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A Jam of a Day on Bali Paradise
As usual, I’m awakened by a cacophony of cocks crowing.
We need cocks on Bali for two things: To fertilize eggs and to participate in fights. The cocks are well taken care of as they are monetary investments. I know of a few cock owners who have imported their cocks from the Philippines because their breeds of cock are ferocious fighters. Oftentimes, as I take walks through the island’s villages, I see small groups of men sitting in circle, conversing, stroking their cocks. The cocks are well loved.
After the cock arousal I joyfully jump out of bed to begin a day of long distance travel on my trusty red Yamaha Mio. I’m taking my first trip into Kuta, a famed tourist center on Southern Bali, to meet with a well known Indonesian spiritual activist.
Before I set out for the day’s adventure I take care of details concerning my house move. I wash my clothes in the bath tub with Rinso and hang them on the Frangipani tree to dry. I pack my backpack for my overnight in Kuta, and sort through clothes to take to the thrift store. My phone rings. It is my friend Made. We make arrangements for him to transport my three bags, backpack, two pillows, one pot, one pan and my cat Putu to my new abode on Friday morning.
I complete my morning duties, say goodbye to Putu (which means number 1 in Balinese) and ride into Ubud to have coffee with my visiting friend from Singapore.
Walking up to the front desk at Ubud Bungalows I ask for the cottage number of Monica Rodriguez.
The concierge smiles brightly, “Monica Rodriquez?”
“Yes.”
He picks up the guest book and flips through the pages.
“Ms. Monica?”
“Yes, Monica Rodriguez. From Singapore.” I confirm.
The concierge picks up another other guest book, flips through and doesn’t find her listed. He turns to the other concierge; seemingly asking a question.
“I am sorry; we do not have a Ms. Monica.”
“This is the Ubud Bungalows, yes?”
“Yes.”
“You know, I’ll just wander into the compound and look for her.”
“Monica… Monica,” I call sweetly, sauntering down the walkway.
My cell phone rings.
“Yes?”
“This is Monica. I am at the front desk.”
“Oh! I’ll be right there.”
After we hug I tell her, “You know, according to the records you’re not staying at this hotel.”
Monica gets close to me and whispers: “I’m not sure what is going on. I have been out walking. When I returned to the front desk they said that someone was looking for me.”
“I laugh, “I’ve had similar experiences at other hotels. I’m not sure if it’s a language thing, a cultural thing or some holographic time warp.”
Arm in arm we walk to the restaurant, enthusiastically chatting like monkeys.
“Yeaouch!” I scream.
“Are you O.K.?” A passerby from the opposite direction reaches out to steady me.
“What happened? Monica asks.
“Yes…sure….I guess I’m O.K. Thanks. I just rammed and jammed my big toe on the sidewalk.”
The sidewalks in Ubud are deadly. They are made of red tile and at unpredictable lengths the sidewalk steeply slides down at a 90 degree angle. A few strides later, one must then take a giant step up. The slides are so steep that it is challenging to walk along talking with a friend or looking at shops without falling. I’m told that the reason for these steep inclines is to direct water during the rainy season.
Instinctively I take off my sandals to walk the remaining few meters to the restaurant. When we arrive, I ask the waitress to bring me ice to place on my much bigger big toe. She provides me with a lovely maroon napkin filled with ice.
After an hour of dialog the ice has melted all over the floor. It is time to take my leave.
Twenty minutes outside of Ubud I come upon a traffic jam. I can see that a tourist bus the size of France is having difficulty clearing a Banyan tree. Bikers from both directions find gaps in the jam to slither onward. This of course creates more of a delay. About ten minutes pass before the bus finally clears the tree and I resume my ride.
Fifteen minutes later my journey is halted by another, larger traffic jam. It occurs to me that ‘jam’ is becoming the theme of the day. This is an interesting jam: A van is turned sideways in the road, an emergency vehicle is parked in front of it alongside a government vehicle and three tourist busses loom close by amidst a multitude of motorbikes. These roads are barely wide enough for two vans to comfortably pass in opposite directions.
In the middle of this vehicular frenzy two Balinese men dressed in sarongs and ceremonial headgear are directing traffic. There is a breath of space separating each vehicle. I observe the scene before me in awe as these two directors strategically move each of us one nano millimeter at a time to un-jam the jam.
These men inspire me to un-jam my toe while waiting when to my surprise I see my traditional Balinese dentist with whom I recently began treatments for a root canal, climb out of the emergency vehicle, dressed in uniform white.
“Hey, Made Yadnya!”
My dentist walks over to me and gives me a hug. A military uniformed officer comes up behind Made Yadnya, and gently directs her into the waiting government vehicle. The traffic guys work their magic patiently, with ease and grace until finally flow is restored and me and my Mio mosey on down the road towards Kuta.
