year it is. Every time I open the computer, I'm met with a slew of Christmas photos: lights, gingerbread, pretty people in pretty clothes, and--depending on the location--pretty people in pretty clothes looking like they wish Mom would just take the damn picture and let them get out of the snow. It's wonderful, really. Here I am, thousands of miles away from home, and I still know that Elena baked pecan cookies. Pretty soon, I'll find out just how many people got engaged on Christmas day, which of my procreating cousins received adorable, crocheted beanies from my Grandma, and probably see photos of at least a dozen dinner plates--until New Year's comes around, and I'll know who is fiddling with their iphone instead of watching the ball drop. Like I said, it's a funny beast.

Without it, I might very well have stayed in my bubble of perpetual summer. After all, in Bali, it's a good day when you don't sweat through three t-shirts--regardless of the month--and given that this is the first year in nearly twenty that I have not gone back to school, my brain still thinks it's August. When my mom asked me if Ubud was decorated for the holidays, I had to think about it. "There's a silvery Christmas tree in Coco's Supermarket," I told her. "And I think I saw a guy wearing a Santa hat at Puriartha." She laughed, but I could tell she thought it was a little pathetic. It was the same half-laugh that my grandma did when I called her on Thanksgiving, and she asked if I was "AT LEAST EATING TURKEY?" If by 'turkey' she meant oatmeal with spirulina and bee pollen, then yes. Yes, I was.

To be honest, even I'm a little surprised by my nonchalance. I've never been one to get overly hot and bothered about the holidays, save for the occasional Halloween (I believe we're all still recovering from my 'Phantom of the Opera' years) or Patty's Day in Galway; and sure, I love Thanksgiving because it's about being grateful, and I'll wear bunny ears for any holiday that involves copious amounts of chocolate. But there's something special about Christmas: no matter how hard Hallmark tries to ruin it, an undeniable glow surrounds the latter half of December, and I've always felt it. My Nana probably would have attributed it to little girls in their new holiday dresses, or the smell of the air when it hits frozen ground. In Santa Barbara, there's not a whole lot of frozen ground to hit; however, there's still the twinkle of State Street when it's covered in lights, and the feeling of sliding down the hallway in thick, wooly socks when you're moments away from seeing what Christmas morning has done to your living room. That, and Aunt Carolyn's infamous heart-attack-in-a-bowl snow crunch. Hardly a season has gone by where I haven't eaten that damn snow crunch to the point of near puke-dom, and likewise, not a year has gone by that I haven't thoroughly enjoyed it.

So here I am, in Bali, far removed from the buzz of the Christmas and the contact high that comes from watching others bustle around in the holiday spirit. This time last year, I was up all night making industrial-sized batches of vegan granola, dancing to Vince Guaraldi on Pandora and ensuring that everyone around me would sooner die than listen to me sing "Feliz Navidad" again. This year, I am sleeping on a couch in Ubud, waking each morning to fresh papaya and rambutan, running Olivia around a muddy soccer field and spending my free time pummeling through the streets on the back of my friend Orin's motorbike. That's not to say that I've been entirely spared from festivities... just last week, I attended a real live Christmas party. After spending a solid hour shopping for new shoes, only to realize that it was Bali and that I would be removing them before entering the house, I spent another 3 hours debating what to bring for the gift exchange. What does one bring to an expatriate Christmas party in Bali, at the home of a woman that looks like she could bench-press a linebacker and still have flawless makeup, where the Christmas tree is 8-feet-tall and covered with sacred Hindu relics? The answer: a live pig and two ducks.

Okay, so that's not what I brought. I brought my favorite David Sedaris and a bottle of Balinese honey, wrapped in newspaper hand-painted by Olivia. It is, however, exactly what Orin brought. Nestled underneath the Christmas tree, in between carefully wrapped trinkets and gift certificates, there they were: two identical banana-leaf baskets, complete with tailfeathers, and a somewhat cumbersome, white box. With air holes. "Those ones have to stay together," he said, nodding at the ducks. Quack. As for the pig... well, it was all fun and games until the pig peed. "My gift is... wet," someone said, pointing to the box. And believe me, we were laughing so hard it was a miracle we didn't all pee our boxes.

When people ask me about Christmas, and if I miss anything from home, my answer is always the same: I miss my family. To me, Christmas is family. It's not Kenny Loggins on K-LITE 101.7 or those stupid red cups from Starbucks, although in my absence, even those have taken on a certain rose-colored glow. That's the funny thing about being away from home; suddenly, the events and people of life 'before' take on a mystical quality of exaggeration. Someone who was a pain-in-the ass swells into an archetypal villain, and relationships that simply fizzled and died become tragic heartbreak for the sake of telling stories to new acquaintances. Good and bad, the brain seeks organization, and it does so by creating extremes. It's kind of like leaving college--in retrospect, the crappy, dead tree that you passed a thousand times on route to your crappy, deadening seminar becomes that tree I passed every day on my way to class! Oh, college. Even the quiet zone of the library, Satan's eyeball itself, takes on an air of romance when viewed through the sentimentality that distance creates. So there you have it: on more than one occasion, I've found myself missing K-LITE. But far more frequently than that, I've missed the people who've known me since I was too young to know myself, the ones who made hot cocoa and took me to see the live animals at the Mission on Christmas Eve. What I don't miss, however, is the consumerism that this time of year brings--the fierce need to buy things, and the strung-out quality that people's voices get when you ask them about the holidays. "Oh you know, just GETTING BY." That kind of thing. The cover of magazines advertising ways to rapidly gain and then rapidly lose those holiday pounds--all from the comfort of your brand new cashmere sweater, in front of your widescreen plasma TV! Now tell me, Charlie Brown, is that what Christmas is all about?

The answer is no. If I didn't know that before, I know it now. I miss my family and the sweetness that this time of year brings, but even more frighteningly wonderful is the fact that I feel like I've found a family and a life here in Bali. Since coming back to Ubud, Olivia has been in school--leaving me with most days free to bike into town, weaving in and out of traffic with the type of blind confidence that only 4 years in L.A. could have given me, or sitting and dreaming for long periods of time. The rains have started kicking in, which means that at least once every day the sky breaks into pieces and unleashes a sheet of thick water. I'm not talking the kind of rain that makes Santa Barbarians put on their designer boots and refuse to drive on the Westside: this is RAIN. Immobilizing, wild, beautiful rain. I felt it coming on the other day, biked home like a maniac, and made it home just in time for the first crack of thunder. Mind you, we live in an open-air house, which means walls are few and far between... so when the rain comes in horizontally, there is little to do but sit and watch the wetness happen. I for one have taken to making myself a cup of spicy, sweet Good Earth tea, curling into the beanbag, and listening. There is so, so much to listen to here. Everywhere you turn, it's alive.

So here's the big question: what happens on Christmas day, when I'm alone? When I don't have the people or the sights and sounds that define this type of year? I'm not psychic, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it will be absolutely fine. I won't go as far as to say it's like any other day, because it isn't. I remember the Christmas morning I got the Barbie camper van, and my dad spent 6 hours putting miniature hot-dog forks into miniature picnic baskets. (If the aforementioned Phantom of the Opera costume didn't guarantee his entrance into heaven, the Barbie van certainly does.) I remember the moments right before the Nutcracker curtain rose, and how my heart swelled with the music. I remember what cozy feels like... but the thing is, I feel it. Here. Cozy is where you bring it, and how many blankets you decide to stock inside your heart. Lately, for me, cozy has been an increased understanding of how delicate everything is--how very lucky I am that, even though you are all far away, I have a family that sends me a Christmas card. You all exist, you continue to grow and to multiply... and right now, that knowledge is enough for me. As a matter of fact, it fills me from the inside out.

Christmas is coming, the geese (er... ducks) are getting fat, and I've been thinking a lot about home. The other day, my grandma told me to "think about coming back to Santa Barbara. Just think about it." The same day, I got two emails that told me to stay in Bali as long as I possibly can. So here's a Christmas riddle for you: which one is home? That's the question. That's the one I can't quite figure out. To be honest, though, I think the answer is... C. All of the above.

Elena Brower says that we're always either running away from something or running toward it. This was a revelation. Before I came here, I'd gotten so used to running away that I could no longer recall what I was trying to escape-- I was suspended in midair, kicking up a cloud of dust like roadrunner MEEP MEEPing at Wiley Coyote. I was stuck. And now? All I know is that it feels like I'm running toward something. I'm moving, but at the same time, I feel stillness; there is chaos in my body, but calm in my soul. As Ms. Brower suggests, in the midst of all this running, our hearts remain steadfast. They're always there, pounding our chests when the motorbike hits a certain speed, marking time and beginnings and the guttural rush of new love.

