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.

Life on Mars

Remember that meal I talked about yesterday, the one with the Jersey Canadians? My pipe dreams of a cold Bitang and a plate of nasi goreng? Yeah. Never happened. Around 7:30 last night, after walking along a stretch of abandoned beach, we realized that not only do 2 restaurants exist in the general vicinity, but they all close at sundown. After bidding my new friends a good night, I was left to scour the local equivalent of a quickie mart (ramen, gum, mysterious looking chocolate beverages)... and quickly decided to take my chances back at Slukat. It wasn't long before I was out prowling the grounds with my headlamp, deciding which of the prickly, neon fruits would be least likely to poison me... and even went so far as to tear open a football-shaped green one before realizing that no matter how desperate my hunger, I would rather go to bed with my stomach growling than end up like the guy at the end of Into the Wild.

And when the symphony of roosters roused me at dawn, I woke with a vengeance. Suddenly, I was lonely and starving and desperate for home. My hair and skin were sticky. There was no one to talk to. There was an infestation of fire ants underneath my desk, and I was eating yet another Clif bar in place of a real meal. It's almost as though the honeymoon and anger phases of being abroad had been switched; I lay on my bed, sweaty and lonely, wondering why I'd ever decided to come so far from home. I understand now why everyone leaves Slukat on the weekends--it's beautiful, but its isolation is crazymaking.

Then, just as it always does, my discomfort lifted as quickly as it had settled. Two of the young students arrived at my door with buttery, grilled corn, fresh from the garden--and as we sat eating it, making pleasantly broken conversation about (what else) the Twilight franchise, two fanny-packed men walked down the driveway: Kelly and Sam. Kelly, it turns out, was the very first volunteer at Slukat and lived here for more than 5 years. After a quick conversation that revealed my recent lack of sustenance (not to mention social contact), the three of us took off for the beach.

I thought I had died and gone to heaven. A breeze blew off the water, I had a plate of fried noodles and a cold beer, and I had serendipitously stumbled upon the most knowledgeable tour guide this side of Ubud. Within minutes, Kelly began to talk about Bali--which, according to his opinion, is the "furthest you can get from American culture."

"You can't get to Mars," he said, "but this is the next best thing."

He briefed me on the simpler differences. For example, while some Americans expect to encounter anything from a rabid dog to an overalled, shotgun-bearing hillbilly each time they cut through private property, the Balinese have no problem with tresspassing. In fact, it's expected. On our way back to Slukat, we crossed through a rice field and made conversation with a woman laying brick from a Jenga-like pile of stones on her head. This image isn't an unusual one-- in fact, women have traditionally done most manual labor on the island. When the Hindus were herded to Bali, the men were expected to stay home and keep guard; as it were, the women were left to the fields.

He told me about the drug policy--which is not so much a policy as an ultimatum. For even the smallest amount of marijuana, one is imprisoned for an average of 12 years. (That sound you just heard is a collective shudder from every Santa Barbara high schooler, and most of SBCC as well.) The punishment for possession of hard drugs is, without exception, death by firing squad. The only loophole in this harsh and unforgiving policy is that of hallucinogenic mushrooms--which, according to Kelly, are served up legally on the majority of Kuta and Legian dinner menus.

In other news, while on Bali, one should never pay or greet with the left hand-- toilet paper is allegedly a Western phenomenon, meaning that--in its place--the left hand is employed to do the dirty business. While on a morning walk on the skinny road to Keramas, one may encounter people bathing and, erm, defecating in the canal water... often at the same time. It is not considered strange to do so.

My mind was blown. Kelly, Sam, and I walked along the glittering black sand for over two hours, sometimes stopping to take a picture or to watch groups of stone-gatherers collecting the little black rocks used to make pathways. When I asked what I should see in my spare time, Kelly advised me to experience the four main pillars of Bali: the 'real' Bali, Keramas and surrounding villages (where I bought my mango this afternoon); Kuta, Legian, and Seminyak, land of drunk Australians and luxury resorts (where the average age gets higher as you move up the coast); the mountains of the north; and Ubud, the arts colony where--from everything I've heard and read--all my wildest dreams are sure to come true. Divide those 4 goals by 5 weeks... well, I think it's certainly do-able. And I am forever indebted to Kelly for reinvigorating my faith in the natural ups and downs of travel, and in my ability to navigate it with confidence and reverence.

"I almost feel bad for you," he told me, as we sat looking over the ocean. "You've already discovered the best place on planet earth. The culture couldn't be more different than what you're used to, but the people are relaxed about it. They are accepting. No matter where you go after this, Venezuela or whatever, nothing will ever compare. You've found the most beautiful land on earth."