Kuta is new territory for me. I’ve been to Sanur, a beech town on the East coast of Bali, just outside of Denpasar and just north of Kuta. I know from looking at the map that Sunset Road running East/West by the mall will take me to my destination.
Somewhere on the four lane bypass through Sanur I slide over to the far left lane, the left hand turn lane, at a stop light so that I can read the name of the street. There is no street sign. I do see the sign for the mall, about ½ kilometers straight ahead. As the light turns green, I nudge myself into the forward moving traffic.
As I arrive in the middle of the intersection, I notice a traffic cop step out of his little hut, motioning me towards him.
This is the first policeman that I have encountered in Indonesia. In fact, I had no idea that there were any road rules in Indonesia that I could break. It is a free for all on these narrow, jungle byways. The Balinese do not look both ways before crossing the street; they simply enter into the street. It seems the ‘rule’ is that motorbikes and cars are allowed to pass two to three vehicles at a time, taking up the entire lane that is heading in the opposite direction. Many times I have had to squeeze myself within an inch of the border of my lane to avoid a head on collision. My mantra as I ride in the maniacal motorbike mayhem of Bali is: Arrive Alive.
I pull up beside the traffic cop’s hut. He smiles, walks towards me and asks me for my driver’s and bike license. I hand over my international license as well as my New Mexico license.
“Oh, where is the rest of it?” he inquires, turning over the international license.
It occurs to me that he might want to give me a ticket for tearing off the meaningless information that I tore off the license to make it small enough to keep in my billfold. I laugh in response to his question.
He looks at my photo on my New Mexico license laughs, and then asks me to step into his little hut.
“I have to give you a ticket. You were in the wrong lane. Now, you can pay for this ticket in the courts or the bank.”
I laugh. “How much do you want?
He said, “100,000”
“Whoa! I don’t think so,” I reply laughing. “How about “20,000? (This is what I love bout the Balinese: All things are negotiable with laughter. In other countries, such as China, the people are seriously serious about all monetary negotiations. No fun at all.)
He shakes his head, “No, 60,000.”
“30,000.”
“OK”. He finally agrees
To my dismay I open my billfold to discover I have no small currency. I only have 50,000 bills.
“Do you have change?”
We both laugh at that question.
I give him the 50,000 bill to return to the road.
A few blocks later I turn right onto Sunset Road and without difficulty find the Bali Bakery where I am to meet my friend, Christina.
I look at the time on my cell phone when I embark from my bike: It took me two hours to arrive alive in Kuta. I hear that this trip, without toe jams, traffic jams and police jams usually takes one hour.
During lunch Christina tells me that her apartment is across the road and only a two minute bike ride from the Anand Krishna Center where I am to meet with Anand.
Sweet!
In the entryway of her apartment we take off our shoes. I lift my right foot to enter into her one room apartment and slam, ram, and jam my toe on a small, thin step that is exactly the height of my big toe.
“Aarrggh! I jammed my toe again! Christina, do you have any ice? Gosh, this really hurts now. I wonder if I broke it. No, its not contorted. Just severely jammed.”
I hold my big toe with both hands, sending it healing energy. I pull it in a vain attempt to un-jam it. Instantly the toe swells larger, as the nail begins to turn purple.
Christina’s landlord arrives and Christina asks her for ice.
She promptly returns with ice in a plastic bag. I sit down to ice my toe as Christina gives me the key to her apartment and leaves to return to work.
In twenty minutes I am fully iced wearing a change of clothes and ready to go.
I insert the key into the lock to deadbolt the door. I pull on the key, and it won’t budge out of the lock. I juggle, jiggle, jangle, jiggle, and jangle some more. This key ain’t going anywhere. It’s like two stuck copulating dogs.
I slowly gimp along a walkway around the third floor of the building and down three flights of stairs to the landlord’s apartment.
The landlord treks up to the apartment. She works the key. No luck.
Two long minutes later she extracts the key out of the lock.
She gives me the key; laughing (I love a culture that laughs so easily at misadventures) and I take my leave.
I arrive at the Center during a pop up rain shower.
A woman is leaving from an appointment with Anand.
“We must protect this man, you and I” She says to me.
We do?
I follow Anand and his secretary into the meeting room, silently wondering why he needs protection.
When we sit at the table he tells me why: “You know you have arrived at a very unusual time. I am being accused by several groups for sexual harassment.”
He then tells me the story of a 19 year old who is accusing him of this. “When she appears on television it is as if she is not herself. She is dazed.” Anand states.
In his years of teaching he has not met privately with students, only in groups. Yes, this is a political assault. These groups have been against Anand for years. His voice is a fiercely loving force that seeks to unveil social, political and spiritual facades in Indonesia.
Apparently the past three days the groups have bought air time on national television. And not only that, some stations are voicing that they support these fanatics’ accusations. During our dialog he receives several text messages.