And if that's not what Christmas is about, Charlie Brown, I don't know what is.

Now if I could only find some snow crunch...

Inversions

I've worn a lot of hats in my life. For a long time, I was student. I was girlfriend, once, too. Since coming to Asia, I've been volunteer, tourist, worker, and friend; since coming to Balian Beach, however, I've retired most hats and adopted a pink tutu in their place. For the next 2 and-a-half months, I am Olivia's Nanny... and believe me, that's the only thing that matters. Just ask her.

As hard as it was to leave Thailand after my lovely time at Faasai, and as decidedly sucky as it was to have my sleepover in Don Muang Airport followed by a symphony of screaming babies on the flight back to Bali, it felt incredible to return to this island. Walking through the Denpasar Airport, I passed all the landmarks that marked my first arrival here... same men trying to charge me $20 to carry my bags 20 feet, same grammatically incorrect RipCurl advertisements... only this time, I felt like an old pro. I helped a fat German couple get through customs. I identified the driver picking me up, Yande, in typical Balinese fashion—i.e. without any sort of physical description, and without a sign with my name on it. Essentially, he and I walked around for 15 minutes mispronouncing each other's names at everyone around us until we eventually bumped into each other.

He drove us to Balian in a van full of soymilk and edamame, per Alicia's request, and just when I found myself wondering how Bali could possibly get any more beautiful, we pulled into Pondok Pitaya. Of all the scenic beaches I've seen, of all the sprawling rice fields and perfect palm trees, this place puts them all to shame. There is just something about it; flower-lined pathways, tiny huts for meditation, stained-glass windows, crashing surf... and above all, just this incredible feeling of ease all around. I was shown to the "Happy House," and sure enough, there she was: all four and a half years of her, sitting in between the yoga hardbodies, coloring on a piece of paper and munching on organic, gluten-free pizza. Olivia, my best friend for the next few months, and my reason for coming back.

For anyone who didn't get the memo, my new job is as follows: until February, I will be traveling with a couple named Alicia and Oliver, both yoga teachers, and taking care of their little girl while they lead and participate in yoga teacher trainings. In Balian, this means watching Olivia for a few hours in the morning (6:30-9:30 during asana practice) and six or seven more in the afternoon (during philosophy, anatomy, practice teaching, etc). At first, the idea of being up and 'on' at six in the morning horrified me beyond belief; that is, until I realized that it is actually possible to wake rested with the sunrise when your head hits the pillow before 9:30 p.m. In that respect, my life has taken on dramatic change. When I'm done watching Olivia for the day, in the interim between afternoon swims and dinner on the beach, I do yoga in my little loft: a room all to myself that consists of a yoga mat, a tiny bed and mosquito net, a shelf, a fan, and a vase of flowers. In the hours I've spent up there, sweating my face off, I've realized there isn't a single thing I'd put up there to make it 'better.' I don't need anything else. When I’m done with my practice, showered, and my belly is full, I fall asleep. Life is simple.

So the sun rises around 5:30 a.m., I creak over the floor and down the stairs around 6:15; and as soon as I walk out the door and see Olivia's little curly head waiting for me, it begins. Here's the thing: I love kids and have always been good with them, and although I'd never had a nannying job before, I figured my babysitting experience would be more than enough prep. What could possibly be different? In a word: everything. Babysitting, you're responsible for the happiness and well-being of a kid for six, maybe eight hours, and if you get it bathed and fed before its parents come home, you walk away with a wad of cash and relative non-attachment to the whole shindig. Travel nannying, however, is the total entwinement of your life with someone else's--even "alone" time bears the possibility (and probability) of interruption. I walked into my job with Olivia feeling relatively confident, knowing she is both well behaved and a joy to be around... and then I remembered that the last time I spent all day every day with a four-year-old was when I myself was a four-year-old. What does one do with a kid once the games have run out, the stories have been read, and the food has been eaten?

The answer is, you stand on your head. Here's where the really good stuff starts: as per YogaWorks requirements, each week of the training has a different theme. Week 4=Beginning/Prenatal. Week 3=Backbends and Twists. Week 2, the week of my arrival, happened to be Inversions Week. In an asana class, the funny thing about inversions is that it is the point when most people conveniently go to the bathroom; handstands, headstands, shoulder-stands... no matter what's standing, it's not your feet, and that's enough to make most people (myself included) freak out. Even here, where most people are advanced practitioners, there was still palpable fear surrounding Inversions Week. 

When it comes to nannying, however, fear isn't an option. Kids can smell it on you like day-old French toast. When Olivia looked at me after two days together and asked, perfectly reasonably, if "King Philip Algblado had killed the dinosaur in my living room and rescued the fairy princess," I felt pretty sure that I would puke out of anxiety. By day four, however, my answer was "of course, my fair Queen—but HURRY, we must ride the lily pad bus to the medicine woman before the fairy baby's curse becomes permanent!" Living with a kid, especially one whose imagination has not yet been spoiled by Nickelodeon, requires a suspension of disbelief. When Olivia stops abruptly in the middle of the rice field and nearly causes me to choke on my water bottle, it's not for no reason. "Invisible door," she says. In that situation, there are two options: walk around her and keep moving, or pretend to search for an invisible key. Being with a kid, really being with them, requires turning your whole world upside down... and if that world has recently been giving you trouble, all the better. In the past couple weeks, I have played approximately 60 games of Go Fish (usually altering the rules midway to reflect any measure of fairy intervention, day of the week, or underwear color); have introduced myself to complete strangers as an evil queen, baby rhinoceros, stray kitten, and fairy princess; have read at least a dozen picture books complete with funny voices; have run through the pouring rain with a kid under my arm ("PUTMEDOWNPUTMEDOWN...." Pause. "DO IT AGAIN!!!"); and have picked up countless objects, from shells to bracelets, and been forced to see them as something other than what they are. A shell, you must remember, is not only a shell: it could also be a priceless gem of Princess Jasmine, a baby narwhal, or a toothbrush, depending on the game. 

The crazy thing is, within about a week of Olivia, my yoga practice changed dramatically. When I participated in one of the asana classes, I floated up into headstand—effortlessly—for the first time in my life. I found my physical practice reflecting what I'd suddenly begun to feel in my mind: there is no backwards or forwards, upside down or rightside up, so much as there are different ways of looking at the same thing. One day, Olivia looked at me with big, globby tears in her eyes. "Don't worry," she said. "These are happy tears, not sad tears." Why, I asked her. "I don't know... because of the sky? Don’t worry. They’re not sad tears. They just look the same.”

In the truest sense of the word, Olivia is amazing. She has been traveling since she was just a few weeks old, with parents who embody mindfullness, and her imagination is switched ON. She isn't picky, whiny, boring, or shy. When we found two dead cats on the beach, frozen in an expression that can only be described as nightmarish, she simply looked at me and asked, "were they happy before they died? Will someone clean them up soon?" When she was covered from head to toe in red, swollen mosquito bites, she closed her eyes and smiled. "It will be better tomorrow." She's four going on twenty-four, and I'm twenty-two going on two; we both believe in fairies, and neither of us has any problem eating an entire coconut in one sitting. All in all, it works quite nicely. 

That's not to say that we don't have our moments. Every once in a while, Olivia will stop speaking to me altogether—I'll ask her a question, and she'll stare at my bellybutton for an hour. Sometimes, she takes off with no warning and goes tearing into her mother's arms, teary and desperate, and refuses to play with me for the rest of the afternoon. In these moments, I find it difficult not to burst into tears and run to MY mommy... only mine is really, really far away. And when I explain this to Olivia, and we look at the ocean together for a little while, it usually gets better. The moments when she takes my hand and says "let's snuggle and pretend we're princesses" more than make up for the moments when my loneliness bites me, when I forget not to take things personally, or when I am anything less than 100% grateful for the patience and openheartedness that her presence is teaching me.

