Bali
(Mumbai, India 19.17.6.6.2004)
In this vegetarian, organic, new age, free range cafe/restaurant/lounge, a middle aged woman sits in the lotus position. Her back is nice and straight. Inhalations deep and deliberate. Tucked inside one of Ubud's many allies, this joint is called, after all, the Bali Buddha Cafe. The woman's pasty white skin and ruddy curls contrast against the lush green floral print of her tank top. Her flesh hadn't seen the sun for months before flying to Bali. Her glasses reveal a less glamorous life back home. Maybe an assistant to a pushy boss. Maybe the school children's favorite librarian.
"I will give you everything you’ve ever wanted," she says to one of the waitresses. Her voice is clear, and loud. She's American. Could be Canadian. This lofty promise engages me as well.
"I will give you the doorway to everything you want," she continues, adjusting her glasses, "but you have to open the door."
I now know that this woman spent this morning at a yoga workshop -- handed over forty bucks so that she could breathe. Spent a couple hours on a mat, passing energies through her chakras, hoping to bottle up the inner peace that she had all along, apparently, but couldn't release.
"What you do is sit like I'm sitting -- go on do it!"
The waitress is leaning against the counter, visibly disappointed by the metaphorical ending to the promise. She doesn't assume lotus position. And I sink back into my rattan chair and dig into my tofu burger.
"OK, well, can you see that wall in front of you?" She pantomimes a flat panel in the indeterminate distance. "Everything you want is behind that wall. All you have to do is breathe through it. Breathe THROUGH the wall."
Ubud sits in the hills of central Bali. It is 2.5 hours north of surfer magnet Kuta. Unlike the blatant and shameless McDonaldsization of Kuta, Ubud promises tourists an exotic Balinese experience. The city is acclaimed as one of the island's cultural epicenters. Bali's identity is distinct from the rest of Indonesia. It's about as Indonesian as Hong Kong is to the rest of China, or Manhattan is to the Midwest. Same country, but only in political and cartographic terms. As Islam spread from the Malay peninsula down through Sumatra and Java, Hindus were pushed farther east, eventually settling in Bali, where the religion hybridized with extant folk lore. Balinese Hinduism, while preserving core Hindu practices, eventually developed its own sets of gods. Statues of bird like monsters and sinister monkeys eating children show this deviation. Ganesh wears a very tropical headdress. And while this culture supposedly prevails in modern-day Bali, an altogether Western atmosphere grips the island. Accommodations in Ubud, are lavish and classy – which to me, are euphemisms for prohibitively expensive. Jazz bars, day spas and meditation workshops sit cozily between Balinese handicraft outlets and ATMs.
Introductions at restaurants echo a cosmopolitan clientele. Yes, here is my friend, Michele (that’s a guy’s name) who I met years ago at a conference in Paris. Or Tokyo. Or Geneva.
I asked a man where he was from.
“Oh, New York /Miami.”
To which I could only reply, “Wow that’s a big chunk of the eastern seaboard.”
“But now my home is where my two feet happen to stand.”
Of course.
Budget travelers are outnumbered in Bali. Although ‘outnumbered’ may not be the most accurate word. Tourism in Bali, according to a hotel employee in Kuta, has dropped at least 30% after the club bombings two years ago. Last year’s attacks in Jakarta exacerbated the situation. The government recently implemented strict visa regulations that require payments from tourists on arrival. These blows have rendered many of Bali’s famous getaways as ghost towns. Abandoned tourist offices are commonplace.
A beautiful 3 hours north of Ubud is quaint and picturesque Lovina. During the ride, the bus passes through crater lakes, rain forest and rice fields. I promise myself to rent a motorbike and explore the area on my own. Certainly it is the natural legacy of this island that nurtured its people’s culture. But Lovina is empty and the forcefulness of taxi drivers and hotel pushers borders on belligerence.
A man has climbed into the bus before it has completely stopped. He pushes a piece of paper to my face. Photos of a comfortable bedroom. “Very close to the beach…only 50,000 Rupiahs…You come look, truck will take you now.”
“What street is this on? On Dinaria?” I ask him. I fear this hotel is not only overpriced but also removed from the center of town.
The bus stops. More men come. Other hotels. Cheaper ones that sound better. But my bag is gone and the 50,000 Rupiah Man is running away with it.
“You say you go to my hotel!”
“That’s my bag!”
He runs to this truck and stuffs the bag in the back. He hops into the driver’s seat as his assistant secures the bags and tries to shut the door. I get in his way. But I am shoved back. He detects, not a frantic, innocent tourist, but another body in a clutter of desperate men. I scream at him in perfect English. The 50,000 Rupiah Man hears and jumps out of his seat. The men now have formed a circle around me.
There is selling, even aggressive selling, but there are lines that still cannot be crossed. 50,000 Rupiah Man knows this as well as the others. The assistant, whose elbows and back had jammed against my chest, now shrank. He didn’t look at me as he opened the door. The 50,000 Rupiah Man was screaming at him.
I couldn’t understand. Maybe it was how much money he had just lost for the hotel. Maybe it was never to treat a tourist this way. I hopped onto the back of a competitor’s motorbike, secured and balanced my backpack and sped away, as the screaming voice of the 50,000 Rupiah Man quickly disappeared in the traffic. The motorbike driver tried to apologize on behalf of the other men. But I said it wasn’t necessary. I understood and was able to shake it off immediately.
The hotel I am staying at is gorgeous, meters away from the beach and much cheaper than 50,000 Rupiahs, which is worth about $6.25.