“Oh. My accusers have made this a police matter. They want my arrest.”
“For what?” I ask, “They have no evidence.”
We are in Indonesia. Who needs evidence?
Anand and I talk about the karmic possibilities of his situation, what his lawyers are doing, and what kind of public statement he is making.
“You are not going back to Jakarta now, are you?” I ask. “It seems you might be safer here in Bali.”
“Yes, I believe that you are right.”
Finally, he says to me as he rises from his chair, “I want you to do workshops at my Mediator’s Festival in November. I want you to come to Jakarta, too. Yet now, with this situation…I am not sure of anything!”
He apologizes for the timing of our meeting and says that he must go and respond to his messages.
I ride back to Christina’s neighborhood underneath a starry sky with a new moon.
Kuta is a tourist, soulless city, and this is real city life: Dive bars next to high rent Western Condo’s next to cows in rice fields, next to retreat centers, next to garbage dumps with the French fried smell of McDonalds permeating the air.
I’m tired and I want to find pain relief for my giant toe. I find an Apotek near Christina’s apartment building. A Javanese woman is standing behind a high counter. I swing my leg up on the counter and point to the black and blue bulbous mass that has replaced my Putu toe. The woman calls upon advice from her co-worker. This woman produces medication for sports sprains along with some pain pills. I make my purchase and limp out of the door.
I’m exhausted. I want to find my friend’s apartment.
Driving down an alley that I think is in front of Christina’s apartment building I dodge deep holes with loose gravel. Suddenly my headlights reveal a cow chewing cud. I swerve past him to encounter two more cows finally ending up at a dead end street. The buildings are shadowy outlines. None of the buildings look familiar. I give up.
I stop the bike, take out my cell phone and ring her up. I have no pulsa left. Luckily, there is a Western looking supermarket next to the Apotek where I can purchase some pulsa to make the call.
“Oh, Tara! Where are you?”
“I’m at the grocery story near your apartment. Come get me. I can’t find your place.”
“I’m so sorry, Tara. You can’t stay here! The landlord said that she can’t have foreigner’s stay here. If they find out it costs 2,000,000! So you can’t stay here tonight. I’m sorry. I will bring you your backpack.”
It’s 8PM… Riding back to Ubud in the jungle darkness is not appealing to me. Yet, I don’t want to spend money for a motel room in Kuta.
“O.K. Bring my backpack. And get my toothbrush on your dresser by the bathroom”
She arrives. “Did you bring my toothbrush?”
“Oh, I didn’t. Do you need it?”
“Yes…my teeth like to be brushed.”
She leaves to go get the toothbrush.
Meanwhile I’m thirsty and hungry. The grocery store is Japanese-which means food fit for birds and pastries fit for no one.
She returns. I change my clothes and purchase an electrolyte drink and some sort of bread thing with a little chicken, ensconced in brown stuff oozing with what appears to be yellow processed cheese.
I sms Brother Made Pering who lives in a village on my way back to Ubud: “I can’t stay in Kuta. I don’t want to be alone. Can I stay with you and Ketut?”
“I am waiting for you Tara.”
Yes! What a loving response. I joyfully head out to my parked Mio. I send out a call to my angels for protection. I jump on my bike, in gratitude for this day. The chorus from a song that I am composing leaps from my heart and into the empty parking lot: “IAM HEAVEN ON EARTH”.
I start my bike with the intention to enjoy the beautiful Bali starry night and my first major night time city and country ride on the unpredictably dangerous roads of Bali
Om Swastyastu to me!
The ride is indeed wonderful. The traffic heading North out of Kuta is not as heavy as in the daytime. The new moon accompanies me as I trust my internal guidance system. The roads are so peaceful. No shops are open.
“Hello!” A young Balinese man rides his motorbike up next to mine.
“Hey! Great night to ride a bike.”
“Where are you from?” he inquires.
“The moon. I come from the moon.”
He laughs.
“You speak good English. Do you go to University?”
“Yes. Where do you stay?”
“In Bentuyung.”
“Oh, I live in Sanggingan.”
“Hey, I will see you there. I am moving there on Friday.”
The man smiles and is content to slowly drive while I am done with this dialog and speed ahead.
“Great. See you down the road!.”
Each time that I return from Denpasar during the day, I loose my way. On this nighttime ride my angels strategically place male teenagers where the dark roads cross to guide me towards the right road.
I arrive at Made’s and Ketut hugs me, offering a bottle of water. Made greets me with a wide, warm hug while the dog incessantly barks at me.
We all sit down on his front porch.
“Your toe! It looks like an elephant!” exclaims Made.
I laugh, Ketut laughs, Made laughs and the dog stops barking.
Fortified by my friends and full of the lightness and infectious Light of laughter I begin to recount the events of my jam of a day on Bali paradise.
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