Tomorrow, it's back to Ubud: the place where this adventure began, and my home for the next month before the next—and final—leg of my travels. I'll miss Balian Beach, especially the schedule my body and brain have fallen into... but in my heart of hearts, I know it's only going to get better. I've done an incredible amount of searching in the small time I've had here. I've deepened my yoga and meditation practice, spending 3 hours at a time on nothing but breathing into my gratitude, and have noticed the corresponding changes in my reactions. During a phone call the other day, when someone casually mentioned that I "always care what others think of me," I realized quite happily that that is no longer the case. I didn't even recognize it at first, but it's true. On a more serious note, when my beloved camera took a tumble down from my loft and broke, my first thought was "Oh—well, I'd been getting too attached to that thing anyhow." My camera fell, but I didn't. I have my health and a wonderful job and a reason to be happy every day: namely, that I choose to be. It's a choice. It's all a choice.

The other night, as I was falling asleep, something occurred to me. I have been lucky enough to have two distinct eras of travel in my life—first Ireland, and now this. In many ways, they have been similar: they have given me time to myself, to get to know who I am, and to live in awe of our planet’s scenery. They have been about living spontaneously and not taking things so seriously. That said, they are also complete opposites. Ireland was all about fun, about eating and drinking and going out every night ‘til the wee hours… socializing, dating, learning to take life with a laugh and a pint of Guinness. Here, my life has swung to the opposite side of the spectrum; clean food, zero alcohol and very few trips ‘out,’ a disciplined yoga practice, and lots and lots of time spent completely alone. My experience there has inverted into my experience here; both interesting, both wonky, and two radically different sides to the person I can feel myself becoming. There’s a middle way in there somewhere, and when I think about home, I feel peace in the idea that I might finally be able to find it there.

So, to conclude: last night, I participated in my very first Kirtan. We came to the yoga studio after hours, surrounded Ganesha in a mandala of marigolds, plumerias, and petals of sweet pea, and all decided on something we wanted to throw in the circle to let go of; it is the full moon, which is the perfect time for the final swelling of feeling before the new moon comes along and cleans the slate. Sitting there, it occurred to me that the Kirtan is probably many people’s version of hell: swaying and chanting to Lakshmi and Saraswati, singing in Sanskrit, and letting the spirit move us. Likewise, if you’d asked me a month ago, I probably would have said that a 3 hour arm-balance yoga class would have been MY idea of hell—and now, it’s something that I have not only done but enjoyed. Life inverts now and again. It’s good to change your mind, to go upside down and physically—or emotionally—let your heart be higher than your head. If we don’t, there’s always the chance that the Hindu goddess Kali will come by and chop off our heads, adding them to her belt, reminding us to let go of our egos and be free. Or there’s a chance that Olivia will ask us to play Crazy Eights for three hours straight, which is pretty much the same thing.

One of my favorite parts of Balian is the warm afternoon rainstorms. Around 2:00, in the middle of a sunny day, a sudden boom of thunder shakes the place—and within about 10 minutes, the entire place is coated in a sheet of torrential rain. Yesterday, as the water pounded the roof, the yogis had reached a peak in the energy of their meditation—I heard them laughing, celebrating from inside the studio. On the couch, Olivia and I were watching Alice and Wonderland underneath a scratchy blanket. Umbrella birds, cards painting the roses red, a Mad Hatter, and a floating cat all danced around in an upside-down world…caterpillars crawled backwards... and I dunno, it all looked pretty normal to me.

Farm Life: A Saga in Four Verses

Prologue: Lost in Translation

            When Bobbie and I parted ways at the Bangkok airport, she off to Cambodia and I off to my volunteer job in the south, I remember thinking: We did it! The world’s most accident-prone traveling duo made it through without a scratch! Little did I know, the Universe was simply storing up our disaster energy and saving it for the second I was alone at Suvarnabhumi. The thing is, I needed to catch a bus to Chanthaburi. Actually, I needed a bus that stopped at Nong Singha—but after that proved to be too complicated, I found a counter advertising a bus that stopped in Chanthaburi, bought a ticket for Chanthaburi, and asked at least three airport staff if the bus was, in fact, going to Chanthaburi. So, do you think my bus went to Chanthaburi?

            Of course it didn’t .

            In retrospect, I jinxed it with my overconfidence. I had found Thailand to be incredibly easy to navigate, and it felt good just to ‘wing it.’ So of course, when I walked outside to meet the ‘bus’ and was instead greeted with an oversized van, I panicked. First of all, that meant no bathroom. “WAIT FOR ME! NO LEAVE! NO LEAVE, ONE MINUTE!”—I dashed back toward the airport and peed in record time, dragging my mondo backpack with me and barely catching the van as it left. Of course, being the last one on, there was no seat for me… plus, I was the smallest. And traveling alone. That bought me exactly one spot on the front seat center console, no seatbelt, sandwiched between the driver and an extremely unpleasant Thai teenager, while the necklaces hanging from the rearview mirror smacked me in the face as we drove. I sat there, my headphones broken (aka: no escape), thinking that if we came to a sudden stop—or made any sudden movements, for that matter—I would go flying through the window. This, combined with the fact that not a single person on the bus spoke English or could help me tell the driver to take me to the Chanthaburi bus station, made for one of the most challenging—but naturally, most entertaining—branches of travel thus far. By some stroke of insane luck, and a lot of pantomiming, I ended up getting to the bus station and eventually to my new home, the farm at FaaSai Eco Resort and Spa. One foot on the soil, and I immediately knew it was worth it… but from now on, any time I feel frustrated with travel, I will remember my non-seat on the non-bus and raise a hand in silent salute: never forget.

Part Two: Swass

            Two weeks ago, if you asked me what hard work was, I probably would have mentioned the night I stayed up until 5 a.m. editing my thesis. I also might have mentioned expediting food at a busy restaurant during the late-night summer rush, or catering a wedding full of drunk uncles. In either case, my present self—the one that just spent a week clearing rice fields—would have bitch-slapped that thesis-writing complainer upside the head. When it comes down to it, there is no harder job than putting in a day’s work on a farm, especially if that farm happens to be in the tropics. There is no substitute for that kind of heat, grime, sweat, nastiness, and strength; and likewise, there is no feeling of relief, gratitude, power, and joy that even comes close. Not anything I’d experienced, anyhow. Last week, I had my butt handed to me by the farm at FaaSai; and it was one of the greatest (and most exhausting, and most enlightening) things to happen to me.

            My first two days at FaaSai, there were only two volunteers working the farm-shift: myself, and an Irish man named Charlie. After instant coffees and giant bowls of muesli, we biked to the farm between 7 and 8 a.m. in a vain attempt to beat the heat—something that, after only a few days, one learns to accept rather than try to correct. It’s kind of like walking to the bathroom in the middle of the night, or the Kardashian family. They suck, but they’re a part of life. Anyhow, on Charlie’s suggestion, I came to the farm armed with an extra shirt, a towel, sunscreen, a hat, and 2 liters of water. Chok, one of the Thai workers, also gave me a long-sleeved shirt for sun-protection…and for the next week, I was wiping my dripping face on a sleeve stained with someone else’s blood. (Yum.)

            We were expected to put in about 3 and-a-half hours in the morning, before we took a lunch break during the hottest (and therefore unworkable) hours of the day. I guess the spoiled liberal arts student in me was expecting some sort of instruction, some sort of assignment or PowerPoint detailing my daily tasks; but instead, I was handed a hoe and told to just do it. Farmer Barbie was quickly replaced by a sunburned girl in wool gloves, getting scraped by rusted barbed wire, sweating so profusely that it was actually impossible to see straight. On that first day, Charlie and I listened to Bruce Springsteen on crappy speakers and hacked away at a rice field, clearing weeds, spiders, snakes, fire ants, and occasionally massive thorns, with tools that were about as sharp as a baking spoon. It was HARD. Every muscle in my body was screaming for mercy. And yet… I found myself hypnotized by the rhythm of the work. The OCD in me was oddly satisfied by the extreme before-and-after of the areas we cleared. Best of all, I found myself flashing to images of some of my peers at Scripps—moaning over this or that paper, downing cup after cup of milky coffee in temperature-regulated dorm rooms—and taking great comfort in the fact that I was getting to experience real work. I don’t mean to undermine the type of soul-crushing psychobabble that is assigned in college, because that had me begging for mercy for 4 straight years; but when it comes down to it, it just doesn’t compare to pouring every ounce of your body into working a piece of land. I found myself wondering why, when we were at the height of thesis-complaints, Scripps didn’t just throw us all on a farm. It certainly would have shut me up.

