‘Twas the Week Before Christmas

Imagine this. It’s the cusp of the day, just as daylight yields to the velvet of the evening. You’re lounging quietly in your favourite chair and your movie has just begun. You’re home. You’re safe.

But are you really?

A violent invasion into your home is something you’d never expect. If you’re like most people you believe it cannot happen to you. But it can! For those of us who live in Bali it is usually seen as a mystical, magical, unique place. And safe. The tourists, the expats, and the Balinese people would love for it to stay that way.

But, having recently experienced a serious attack and robbery we are now well aware of crime against tourists and expats  and emotionally involved in wishing to prevent more of it in the future.

On the 19th of December two bad guys brought their violence into our home. It was early in the evening, maybe 7:45 – 8:00pm but Bob was tired and had already gone to bed. I was sitting in our lounge room watching a movie. Suddenly two very strong, sinewy hands came from behind my chair, enveloped my head, and covered my mouth. Grabbing at fingers, muffled screams, a glimpse of a face cowardly hidden behind shrouds of fabric, I could only see aggressive dark eyes.  Ginger, our large, golden retriever x standard poodle leapt to attack but Evil Man was too quick for her. By then Bob had heard my screams and came in just in time to see Ginger hit hard on the top of her head and heard the accompanying loud crack. He was sure she’d been killed. The bat then cracked down across my jaw, knocking it out of joint and seven teeth loose.

Next that deadly, horrific bat came down hard onto Bob’s head, knocking him, staggering backwards, to the bed where he sat stunned and bleeding profusely. I didn’t see Evil Man hit Bob or Ginger. I was being lifted by my head and forcibly pulled by my painful jaw over the back of the chair onto the floor. I was dragged, bleeding, by my head along the floor into our bedroom where I saw Bob for the first time since the horror began and was flooded with relief to know he had not been killed.

My hands were painfully cuffed so tightly they immediately began swelling. My ankles were bound too tightly to wiggle. The brute then cut a strip from our mosquito net with his sharp machete to gag my mouth. Bob’s wrists and ankles were bound, his arms were pinned to his sides, and he was also gagged.

After trussing us into complete helplessness they began looking through the house for what they might steal. They found some jewelry and jerked my watch from my arm. They took a computer, personal irreplaceable items, a camera, money, and any small, valuable items they could find.

For a while we listened to the men rummaging around our house in the dark. The minute we felt they were gone and it was safe to move we started trying to unbind our handcuffs and get behind locked doors, anxious to protect ourselves as quickly as possible and to get help. Bob gave them the wrong PIN for his ATM card and I was concerned that they would come back in anger to demand the correct PIN and harm us further.

I wiggled on my bum to the bathroom to get scissors, cut the bindings on my feet and then went out to cut the bindings on Bob’s feet and hands. He cut my hands loose. Hurriedly we grabbed our phones from the table in the lounge room, grabbed the keys and ran to lock ourselves in our bathroom, the most secure place we could think of.

Bob rang Wayan to tell him we’d been attacked and to call the police but Wayan had a better idea. The Balinese take care of themselves and do so exceedingly well. We already knew this but didn’t think to call our village leader. Before calling the police Wayan called Pak Dewa our village leader and Dewa sounded the kulkul.

Every village in Bali has a kulkul, a long wooden bell that, when struck, can be heard throughout the village. The kulkul serves many purposes but one of them is to sound a warning that brings the men of the village immediately to the banjar meeting place. Within five minutes of Wayan’s call twenty or more men, armed and dangerous were at our house. The sight of these men gathered to protect us as members of the village not only made us feel instantly safe, it also reminded us that we are part of a community that always helps, defends, supports and cares for its members in all ways. Within another five minutes there were another twenty or more men ranged around our house and scouring the area for the attackers.

Wayan, Putu, and their children arrived from their home about 20 minutes away. The police came perhaps ten minutes later and began asking many questions before Wayan put a stop to the inquiry and took us to the hospital.

For over a month after the attack Wayan and his family spent every night at our house and because of that we felt very safe. The men in our village are also on the alert for any strange men.

Very quickly we honed in on possible suspects. Our gardener who is devastated by the attack and robbery had hired two people from Java. They had been at our house a couple of days before.