(Mumbai, India 19.17.6.6.2004)
In this vegetarian, organic, new age, free range cafe/restaurant/lounge, a middle aged woman sits in the lotus position. Her back is nice and straight. Inhalations deep and deliberate. Tucked inside one of Ubud's many allies, this joint is called, after all, the Bali Buddha Cafe. The woman's pasty white skin and ruddy curls contrast against the lush green floral print of her tank top. Her flesh hadn't seen the sun for months before flying to Bali. Her glasses reveal a less glamorous life back home. Maybe an assistant to a pushy boss. Maybe the school children's favorite librarian.
"I will give you everything you’ve ever wanted," she says to one of the waitresses. Her voice is clear, and loud. She's American. Could be Canadian. This lofty promise engages me as well.
"I will give you the doorway to everything you want," she continues, adjusting her glasses, "but you have to open the door."
I now know that this woman spent this morning at a yoga workshop -- handed over forty bucks so that she could breathe. Spent a couple hours on a mat, passing energies through her chakras, hoping to bottle up the inner peace that she had all along, apparently, but couldn't release.
"What you do is sit like I'm sitting -- go on do it!"
The waitress is leaning against the counter, visibly disappointed by the metaphorical ending to the promise. She doesn't assume lotus position. And I sink back into my rattan chair and dig into my tofu burger.
"OK, well, can you see that wall in front of you?" She pantomimes a flat panel in the indeterminate distance. "Everything you want is behind that wall. All you have to do is breathe through it. Breathe THROUGH the wall."
Ubud sits in the hills of central Bali. It is 2.5 hours north of surfer magnet Kuta. Unlike the blatant and shameless McDonaldsization of Kuta, Ubud promises tourists an exotic Balinese experience. The city is acclaimed as one of the island's cultural epicenters. Bali's identity is distinct from the rest of Indonesia. It's about as Indonesian as Hong Kong is to the rest of China, or Manhattan is to the Midwest. Same country, but only in political and cartographic terms. As Islam spread from the Malay peninsula down through Sumatra and Java, Hindus were pushed farther east, eventually settling in Bali, where the religion hybridized with extant folk lore. Balinese Hinduism, while preserving core Hindu practices, eventually developed its own sets of gods. Statues of bird like monsters and sinister monkeys eating children show this deviation. Ganesh wears a very tropical headdress. And while this culture supposedly prevails in modern-day Bali, an altogether Western atmosphere grips the island. Accommodations in Ubud, are lavish and classy – which to me, are euphemisms for prohibitively expensive. Jazz bars, day spas and meditation workshops sit cozily between Balinese handicraft outlets and ATMs.
Introductions at restaurants echo a cosmopolitan clientele. Yes, here is my friend, Michele (that’s a guy’s name) who I met years ago at a conference in Paris. Or Tokyo. Or Geneva.
I asked a man where he was from.
“Oh, New York /Miami.”
To which I could only reply, “Wow that’s a big chunk of the eastern seaboard.”
“But now my home is where my two feet happen to stand.”
Of course.
Budget travelers are outnumbered in Bali. Although ‘outnumbered’ may not be the most accurate word. Tourism in Bali, according to a hotel employee in Kuta, has dropped at least 30% after the club bombings two years ago. Last year’s attacks in Jakarta exacerbated the situation. The government recently implemented strict visa regulations that require payments from tourists on arrival. These blows have rendered many of Bali’s famous getaways as ghost towns. Abandoned tourist offices are commonplace.
A beautiful 3 hours north of Ubud is quaint and picturesque Lovina. During the ride, the bus passes through crater lakes, rain forest and rice fields. I promise myself to rent a motorbike and explore the area on my own. Certainly it is the natural legacy of this island that nurtured its people’s culture. But Lovina is empty and the forcefulness of taxi drivers and hotel pushers borders on belligerence.
A man has climbed into the bus before it has completely stopped. He pushes a piece of paper to my face. Photos of a comfortable bedroom. “Very close to the beach…only 50,000 Rupiahs…You come look, truck will take you now.”
“What street is this on? On Dinaria?” I ask him. I fear this hotel is not only overpriced but also removed from the center of town.
The bus stops. More men come. Other hotels. Cheaper ones that sound better. But my bag is gone and the 50,000 Rupiah Man is running away with it.
“You say you go to my hotel!”
“That’s my bag!”
He runs to this truck and stuffs the bag in the back. He hops into the driver’s seat as his assistant secures the bags and tries to shut the door. I get in his way. But I am shoved back. He detects, not a frantic, innocent tourist, but another body in a clutter of desperate men. I scream at him in perfect English. The 50,000 Rupiah Man hears and jumps out of his seat. The men now have formed a circle around me.
There is selling, even aggressive selling, but there are lines that still cannot be crossed. 50,000 Rupiah Man knows this as well as the others. The assistant, whose elbows and back had jammed against my chest, now shrank. He didn’t look at me as he opened the door. The 50,000 Rupiah Man was screaming at him.
I couldn’t understand. Maybe it was how much money he had just lost for the hotel. Maybe it was never to treat a tourist this way. I hopped onto the back of a competitor’s motorbike, secured and balanced my backpack and sped away, as the screaming voice of the 50,000 Rupiah Man quickly disappeared in the traffic. The motorbike driver tried to apologize on behalf of the other men. But I said it wasn’t necessary. I understood and was able to shake it off immediately.
The hotel I am staying at is gorgeous, meters away from the beach and much cheaper than 50,000 Rupiahs, which is worth about $6.25.