I have to say, as the sun sets on this 3rd day and my homesicky-jetlag is beginning to disappear (along with my stash of Clif bars), I'm beginning to think he's right. But what do I know? I'm just a dumb Canadian.

Welcome to Slukat!

With the 3:00 hour just rounding out my first 24 hours in Bali, I finally feel sane enough to sit down and reflect. A cool, lifesaving wind is blowing through the open door to my left--delivering the occasional butterfly or delicate blossom. Yes, I know I sound like a yoga magazine; and no, I don't feel like apologizing for it. The beauty of this place makes me realize why people read those magazines in the first place... only it isn't glossy, or exaggerated. It is raw, and that is the best part about it.

The final leg of traveling yesterday--though 1/3 of the first flight--managed to feel ten times longer, made worse by the fact that I had a socially awkward seat partner trying to chat me up the entire time. He didn't bring an ipod, either, so I had the distinct displeasure of feeling him watch Gilmore Girls over my shoulder for most of the flight. The landing into Bali was smooth and scenic--the runway extends out over the water, so it looked like we were descending straight into the sea. We taxied in past airport workers sitting in the shade, their arms draped lazily over one another, surrounded by bicycles scattered around the tarmac. I drifted off the plane and through the airport in a happy daze, all the way to baggage claim... where--reality check!-- 2 men, apparently fluent enough to read the "SLEEP-DEPRIVED AMERICAN" tattoo on my forehead, managed to rob me of $200,000 rupiah by carrying my bags through customs (without my consent) and then holding out their palms for cash. Disoriented, I reached for my cash belt and attempted to hand them the lowest bill I could find--but was told "the red one! the red one!" so many times that I folded like a pancake. I gave them each a red bill, and Scarlett O'Hara-ed all the way out of the airport... with God as my witness, I'll never be duped again! 

Outside the airport, 3 Slukat staff members met me with big grins and a sign with my name on it. We hopped in a van (and at this point, I was already drenched in sweat after being outside for 2 minutes) and proceeded to snail through the craziest traffic I have EVER seen--and that counts Anaheim on a promotional Disney weekend--all the way through Kuta and Legian. I was told that we were in the car for about 2 hours, but it felt like ten minutes; the road was packed with motorbikes weaving in and out of the cars--honking NOT out of rudeness, I am told, but as a way of saying "hey, I'm here!"--and the side of the road was scattered with technicolor snack stands, shops, hotels, and the occasional cow or chicken. It is common for people to walk up to your window while you are gridlocked in traffic and offer to sell you a bobble-headed cat. When the road finally cleared, we flew through the countryside and along the coast--endless palm trees and rice fields, speckled with snack stands and artisans, as far as the eye can see--and finally arrived at Slukat Learning Center, my new home, in Keramas. Before I even got out of the car, I could see girls practicing traditional Balinese dance in one of the outdoor classrooms... and when I got out, they all greeted me with big smiles. My tour of the property was a big blur of colors and smells--every room has seemingly limitless, intricately carved ceilings and a beautiful porch. My room is gorgeous--airy, big--but not cushy, and I love it that way. Everything is coated with a thin layer of grime, there are lizards crawling in the spaces between the brick walls, and the bathroom--oh, the bathroom--consists of a rock floor (as in, loose rocks), a semi-functional toilet, and a shower-head. There are also a lot of ferns. And did I mention? You can get wi-fi in the bathroom, but there is no ceiling. Or hot water. (Priorities).

After showing me my room, the girls plucked fresh orange coconuts and showed me to the traditional kitchen--where 2 toothless men, the gardener and the maintenance man, squatted and wove palm leaves together. We hacked the coconuts open and drank the strange, spicy--almost bubbly--juice, which was unlike anything I've ever had before. There are also papayas, mangos, jackfruit, and starfruit growing right outside my window.

After a man on a motorbike delivered a delicious dinner of spicy (read: SPICY, as in touch-your-eyes-and-lose-an-eyeball spicy) tofu, steamed vegetables, and rice, I took a freezing shower and stumbled into bed at the ripe old hour of 7:30. That put me bright-eyed and bushy tailed at--oh, 4:30 in the morning--which was just in time to watch the brick makers arriving to work next door, and to spend some quality time with Slukat's resident starving pet, a cat named Maya. After doing yoga and drinking the most disgustingly satisfying cup of Nescafé instant coffee, I wandered down to the beach--passing at least a dozen locals who yelled "hello, madam!" at me, soliciting a range of schizophrenic responses on my part, everything from a half-thumbs-up to a wave to a drugged-looking smile. In all cases, the locals proceeded to crack up and chatter as I walked away... and I don't speak Bahasa, but if I could take a guess, I reckon the rough translation would be "Look at that silly white girl. Didn't her parents teach her how to wave? 50,000 rupiah says she falls in the mangroves and gets eaten by a chicken."