So that was the morning; and every day, when the sun got too hot, we would hop back on our bikes—usually looking like we had gone swimming—and proceed to take the best shower, the best nap, and eat the greatest lunch on the planet. After working like that, just sitting made me want to cry with happiness.

My body was sore all over, bruised and cut and peppered with ingrown nails and mysterious infections… and I loved it. About halfway through the week, I realized that I had doubted myself; after the cushiness of college, part of me didn’t know if I could hack it on a farm. Now that I’ve done it, enjoyed it, and taken pride in my work, I feel like a new person. I feel like a warrior.

So, after those first days, two volunteers from Salt Lake City arrived—Paul and Max—and after only a few hours, we were talking like old friends. That’s the other thing about manual labor: in the amount of time it takes most people to brush their teeth, you’ve bonded with your workmates in a kind of Winnie-the-Pooh storybook way, where you’re sharing anecdotes and using funny voices and galloping through the forest singing “best friends for liiii—iiiifffee!” Or in our case, you spend countless hours pulling weeds, and occasionally hold the rice-bag while the other person shovels cow shit into it. You grab each other by the sweaty collar when one of you is about to slip in the manure-goo. Best of all, you spend the evenings drinking cold beer and eating homemade Pad Thai, laughing your butts off at nothing in particular, and lying down with your heads touching, listening to Blood on the Tracks, when it’s 8:30 p.m. and your eyelids are already drooping.

On our third day, Paul, Max, and I were so giddy with exhaustion that we spent fifteen-minutes adding the “sw-” (as in, sweaty) to every body part we could think of.

“Swankles.”

“Swegs.”
            “Hahahaha. Swellybutton.”

Finally, Max turned to us with a somewhat pained expression on his face. “Swass. I have some serious swass right now. And you know what? That’s never cute.”

Little did he know, when you’re putting in full days on a farm, even the unthinkable becomes cute. By the end of the week, there isn’t a swass in sight that doesn’t remind you of how lucky you are to be there, right where you are, on the verge of dehydration and surrounded by true friends.

Part Three: Baalack Opama

            When Obama’s victory was announced on Al Jazeera, and our spotty Wi-fi revealed that he had beat Mitt Romney and retained the presidency for four more years, our little corner of FaaSai erupted into happiness. Funny thing is, being thousands and thousands of miles away from home, I found myself more interested and concerned about this election than I was when it was in my backyard. Seeing the U.S. through the eyes of a foreign population tends to do that; the media sensationalizes the closeness of a race, and people for whom “hello, how are you?” is too much English to handle are able to convey their shock that someone as boneheaded as Mitt Romney was actually in consideration to be Commander in Chief. And yes, I know I am probably making some enemies right now (at the very least, my grandfather is shaking his head deciding that I am a ‘lost cause’)… but if that is the case, know this: every single country I have been to, and every European I have worked with thus far, has supported Barack Obama and believed he is America’s only chance at reaching some sort of peace. Plus, the guy looks good in a suit. And he knows how to deliver a speech… at the end of his acceptance, Paul and I were actually crying with relief and inspiration. “It’s nothing. I was just cutting some onions,” he said.

            For the rest of the day, the little old ladies working the property were walking around and chattering happily to one another, laughing at our glee and chanting, “Baalack Opama! Baalack Opama!”

            It was a good moment in time.

Epilogue: Ghosts

            One morning, it hit me. One moment, I was eating a bite of banana, and the next I felt as though someone had ripped out my stomach and replaced it with all the anguish, the loss, the sadness, guilt, and anger I have ever attempted to swallow down. It’s funny, because looking back on it now, my brain has already placed a band-aid over that moment, and I can hardly remember how awful it felt. Maybe it’s the same survival mechanism that allows women to have multiple children, even knowing how much it hurts the first time. (Note: I am in no way comparing my existential crisis to childbirth.) Anyhow, I felt it, really felt it, and then felt it some more… and somehow, counter-intuitively, feeling it completely is what allowed it to burn off. When it passed, I was left with something different. I felt pure.

            You see, what had occurred to me was that I no longer feel like I have a place at home in Santa Barbara. When I see photos of my friends’ lives and hear about what they are doing, I feel like a ghost that has evaporated out of their lives with great ease; everything is carrying on exactly as it has, with no evidence that I was there, or will ever be there again. After I allowed myself to feel the pain of this thought, though, it was replaced by another: maybe there is a place for me at home, a place amongst my friends, but it’s not the same shape or size as the one I left behind. If I went home now and expected to return to the self I left behind, it would be like running full speed at a wall bearing the cutout outline of Mary-Kate Olsen; in other words, I just don’t think I’ll fit through.

            On the way to the Bangkok airport, as I stared out the window at the rice fields flying by, I stopped feeling like a ghost. I don’t feel like someone who has evaporated out of a former life, doomed to haunt those who didn’t make room for me the first time around… but like a ghost, I feel weightless. I am engaged but nonattached, witnessing the events of my life unfold with respect and admiration and hilarity; the only ghosts around are the ones of my former lives, the karma I have already worked through. Last week in Thailand, I had a breakthrough. This week, I live in a loft overlooking Balian beach: I have a mosquito net, a yoga mat, an open wall, and the chance to get up to the sound of waves. I may technically be living in the attic (creaking over the floorboards each time I walk), rattling the chains of the things I’ve left behind… but with each sunrise, I throw another one out the window. With each morning, I feel a little bit more alive.

From the Ruins

When I left Slukat last Thursday, after a surprisingly emotional goodbye and a week of flashmob dancing with the kids, I was eager to spend time alone. For a month straight, I had been surrounded by people; small people yelling "HALLO, how are you too-day?!", big people sharing my room and my stash of Oreos, and medium-sized creatures scuttling under my bed or buzzing past my ears at night. I thought that a weekend in Ubud was just what I needed to decompress from my incredible month at Slukat, and I was determined to do it alone--after all, I like being alone.

Wrong.

What I ACTUALLY like is being surrounded by people with the OPTION of being alone. After spending three straight days without anyone I know, I got to thinking about how many of us consider ourselves natural-born loners, drawn to the somewhat romantic idea of quarantining ourselves away from the company of others when it feels oppressive, but secretly only want that solitude if it comes with the option of a Get Out Of Jail Free Card. During my time alone in Ubud, stereotypical as it sounds, I was faced with my demons: I met the demon who wanted me to have a cell phone to play with every time I sat alone at a restaurant, the one who believed that good-looking couples had set up a cloning laboratory right around the corner for the sole purpose of highlighting my heartache, the one who thought every creak in the floorboards was Freddy Krueger, and--most frightening--the one that told me over and over again that there was no way out. 

The interesting thing is, when there is no way out, you're forced to sit with the way things are; and now that I have spent some genuine time in the company of myself, removed from the language and clothing and food that makes me feel comfortable, I realize that things aren't so bad. And yes, I realize I sound like a pretentious idiot saying that things "aren't so bad" when I am traveling for free in one of the most desirable tropical locations on the planet... but I'm nursing a broken heart, and sometimes that makes it hard to see past the underside of my own pillow. With each day that goes by, though, it gets easier. With each stone I turn over, I find bits of my self-esteem hiding underneath. I've learned that, when it comes down to it, learning how to be stinkin' lonely once and a while is about one thing in particular: learning to like yourself. Not to 'love' your material existence, like you'd ask for a parachute before jumping out of an airplane, but to actually LIKE the person who gets up in the morning and accidentally squirts toothpaste all over the toilet paper. It's good. It's really good.

So after my weekend at Ubud Aura Retreat Centre, also known as the accommodation of the Guru who healed my elbow after I was hit by a motorbike (which is the reason I stayed there in the first place), I was ready to venture back into the world of social interaction. On Monday morning, Alicia's driver Nyoman picked me up for the airport... we made polite chatter in broken English about whether Michael Jackson was really dead or hiding out in a trailer park somewhere, listened to a lively mixtape of Tracy Chapman and Pitbull, and I lugged my overstuffed backpack through Denpasar airport. It was a long day of travel for such a relatively short distance, but I found I didn't mind so much... for me, air travel is an excuse to eat whatever I want and spend absurd amounts of money on gum and People magazine because I haven't yet figured out what the currency equals in terms of American dollars. Case in point: along with two lovely Swedish girls that I met on the flight to Kuala Lumpur, I think I spent about $14 on Hershey's chocolate. It was enough to get me to Suvarnabhumi Airport, anyhow, where--after a delayed flight and10 minutes of wandering around like a chicken with my head cut off--I miraculously found my cousin Bobbie (no telephone or pre-arranged rendezvous spot required!), and we set off for 3 days of sightseeing.