We rang Wayan at 8:40 to tell him of the attack. The gardener said the two men rang him at 9:00 to say they urgently needed to go back to Java because one man’s father had been in an accident and was hospitalized. (Later we learned that his father was not in the hospital.) They asked him to take them down to Denpasar to catch the bus to Java. During the attack we could not see their covered faces but we could describe their body size, height and clothing and our description exactly matched the men who had worked for the gardener.

The police asked for money from us to fund their trip to Java to question the two men. They returned with the identity card and a photo of one suspect. The four policemen said they surrounded one of the suspects but he escaped.

We, of course, are beefing up the security of the perimeter of our house. Some men have talked about guns, weapons, etc. but we had no warning that this was happening and any aggression on our part could have resulted in us being killed rather than repelling the attackers. In our own homes our mental defenses are at their lowest and that is as it should be.

Young, strong men with some advance warning may be able to stop intruders but the reality isn’t at all the same as in our heroic imaginings. Not in the slightest. These men were armed with a machete, a knife, and that formidable bat. They were strong, agile and most importantly, aggressively at ease with bodily harm. At one point one man jerked my bound hands away from my throat and raised his menacing machete above my neck. His intention appeared to be to kill and he seemed to pull back just before striking. I absolutely believed I was about to be murdered.

Our good news is that Ginger is now fine. When Wayan and his family arrived Wayan’s son, Putu Gede found Ginger lying on the bale bengong and carried her inside. He lovingly cared for her for the rest of the night. I imagine she had a headache for a few days. She must have after the hit she took.

Addendum

The suspects never were questioned or arrested. We naively expected a quick arrest but nothing like that happened and we don’t know why.

It has been over two months now since the invasive violation by our attackers and it is only in the last two weeks that Wayan has felt comfortable enough to leave us on our own. And Ginger is keeping her own vigil for everyone’s safety. Before the attack she slept in our bedroom at night. But now that noble, brave, beautiful girl sleeps, all night long, beside the chair where the attack against me took place.

It is estimated that there are 30,000 expats living in Bali and they are the people mainly being targeted by these dangerous criminals. Many of those same expats feel safe because they live in a well-populated area or they live in an area that is off the beaten track and not likely to attract notice, or because they have a dog, or because they have a security guard, or because they have grills on the windows, or because they have CCTV, or because they are brave and can defend themselves. It is human nature to want to feel that something like this cannot happen to us. People want to feel safe. And many of them are delusional. People have been attacked in densely populated areas and remote areas. There have been robberies where crowbars were used to pry open locked doors or windows with grills. The men will often work in the dark because they are aware of CCTV. There are stories of security guards running away when danger appears. And, worst of all, people have been killed by these thugs.

This crime in Bali needs to be urgently addressed by government officials. When the Bali Bombs occurred in 2002 it was disastrous for Bali. Many Balinese lost jobs and many went hungry. According to Wikipedia 80% of Bali’s economy is now derived from tourism and the dangers of crime in Bali will directly affect Balinese incomes if the tourist numbers drop because people decide to go somewhere safer. Bali cannot afford an upward spiral of increasing crime.

What you can do is secure your home in the ways you think best without kidding yourself about imagined immunity or false safety. You can put pressure on the Balinese and the Indonesian governments to put some effort into stopping these crimes. You must know who is entering your property for whatever reason. This is a weak link in your security and is what happened to us. The men didn’t like dogs but they knew our four dogs were not dangerous. And getting a dangerous dog is not necessarily the answer. They can cause as many or more problems than the threat of an intruder and they can easily be poisoned.

So, take some sensible precautions. Know who the people are who enter your property. And avoid the smug “it can’t happen to me” syndrome and you’ll greatly increase the chances that it really won’t happen to you.

Stranger in Paradise

Only two weeks ago we would have said, “Absolutely not! No more dogs.” And we would have meant it, too. But sometimes the unexpected sneaks in. Recently we wandered about a kilometre up the busy main street of Pengosekan to a Japanese restaurant. The meal was lovely and so was the evening as we sat contentedly at our candlelit table. After the delightful Japanese meal we meandered back up the lane and turned left into the main street for an unsuspecting walk back home. I’ve written about the Bali Street dogs previously and those who live in Bali know they are more common than gills on fish. As we turned into the street The Bear made one reckless error. He said “hello” to a street dog.