The ocean is rough and wild, white-capped and loud, and the sand is jet black. I watched an old couple carry bags of rice on their heads as they made their way up the beach, passing just long enough for one of my (now signature) cracked-smiles, before hopping on their motorbike and buzzing up the road. It's hard to say what it is, but there's just something about them--the Balinese--that makes me instantly calm. They give off an air of kindness and ease. I have a lot to learn from them.

Even with their constant respect and graceful acceptance of my awkwardness, I found myself feeling lonely among the Balinese, and craving a fluent conversation... and, oddly, for the company of other Americans. That's right, I said it. No matter how many fat Texans have I've recently served fettuccine to, and no matter how many times I've wanted to yank the skateboard right out from underneath every Adidas-clad Santa Barbara teenager, I missed Americans. I think it came from shyness more than anything else; I wanted to be in the company of people who were louder and more obnoxious than I am, and Americans tend to fit the bill quite nicely.

It didn't take long at all. (Disclaimer: if you're reading this, C & B, I don't think you are obnoxious. In fact, I think you are both sweet and freakishly good-looking and deserve to have your very own television show.) Around noon, two "Canadians" came rolling in. Thinking they were actually Canadian, I began to scrounge my brain for Canadian talking-points--which, thankfully, I didn't have to use, because the conversation would have gone something like,"do you like maple syrup with your hockey? Margaret Atwood."--but within minutes of being alone, they told me the truth. They're from New Jersey. They've been using the Canadian alias as a safety precaution.

Immediately, I felt my stomach drop. Should I have done the same thing? Even though Bali is Hindu and incredibly peaceful, am I making a mistake by telling people that I am from the United States?

Something to think about. The news in Jakarta is bookmarked as my homepage, and I am keeping a low profile. For now, I'm going to join the Jersey Canadians for a meal... where perhaps we can work on our "what abooot it?" over cold Bitangs and Balinese sunset. If I do need to adopt a new identity, though, it's going to have to come later... because for now, my brain is so overloaded with fresh sights and smells and colors and life that I can hardly keep from bursting at the seams.

Approaching the 17th Hour

20 hours of air travel is enough to make anyone go a little bonkers. But is it really so much to ask that those who manage not only to look decent, but actually look good after traveling, keep it to themselves? Until now, I never imagined that I would be the type of person to long for compact mirrors or travel-sized facial toner, but after 30 minutes spent in the Taiwanese Duty-Free dabbing creams and serums over my evil-looking exhaustion, I would have sold my soul for a toothbrush.

The flight from LAX was long, but relatively painless. Other than a mysterious stain on my seat and a man in front who managed to put his seat back ONLY during the moments I was attempting to sleep on the tray table, I enjoyed myself--so much so that I hardly noticed how disgusting the meal was. Apparently, chicken swimming in gravy tastes the same no matter what country you're in.

The airport in Taipei is beautiful, and fits into the niche of what I always imagined Chinese hustle-and-bustle to look like--lots of sounds, smells, important looking people in suits, and (naturally), life-sized posters of Natalie Portman selling perfume. That, and Hello Kitty. EVERYWHERE. I've learned something important during my few hours here in Taiwan--if it can be sold, it can be sold in a Hello Kitty theme. Other than that, my favorite room in this airport is the prayer room--a large, white hall with a butterfly statue in the middle, made even better by the fact that something called "kung fu massage" is offered next door.

The crowds are beginning to congregate, which means it's time to board for Bali! It's already a completely different group than the Taiwan flight--not only aesthetically, but energetically. If I thought I was the only American traveling to Bali right now, I was sorely mistaken--I wasn't even the only one to take a dorky photo of the "Bali: Gate A6" display. At the moment, I can count at least a dozen people frantically attempting to get their iphones to play Netflix movies. Other than us Westerners, though, there are people who look and seem like they are going home--and they are different than anyone I have ever encountered before. I'm drinking it all in as much as my tired eyes will allow me to, excited to GET THERE and to see more.

Despite my lack of sleep, my body is energized in the distinct way that only travel brings--I am already in a completely new landscape, on my way to yet another new landscape. And to think, I will even get to leave the airport this time.