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.