I am going to take a moment to acknowledge all of the nonbelievers out there, especially those familiar with the Paddleboat Incident of '96, who were convinced that Bobbie and I were destined to screw up our travel arrangements. It's no secret that the two of us together represent a magnet for the type of screwball mishaps that make movies like National Lampoon's Vacation seem not only plausible, but boring. I'd be lying if I wasn't worried that we would be the first people in history to wind up in two different cities with the name "Bangkok." Still, against all odds, we managed not only to find each other but to execute flawless travel from Bangkok to Ayutthaya with all our hostels booked and not so much as a hairbrush lost in transit. First of all, it was wonderful to be in the company of family... someone my own age to, you know, make words at (a novel concept at that point, you have to remember) and to drink in the scenery with. After a beautiful train ride through the countryside--for 20 baht--we arrived at our HOSTELLING INTERNATIONAL guesthouse (Woo hoo! Represent!) and proceeded to explore the local flavor. We wandered through a night market, ate our first real plates of pad thai, and I got bitten by approximately 3,000 mosquitos. I spent most of that night awake in bed, listening to a storm so intense that I was sure our little treehouse of a hostel was going to break in half. Not coincidentally, it was the night that Sandy wreaked havoc on the East coast; in a weird way, it made me feel that much deeper for all those who endured that terrible storm. Brief side note: My heart goes out to all of you who have been affected by Sandy, and I am sending lots of thoughts and prayers your way.

The next day, we ventured out on foot for the Ayutthaya Floating Market, which turned out to be one of the greatest sights I've experienced thus far. In spite of the fact that it resembles a scene out of the "It's a Small World" ride, it is easy to lose an entire day walking around the market; everywhere you turn, there is a woman making fresh Thai iced tea or Tom Yum or some sort of gutted fish-stick-thing. While the latter is perhaps more fun to look at than to eat, the vast majority of Thai foodstuffs have proven incredible; fresh fruits, creative seafood, slippery noodles. After exploring, Bobbie and I treated ourselves to Thai massage--and hands down, it was the best decision of the day. We were led by two deceptively strong women to beds overlooking the water, where for the entire hour, a breeze came in and brushed against our faces. Now, when I say 'deceptively strong,' I actually mean that these women could have easily wiped out an NFL quarterback. In case you don't know, Thai massage involves a lot of concentrated pressure and yogic stretching... which means that at certain points, the masseuse is putting the entire weight of her body on a tiny muscle in your calf or neck. It's one of those hurt-so-good kind of things that leaves you feeling like you've just been run over by a semi-truck, but it's the greatest semi-truck in the world and you can't wait to go play in traffic again tomorrow.

We spent that evening on a bike tour of the Ayutthaya ruins, led by a more-than-competent guide who was willing to brave the mosquitos in order to give us the historical scoop on each and every site that we saw. We went to about five spots in total, biking underneath the full, orange Halloween moon; it was deliciously spooky. It was amazing to see the places affected by last year's flood, and to stand inside moments of history that continue to represent so much to the Thai people. The amount of reverence that the average person has for a temple that houses a handful of ashes of a long-dead queen--famous for saving her husband's life in battle--is unmatched by anything I've experienced in America. At home, I've seen people get more excited about the new iphone than some of our country's most esteemed landmarks. (Insert embarrassment here).

Anyhow, our tourist appetites whetted, we returned the next day to Wat Maha That: the Ayutthaya Historical Park. Mainly, I wanted to see the famous Buddha-head-in-tree; a statue's head that, just as it sounds, is lodged into a gigantic Bodhi tree. In historical context, this landmark--and the entire site--takes on new significance; when you think about the fact that this kingdom was the site of mass murder and destruction, the fact that anything remains is remarkable. Walking around the ruins, there are dozens of Buddha torsos that have been stacked back together after what was a clear attempt (and success) by the Burmese to hack them to pieces during the invasion in 1767. Knowledge of this fact makes it all the more eerie and powerful to see the two or three Buddhas that still have faces. Despite the fact that their eyes are downturned in the classic meditation posture, it really makes one wonder what they have seen.

Walking around those ruins, I was met with a feeling of overwhelming awe... but also, unexpectedly, of prickliness. Here I was, hundreds of years later, imagining what it must have been like to walk around those buildings when they were painted and grand and began ten feet below the ground I now stood on. They were hundreds of years old, and they looked it--but they were still there. The bricks, remarkably, still resembled bricks. The care and dedication that was put into every square inch of that former kingdom is unlike anything I have ever known. At one point, I found myself wondering what it would be like to walk around the ruins of our modern world... and, sadly, whether there will even BE humans to walk around them. I'm not trying to be dismal, but it's an odd thought to think about the fury with which we seem to be destroying our planet. Here I was, a speck in the course of history, standing on the site of the destruction of the Siamese people, reflecting on the fact that the human race is probably going to pull a Dinosaur and evaporate from the face of Planet Earth before that Buddha head is going to disintegrate from its tree--and yet! I didn't feel upset. If anything, I felt reverence. For a brief moment, I felt that I understood the nature of impermanence; and instead of defeat, I felt gratitude. We are here for only a brief moment. One moment, it will all be gone. In the face of that kind of realization, we have a choice--we can cling onto the way things 'could be,' or we can choose to live fully in the moment that we have been given, because it is a gift.

So yes, for a whole second, I felt that I understood this. An hour later, I went straight back to caring how many calories are in a Pepsi and wondering if you could see my underwear through my pants. Spoiler alert: I'm not enlightened. But since coming here, I have been gifted with moments of clarity that have reminded me that there is something bigger than what I feel I've lost.

For the past few days, I've been thinking about ruins. Yes, Ayutthaya was the site of horrific brutality (re-enacted disturbingly well by a troupe of child performers at the Floating Market, complete with fake blood, in case you were wondering)... but now, centuries later, two cousins can nestle themselves into a Bodhi tree and talk about philosophy, take a Tuk-Tuk to the market, and fall in love with Thailand. On a much smaller scale, the life and relationship that I left at home can only be the site for growth--for someone to pick up a broken stone and think it is the most beautiful thing in the world--if they are seen for what they are: ruins. Life comes out of death, out of letting go of the idea that the pile of stones is a kingdom, and seeing it for what it is: something that used to be, something that will be something else one day. The same Buddha head that would make its sculptor say, "Shit! Three-quarters of my statue is buried beneath this massive tree!" is now a sacred relic, and costs 30 baht to buy on a postcard.

It all depends on how you look at the tree.

The One Where She Ate Her Feelings

Elizabeth Gilbert got it all wrong. Yes, going to three different locations on a journey to oneself makes for an intriguing book, and it certainly fits in with the mystical power of threes; however, after spending a month here, I can't help but wonder why Ms. Gilbert didn't come straight to Bali. You can eat, pray, and love here, all without leaving one village... sometimes, without leaving the same small stretch of beach. It requires a change in perspective: you'll be hard pressed to find Italian ravioli here, and Javier Bardem is not lurking around every corner, simply biding his time until a million love-wrecked ladies happen to walk by (I've looked). Sometimes, praying is nothing more than sitting in one place for a very, very long time, wishing you had a piece of home, waiting for the water in your brain to evaporate so you can't possibly cry anymore. Since I've been in Bali, I've had to change the way I walk in the world. For one, I have to look where I'm going--if I don't, I'm likely to fall in a pothole or get hit by a motorbike (done and done). I've also had to change the way I sit in my mind. The past few weeks, besides being a time of infinite growth and good times, has marked one of the most difficult heartaches I've ever experienced. So when I got the opportunity to spend the weekend in Ubud with a good friend from college, I leapt at the chance to do a little Liz Gilbert-ing of my own--but in the interest of time, decided to put the praying and loving on hiatus. My heart had been stomped on, and I did what any woman in her right mind would do: I ate.