And that’s when it happened. We could tell instantly that he wasn’t going to be deterred from following us home. Actually I think he’d have followed us through the fires of hell. We didn’t dare say another word to that dog, hoping he would go back to where he belonged. No eye contact. No words of encouragement. No directing him to get out of the dangerous traffic. Nothing. I was confident we’d see the last of him when we reached the gate of our family compound. On the other side of that gate is Braun territory. Braun is a large, dominant, male Bali dog who has Don’t Mess With Me or My People stamped all over him. Sugar and Ginger have complete respect for his strength and power. And so did the skinny white Bali dog who was only half his size. But Braun’s dominance was no match for New Dog’s determination. Nothing would dissuade New Dog from sticking to us like glue.

And then he met Sugar and Ginger. They both fell instantly in love with him. Even CocoCat who has never be foolish enough to introduce herself to a strange dog touched noses with him. That was when we knew he was a most unusual New Dog.

Not to look at, though. He’s a typical white Bali dog with those funny ears that stick out the side of his head. He knows how to grin, too. He’s quite skinny but he was wearing a collar so we knew he’d owned some people at some point.

“We are absolutely not keeping that dog,” said The Bear for the tenth time as though I had even asked. Right, I thought. We are not having any more dogs. Three is already too many. So, we closed the doors for the night. Sugar and Ginger inside. Street urchin outside. But before bed I peeked out to see if he had become discouraged and left. Not a chance. New Dog was curled up tightly against the door. The very first thing the next morning I eased open the door to see if he’d left but he was still curled up in the same position, as close to us as he could get. It didn’t look like he moved all night.

When The Bear woke up his first coherent comment was, you guessed it. “We are NOT keeping that dog!” Well, I agreed. But when Sugar and Ginger had their breakfast I had to sneak him a bit of food. He looked like he hadn’t had a good meal in weeks. Just that one meal, you understand. We aren’t keeping that dog.

An hour later when I went toward the veranda I heard The Bear saying, “Hey Stranger,” as he gave the dog lying at his feet a pat.  “Oh yeah,” I thought. We are not keeping that dog.

And it is still true. We aren’t keeping that dog. Stranger is free to go any time he likes. He doesn’t have to guard our door at night and he doesn’t have to eat the food we put out. He doesn’t have to lay curled at our feet as close to us as he can possibly get. But try telling Stranger that.

Cap Cay with Toffu Skin

Truth be told, it was a bit of a stretch to see the humorous side of the violation of the cheerful shanemobile and the loss of the accumulated 30 years of computer data. And then there was also the loss of all those dirty clothes. I still have my beady eyes on the lookout for a bright red Yamba Coldstream Festival tee shirt.

So, its time to turn my thoughts to something that always makes me happy. Food. Glorious food. Well, not when describing offal, haggis, kopi luwak, or witchitty grubs, but the idea of food always makes the happy. And the pleasure of sharing a meal with friends, lovers, and family is universal.

So far, I have only scratched the surface of our new Balinese culinary experience. I’m aware that the food we mainly encounter in our local warungs (small local eateries) is Indonesian food rather than specifically Balinese food.  But Indonesian food draws from a rich cultural and ethnic pool. There are over 6,000 inhabited islands in Indonesia and, except for rice, which is eaten at every meal by the Indonesians, there is a rich diversity in the food of this large archipelago.

Wayan introduced us to Padang food. When we’re all out travelling together if we ask Wayan for a suggestion of a place to eat he will often steer us to a Padang restaurant. Padang is the capitol of Sumatra but their food is found all over Indonesia in the same way that Tex-Mex is found all over the U.S.  And for the same reason. It is yummy. Their best-known dish must be beef rendang but it isn’t the only delicious choice. The way to eat Padang food is to aim for a balance of flavours. The food is cooked only once a day, in the morning, and displayed on plates at room temperature for the day.  Each dish is served in small amounts and the idea is to put together a complimentary combination of flavours and textures with rice, of course. Always with rice.

Eating food that has been sitting out for hours at room temperature, except for the rice, in a hot climate sounds like a risky venture but I have never heard of a single person getting sick from eating it. So, with my trust in Wayan intact, I first tried Padang food many meals ago and now I don’t give a thought to the safety of the food I’m eating.