For those of you who haven't known me very long, or for those who've had the good sense to disregard this charming little aspect of my life, I've spent the past five years involved in a relationship that--were it not for the deep love involved--would easily fall under the "DANGER: Extremely Hazardous!" category. At times, I've had only one toe in the water, and at other times have been completely submerged... but in any case, I've spent nearly a quarter of my life in pursuit of a man who has spent most of that time in pursuit of himself. It's like that experiment with the monkey and the banana: as soon as it lets go of the fruit, it's free to go... but it would sooner die with its hand in the trap than leave and give up the banana.  I've made the same mistake over and over again, given my heart to the same person countless times--expecting, somehow, that THIS time will be different--but without fail, I always end up getting burned. This time around, I didn't get dumped: I got ignored. I left for Bali with a kiss and a promise for a future together, and one month of silence later, have been left to assume that my relationship is over. Surprising behavior? Hardly. But when it's love, it's not always easy to take your hand out of the trap.

So I did the crying thing, I did the anger thing, and I did the self-loathing thing... which left me with one important branch: the indulgence thing. Over the weekend in Ubud, surrounded by good girlfriends and a beautiful village, I fed myself. Fruit salads with watermelon, mango, banana, and lychee, soaked in tart yogurt and sprinkled with homemade muesli. Cold-brewed cappuccino with cardamom and fresh ginger. Hot, fluffy cinnamon rolls dotted with walnuts and palm sugar. Sticky black rice pudding with sweet coconut cream. Nasi campur with thick coconut flesh, tempe curry, greasy corn fritters, and stringy greens. Thick spirulina-banana smoothies. Mulberry almond muffins. Homemade veggie burgers with thinly-sliced apple, crisp lettuce, and garlic tahini. Gingerale with lemongrass and fresh mint. Rosella tea kombucha. Fresh-squeezed wheatgrass juice. Thick sourdough rye toast with pumpkin miso butter. Frozen coffee ice cream swirled with caramel, whipped cream, and powdered sugar. Raw flaxseed-pizza crackers with cashew cheese and fresh avocado. Homemade banana muffins. Dark chocolate with spiced almond butter and caramelized cashews.

With each bite that I took, every nibble that tasted like something other than nasi goreng, I felt a little bit of myself coming back. I could feel the vitamins (and occasionally, the caffeine) spread to my fingers and toes, waking them up, nourishing them. And yes, Freud, I realize that it's just food... it's not the same as love, or a hug from a friend. Blah, blah, blah. Anyone who has had their heart broken knows that sometimes, you just gotta eat it out. Sometimes, the best you can do is treat yourself to something delicious that was made with care and love; and sometimes, that's good enough.

So I ate, and I prayed a little, and I decided to love myself again... and almost immediately after I did, was met with something extraordinary. On the way out of Bali Buddha on Friday, just after taking this gem of a photo:

...Vera noticed an advertisement for a traveling nanny. "Oh tough," she said. "All expenses paid nanny. That sounds terrible." (insert sarcasm here.) Anyhow, and I'm not exactly sure why, I was overwhelmed by the feeling that I needed to rip down this advertisement and take it with me. Seeing as I considered it impossible to actually respond to the ad, it was definitely not the least selfish thing I've done in my life. For about an hour afterwards, I kept turning it over and over in my hands, trying to figure out why I had a sick feeling in my stomach. After sitting in silence for a while and effectively freaking out my friends, I borrowed a phone and made the call. To this day, I have no idea why I did it. I just felt like I had to. Turns out the woman who placed the ad is a Sacramento-born, UCSB graduate who has been living in Asia and doing yoga, acupuncture, and Craniosacral therapy for most of her adult life. She and her husband, also a UCSB graduate, are leading a YogaWorks training on Balian Beach from November 2-December 10, and they need someone to watch their 4-year-old daughter, Olivia. After speaking on the phone for a while, the woman (Alicia) asked if I would meet up with her. And... one day, one children's ceramics class, and one walk through the rice fields later, I was offered the job. More than that, the job was extended--Alicia asked if I would accompany them through the holidays in Ubud, and then to Thailand for two Yin yoga trainings with an American master, Paul Grilley. My time with the family would be an all-expenses paid chance to hang out with one of the most beautiful and soulful little girls I've ever met. Within hours of meeting, Olivia and I were holding hands and chatting like long-lost sisters. To get the chance to spend time with her--and when she's in school, to participate FOR FREE in one of the best yoga trainings in the world--sounded almost too good to be true.

And like most things in my life, I nearly talked myself out of it. What about the holidays? What about my family? What about the fact that I only brought enough clothing for one month, and most of it is molding? What about money? More than anything, I found myself wondering what would happen to me if I allowed myself to give in to the unknown. I was held back by the blind hope that if I returned home and met my boyfriend face-to-face, the fog would lift and we would fall back into each other's arms... and who knows, maybe we would have. All I know is that it's not worth sacrificing this opportunity, or myself, to find out. I've been there. I've done that.

Besides, if I were to speak to him right now and tell him about this chance, I know exactly what he'd say. He'd tell me to take it.

So... I did! This day marks the beginning of an incredible new chapter in my life. My time at Slukat has been incredible, and I feel fortunate to have bonded with so many of the kids and volunteers here. I've seen faces light up when they understand something new, and that is worth its weight in gold. The fact that I get to continue this journey, spending time with a brilliant little girl and traveling around a part of the world that I feel hugely comfortable AND uncomfortable in (it's the paradox that makes it good), fills my heart with joy. More than that, it gives me hope. Because who knows what I won't find? It feels boundless. It's going to be difficult at times, I know that, but it feels boundless.

For some reason, the metaphor that keeps popping into my head is that Life is grabbing my by the undies; and now that I think about it, that's not half bad. When someone's got you by the underpants, you have no choice but to run with them... because if you resist, you get a wedgie. And no one likes a wedgie.

Boat Rides and Banana Sandwiches

Before I devote a blog entry to describing a 'day in my life' here at Slukat (spoiler alert: it involves geckos), I feel compelled to recall last weekend's jam-packed adventure. In the spirit of travel, which almost always brings out one's inner crazy person--let us not forget that I tried surfing for the first time in the dead of Irish winter--a few of us Slukat volunteers decided it would be worthwhile to make a sunrise summit of Gunung Batur. Not quite as tall as Agung, Batur is Bali's second highest volcano--peaking at just over 1,700 meters (so 5,630 feet). Though it is probably beautiful at any ol' time of the day, Bali has a tendency to shoot up to 90 degrees before breakfast has been served--and we decided to make the trek at sunrise. Sunrise, you might ask? Doesn't that mean you would have to leave at, like, two in the morning in order to make it by six? Why yes! You're correct. Two-fifteen, to be exact. At a time when most people my age are just beginning to think of sleep, we were already up and sunscreened and waiting for the car that would drive us to Batur. For many of us, it was the first time we'd worn shoes in weeks.

We stopped for a 'snack' about 10 kilometers from the trailhead, which consisted of semi-cooked pancakes soaked in syrup and warm bananas, coffee, and tea. I should mention that we were at a Kopi Luwak plantation, which means we were surrounded by a forest of dense trees and about a dozen caged civets--rat-like critters who produce the poop that the coffee (kopi) is made from. That's correct. The animals eat the beans, poop them out, and their waste is used to make the coffee. Apparently the fermentation process blah blah blah... they POOP! The animals POOP out the coffee you drink! Can anybody hear me?!? The Balinese think it's very delicious, but alas, I am beyond taking food recommendations from people who store corn flakes and organ meat in the same drawer. We ate our pancakes, peed into a hole in the ground, and the clock struck three.

When we finally arrived and were ready to hike, equipped with flashlights and bottled water, the sky was still pitch-black. It wasn't a problem at first, when the trail was rocky but relatively flat--but about 45 minutes in, the incline got steeper and steeper until we were all practically on all fours. For whatever reason, I had moved to the front of the pack early on... something about the relative discomfort of the whole thing, combined with the stars and the fact that I desperately needed to unknot some things in my mind, pushed me forward. I didn't feel great, certainly--my legs ached and every inch of my skin was itching with bugs--but I didn't have explosive diarrhea, and was therefore doing considerably better than some of the other hikers. I moved forward, using every muscle in my legs and feet to keep from slipping on the volcanic rocks, using the flashlights from the groups ahead of us--tiny lights dotting up the mountain like fairies--as a roadmap. As uncomfortable as it was, my hours on the volcano were some of the only ones in my life that have been truly zen. I went into a trance. Each step that I took up the side felt like a step away from the anger and sadness that I had been experiencing on the ground.

About twenty minutes from the top, the sun crested from behind the neighboring peak. Surrounded by mossy clouds, it came out--a little at first, a little more--until everything around us was bathed in a cool, golden light. It was like being on a different planet. Standing on the top of that volcano, drenched in sweat and surrounded by Balinese women trying to sell me coca-cola, I felt a million things: exhaustion, disorientation, victory, comfort, joy. It was incredible.

And then they served us "breakfast": boiled eggs and mashed bananas smeared between pieces of stale white bread. Let me tell you, when you've hiked for hours, there are few things that sound unappetizing...but as it turns out, that sandwich was one of them. We spent an hour or so wandering around the top of the volcano, holding our hands in front of the various openings in the ground to feel the hot, volcanic air pouring out. It was surreal to be standing on top of something that felt so alive, so full of energy and heat. I watched a group of imbecilic Dutch boys feed their sandwiches to the monkeys, who quickly spread the word and increased in number from 5 to about 500. I retreated into the corner, bemoaning my lack of rabies vaccination, and waited for one of the boys to lose a finger... or at least a chunky man-necklace. It never happened, but not for lack of effort on the monkey's part. The descent was less physically exerting than the climb, but definitely more difficult... demanding a whole new set of muscles in order to keep from pitching forward on the slick rocks. We made it, though--every last one of us--and by the time we arrived back home at Slukat, not yet noon, we felt as though we could rule the world... as long as they let us nap first.

Fast forward 4 hours, and we're on our way to Nusa Lembongan, chugging across the sea in a "Scoot: the Better Way to Getaway!" motorboat. What they DON'T tell you in those colorful green pamphlets is that, after wading through the ocean to hop into the boat, the crew takes their sweet time getting out of the channel. I don't speak in knots, but if I could, I'd say we were going at 0.5 knots per decade. "If this is the fast boat," Mayke said, "I don't want to see the slow one." Then, with absolutely no warning, they revved the engine and we literally tore across the ocean--and I'm not normally one to get motion sick, but oh boy. Every time the boat flew into the air and slapped down into the waves, I said a prayer. When we finally approached the shore of Nusa Lembongan, a beautiful little island off the coast of our slightly larger beautiful island, I had lost all feeling in my buttcheeks... but I didn't care. The sunset over the sea, speckled with little boats, was the most spectacular I've ever seen. After a big dinner (and even bigger dessert), followed by a nice digestif of bug spray, we fell into our tiny, crappy beds and slept the deep sleep of those who have conquered a mountain (and a Balinese motorboat. No tiny feat.)

If I'd known that would be the last of our boat rides, I might have relaxed... but it wasn't. It wasn't even the second to last. Fast forward through Saturday, which was spent lounging on the beach, walking the length of the island, and attempting to go to a "beach party" where I was very quickly pummeled in the face by an Australian man attempting to "dance," and we rose early to go snorkeling on Sunday morning. Now, I cannot make this clear enough: we did everything right. None of us were hungover, we ate a simple yet satisfying breakfast, drank tons of water, and Mayke even took motion-sickness medicine. We wore sunglasses and sunscreen and were prepared for anything--and still, one hour into Snorkelfest 2012, we all wanted to puke our brains out. At our first stop, the boat was literally ga-THUNKING over ever single ripple, wave, and slosh. It was brutal. Putting on the snorkel mask was brutal. Finding flippers when all I wanted to do was close my eyes and never ever open them was brutal. Getting into the water while the wind was whipping around my shoulders was brutal. And then--we were in. Submerged in the water, greeted by hundreds and thousands of the most colorful, beautiful, and frightening fish I have ever seen, I felt all my sickness melt away. It is impossible for me to describe the colors of a Bali reef, except that it is like being inside a particularly elaborate lava lamp... in other words, it's surreal. Being in the water like that, listening to my own breath magnified through the snorkel mask--running my fingers through the crystal water, peering into mangroves and coral reefs--was complete and utter bliss. It was the second zen moment that I experienced this weekend; I could have stayed there forever. I'll never forget it. Couldn't, even if I wanted to, because I'll probably always have the sun blisters to remember the horrific burn I acquired while out there on the great sea.

On the motor boat ride back, I stared out the window and sighed the sigh of someone who has spent entirely too much time in the sun. I felt wiped out, starving, but wonderful at the same time. Somewhere between Lembongan and Bali, we heard a gigantic THUD off the back of the boat, and watched the engines bob up and down... not exactly a welcome sight, if you know what I mean. "No worry!" the driver said. "Was only a suitcase!"

From now on, my luggage stays with me.

So! Between Friday and Sunday, I climbed a volcano, drank beverages that may or may not have had contact with a civet's butthole, swam in an infinity pool, snorkeled in the Bali sea, rode a motorbike, saw the preparations for a Balinese cremation, got punched by an Australian, and watched a cat gut a live fish. How was your weekend?

There's Something About Seminyak

To say that Seminyak is nothing but drunken Australians on the beach would completely disregard the hundreds of Balinese merchants, each one louder than the last, trying to sell you wooden penis keychains as you walk down the street. "I make vary spayshal price for you, dahleeng! You wan black one? You wan very big one? Chep price! Chep price!" Trying to tell them that no, you don't want to take home a fake penis with I HEART BALI engraved on the side, is equivalent to hitting your head over and over again against the same brick wall. In other words, it's pointless.

Before hopping in the car on Friday, I knew nothing about Seminyak except that it is the uppermost point of Bali's tourist trifecta, which includes Kuta and Legian directly below. According to Kelly, the average age goes up about a decade as you move up from one to the next; and sure enough, the majority of the tourists on Seminyak beach had the leathery skin and saggy man-boobs of those who have spent their better years in the brutal sun, probably slathered in baby oil and iodine. Deciding that we'd rather not end up on Locked Up Abroad: Bali Edition, we skipped Kuta altogether and booked 2 rooms in Grandma's Hotel in Legian. After a week of teaching at Slukat, cutting corners when it comes to food, water, electricity, and basic hygiene, the idea of a hotel--a soft bed and a hot shower--sounded too good to be true; and sure enough, when we walked in the door, we practically cried from happiness. Given the option to immediately get out and explore or to stay in and watch Mulan, we chose the latter--and I'm damn proud of that decision.

Unfortunately, our diversion did nothing to steel us against what waited outside. When we finally ventured out of the hotel room, we walked straight into the clutches of the consumer scene. As you make your way from Legian to Seminyak, the scene gets more and more like Rodeo Drive (and the prices go up accordingly)--but along the way, countless merchants have set up shop on the street, selling everything from fake Chanel wallets to silk tunics to t-shirts screaming "MY WIFE IS AWESOME." If you look, there really are some beautiful finds--abalone rings, batik sarongs, hand-carved wooden masks--but unfortunately, if you stop long enough to search, you are guaranteed to be grabbed (literally, grabbed) by a young man in a Kid Cudi t-shirt, telling you that he will make "spayshal price for you, gorgeous. Very, very chep." They're kind of like parrots who have been fed two or three lines of garbled English: they will repeat it from now until infinity without knowing, or caring, what it means. The scene continues to the beach as well--you can hardly watch the legendary Seminyak sunset without ten or eleven vendors, always in sweatshirts (?), selling hats, paintings, and the occasional bow and arrow. For the most part, a simple "no, thank you" repeated 20-30 times is enough to send them off to the next tourist--but on the off-chance that you actually do want to buy something, you are committing to a battle of endurance that could take anywhere from five to forty-five minutes. You see, Indonesian merchants expect to barter. They name a high price--much higher than they think they could get (and ironically, about $30 less than it would sell for in the United States)--and wait for you to cat-and-mouse around. It boils down to approximately one part flirtation ("Oh darleeng, this look so good in yo house!" "Oh, thank you. I just love plastic replicas of Cameron Diaz") and two parts stubbornness ("No, no, no. Tirty-tousand? That buy only nasi goreng! You make sehrious price." "That is a serious price. Thirty-thousand rupiah. That's all I have. That's every penny I have"). If you refuse to engage in this ritual, you are perpetuating the stereotype that all white people are rich, lazy, and incredibly stupid. If you DO choose to partake, you do so knowing that the twenty or thirty thousand rupiah you've just haggled away from this merchant is less than you would have spent on one Lean Cuisine. Damned if you do, damned if you don't... but if you do, you come home with significantly more junk (and significantly more haggle-pride) than you ever would have otherwise.

So we did our thing, ate pizza on the beach, got eaten alive by mosquitos, and it was still only 8:00--what next? So close to Kuta, we couldn't help but feel that we had to go somewhere...had to drink something other than Fanta... so Sanne called up her one connection: a Greek man she met on the flight from the Netherlands, who happened to be staying in Seminyak. Within minutes, he had invited us to The Potatohead--an infamous Seminyak beach club that had, just a couple weeks earlier, stunned the entire island by charging a $1,000,000 rupiah ($100) entrance fee for a concert. Naturally, Foster the People was scheduled to play there the next day. We arrived ridiculously underdressed and unwilling to pay $10 for a cocktail; but as luck would have it, were swept under the (quite wealthy) wing of Sanne's friend, and awkwardly allowed him to buy us each a drink. As beautiful and bizarre as it was to sit on a bed overlooking an infinity pool, listening to Fela Kuti (!) piped out of a gigantic sound system, surrounded by cosmetically-enhanced blondes wearing Gucci, I found the whole thing to be boring. If I want a little self-loathing with my grilled-pineapple and cracked black pepper margarita, I'll go back to Los Angeles. I'm in Bali. I want bad karaoke bars and orange juice that looks like it has been shot out of the waiter's nose.

Anyhow, that was Friday. Saturday was spent exploring more of the shopping streets, snacking at restaurants that occasionally had power outages (don't order the chicken!), and walking for miles in every direction. After a lengthy trek up the beach, we found our destination: Seminyak's Petitenget Temple. We changed into our traditional garb (sarongs and tunics=mandatory for entrance), and left Sanne at the door--she was menstruating, and by traditional rules, was not allowed to enter. She could have easily ignored it, no one would have known--but somehow, none of us were okay with that. In a place like Bali, one quickly becomes respectful of the spiritual rules and requirements... they are the foundation of everything. Defiance is not a desirable option.

When we entered, the whole temple was abuzz with preparations for Sunday's ceremony--and it quickly became apparent that Mayke and I were the only tourists inside. After sheepishly snapping our photos and walking around the various statues and offerings, we approached a stage set with Gamelan instruments, decorated from top to bottom with gold, orange, and fuchsia draperies. About a dozen men in white costume stood around, smoking, staring at us with friendly (if not a bit confused) stares... and then the most amazing thing happened. One of the musicians, the leader, beckoned us to sit on the stage. "You join," he said. "Okay?" We looked at each other, then back at him. We took off our shoes and sat down on the stage, sandwiched ourselves between a couple drums, and were handed the bowl of holy water to clean our hands; and over the next half-hour, experienced what it is like to be inside a Gamelan ensemble as they prepare for a grand ceremony. We weren't playing any instruments, but we were as much a part of it as every clang and bong coming out of the ugal. When it was over, they bowed to us and sent us on our way--our hearts considerably fuller than they had been when we entered.

So, that was the weekend--other than Peter getting scratched by a monkey at Ulu Watu and receiving an emergency rabies vaccine (yes, that actually happened), our trip to Seminyak left us relaxed and happy. Of all the sights and sounds I took in, the trip to the temple was by far the most profound. It was during that moment, and a few moments since, that I have begun to feel a sense of deep happiness here. It comes in waves, it only stays for a few moments, but when it is there... it takes me in its arms and envelops me in the warmest, sweetest hug I have ever felt. If I had to describe it, I would say it is what it feels like to be free.

To recap: Bali has many faces.

             This Bali...                                        coexists alongside                   ...this Bali.

Likewise, this Bali...

... lives next door to this one.
And they all lived happily ever after in a room full of bugs.

Zachary

One of the greatest things about Bali is that, at any given moment, nature threatens to overtake civilization. Walking down one of the windy, narrow streets--hardly large enough for two motorbikes, let alone a car--you get the impression that you are teetering on the edge of a balance that will, at any moment, collapse. I love Bali because there is no such thing as human-centric design; if anything, it is the opposite. You want to cross the street? Better wait for the pack of mangy dogs. You wanna take a shower? Better check if there is any water available. You wanna walk to the bathroom barefoot? Fuhgettaboutit. The cockroaches and scorpions were here long before you were, and you can be damn sure they'll be here long after you're gone.

On my second night at Slukat, and the first night that I didn't black out from sheer jetlagged exhaustion, I woke suddenly to what sounded like a gigantic bird being strangled in the rafters. My ceiling is more than 20 feet high, mind you, and the sound reverberated off the bamboo thatching in such a way that it managed to come from multiple directions at once--there was no way this was a bird, or even a small mammal. In my half-sleep stupor, I began picturing eagle-tiger hybrids with gigantic scales and bulging red eyes... essentially, a hippogriff. I thought a hippogriff was living in my roof.

Needless to say, when the Dutch volunteers came back from their weekend in Padang Bai, I told them about my new roommate... much to their delight. "Is not a behrd," they told me, "is gaycko." Beyond my newfound concern that 70% of Slukat students would be learning English with a heavy Dutch accent on TOP of their Indonesian one, ("AHYSCUZ ME SEEER, WULD YOUS LIKE TO GA TO DE BETCH??"), I was tickled to hear about my new friend. Geckos are so exotic. They have awesome, knobby toes, and are speckled with colorful spots, like they are always on their way to a tiny lizard disco. Plus, geckos eat the spiders... which in case you didn't guess, are the size of dinner plates. I was definitely pro-gecko.

That was until I found out that they poop from above. My roommate, Milla, has a nice canopy bed--but me, I'm completely exposed to the elements, right in the line of fire. As much as I appreciate our gecko, who I have since named Zachary, I do not appreciate having little treats parachuted down in the middle of the night. It's bad enough that on an average day, my room is swimming in fire-ants, buzzing with flies and wasps, and perpetually coated in a thin layer of goo that you know--you just know--is evidence of much nastier critters lurking just out of sight. The first night I felt things crawling and falling all over me, I shot out of bed, desperate for a solution... but soon realized that there isn't one. I can erase a line of ants with a wet towel, letting them bite me, but they will only be back 2 minutes later. One of the Dutch volunteers, a computer nerd, gave me some high-tech bug zapper that emits some weird frequency when plugged into the wall... an expensive gadget that actually had a negative success rate, seeing as the existing ants appeared to have called all their friends and relatives over to have a look at what happens when human beings spend money on silly toys. Since this failed experiment, my nighttime ritual has been boiled down to washing my face and feet (if the water happens to be on), slathering my body in herbal bug spray, and saying a little prayer that I wake up with all ten fingers and toes. (So far, so good.)

Living and sleeping here is an adventure. Close your eyes, and you can hear a thousand sounds... the nighttime cicadas; the sunrise roosters; the whir of broken fans; the buzz of motorbikes; the bark of stray dogs; the bad karaoke down the street (in the immortal words of Milla: "I'll say one thing about Indonesians...as shy as they are, when it comes to karaoke, they just fucking GO FOR IT"); the hush-hush of the tall grass and banana leaves. Take a deep breath, and there is the spice of Sambal mixed with warm fruit, incense, and the faintly-sweet, thick smoke of the brick makers baking clay during the wee hours, all cloaked in perpetual dampness. This place is an orgy for the senses... it's a bit overwhelming, if you ask me. Then again, I don't remember what 'clean' smells like, and I've all but lost my taste for most things 'sterile.' The clean laundry smells acidic, and the dish soap feels toxic... but then again, it might just be. When it comes to most purchases, the Balinese are a little loose on the whole "is-it-gonna-kill-me?" thing.

Might as well face it: it's a Zachary world, and we're just living in it. It's a good day when you don't feel a giant winged insect thwack into your forehead, or open the fridge to find tiny, freezing lizards scampering in the bread (both of which happened today, by the way.) There is so much more to say, so much more to describe--my first day in Ubud, the supermarket at Gianyar, my introductions to traditional Balinese dance AND traditional Balinese yoga--but seeing as this is the very first time I have managed to stay awake past 10:00, I'm not going to push my luck. You can guarantee that at some point during the night, I will be woken up by Zachary's incessant "NGEEEEK--CAW. NGEEEK-CAW," the tickle of ants crawling across my face, or a confused rooster heralding the 2 o'clock hour. There are chickens, ducks, and pregnant cats everywhere. My friend recently caught a rat eating her underwear. On an average pedestrian street in Keramas, the ratio of 'crazy, jungle-like weeds' to 'street' is about 6:1. Here, nature makes room for you--not the other way around. It's surprisingly comforting. I have a feeling that, by the end of this trip, I'm going to find a lot of peace in it... if I don't get eaten in my sleep first.