And I’m also trying to learn how to cook the Indonesian dishes I really enjoy. High on the list is Cap Cay, a dish found all over Indonesia but the origin is Chinese chop suey. Sometimes it’s a bit difficult for me to follow the translations and often I’m left totally puzzled and fall back on “if in doubt leave it out.” Here’s an example of what I mean:

Cap Cay Recipe

2 garlics (choped)
1 onion (choped)
1/2 tes sp of pepper
1 chicken broth
2 chicken fillets (sliced into cubicles)
1 table sp of soya souce
1 tea sp of salt
3 layers of toffu skin
1 brokoli (small)
1 carrot (sliced thin)
1 tomato (sliced thin)
1 leek (sliced)
1/4 of both red and green paprika
1/4 cup of cooking oil
1 table spoon of sesame oil
1 cup of water

How to cook:
Steam brokoli and carrot for 15 minutescap cay
Leave toffu skin in hot water for 10 minutes
Fried onion until it looks golden with cooking oil and sesame oil. Add garlic and chicken, when the chicken is half cook, add soya souce, papper, salt, tomato, stired until they are well cooked.
Add some water, toffu skin, chicken broth, and all the vegetable.
Cook in a closed wok until the water reduce (stirred once in a while)

I’m going to try this one and if I were putting in the chicken the cubicles wouldn’t give me too much trouble but those 3 layers of toffu skin will be totally ignored.

Now it’s time to head into the kitchen. It’s morning tea time and I’m ready for coffee and cinnamon toast.

Thanks to a generous offer from a friend I’ll soon have an oven. I just need to get out and pick it up. Life’s good.

Where Are My Dirty Clothes?

The Balinese Hindus believe so strongly in balance and harmony that it is interwoven through most aspects of their lives. They believe in good spirits and bad spirits. In their food they strive for balance between sour, sweet, salty, and bitter. They believe good is balanced with evil. Their belief in karma – you reap what you sow – also reflects their sense of balance. So, with all the beauty, happiness, welcoming smiles, and serenity we’ve experienced it must have been about time to experience the other side of Bali. And we have just seen a bit of Bali’s underbelly.

Recently I parked my car beside the road and walked the 200 or so metres down to our building site. I probably spent no more than 40 minutes there before wandering back up to the car but that was time enough for my car to be broken into by The Bad Guys smashing a window with a rock. Some neighbours saw the culprits. They just didn’t realize what was going on. When they saw one of the three men pick up a large rock they thought it might be for something like killing a snake.

When The Bear and I got to the car and saw the damage we called down to Wayan, our project manager. He came up and called the police. A guy who was driving by on a motorbike stopped and stayed for a while to commiserate. Our builder and his men wandered up. Within 5 minutes the police arrived looking like nothing so much as a comedy of a seemingly unending stream of men piling out of one car.

Four men at once were asking for my details and what was taken. I have no idea who they were. I just kept writing my name, address, and phone number on bits of scrap paper and telling them about the missing items, including the roll of dirty laundry. One of the policemen seemed quite chuffed that he had ridden by the car not more than 15 minutes prior and he hadn’t see anything amiss. One man was taking pictures. One man was putting up the crime scene tape. One man seemed to be the press. Some men peered into the car. Many men just stood around doing nothing. During all this high drama more people were stopping to join in the entertainment. Our village leader came by and offered to do all he could to help find the thieves. Neighours wandered over. Strangers stopped to look and listen.

When no one could think of anything else to say or do we all headed off to the police station. We couldn’t take my car because it was covered in broken glass and crime scene tape. So we got in one of the many police cars along with about five policemen for the crowded drive to the Sukawati police station. Meanwhile the crime scene tape was removed and my car was driven to the police station also.

Every time I signed my name, perhaps 20 times, I also was required to place a fingerprint over my signature. But fingerprinting the car was not even considered. Credit cards were later recovered from a drain but they weren’t fingerprinted either. From what we could tell the total investigation consisted of writing about twenty-five pages of reports over many hours and three different sessions while we sat on the other side of the desk watching in utter boredom. The handbag, phone, and computer may not ever turn up but I do wonder if the robbers are enjoying all those dirty old clothes. And, if you ring my phone you can chat with the thief. He hasn’t even bothered to change the number.

Lady Luck

She was staggering on wobbly little 5-week old baby legs in the middle of the main road, minutes at most from death, when she was scooped up by one of our wall builders. She easily fits in one hand so she was no trouble for him to carry on the motorbike. And we are now the bemused owners of a Bali Street Dog. How could she be named anything but Lucky?

The plight of Bali Dogs is grave. A great percentage of these dogs don’t live to adulthood. And those that do live are called street dogs for a reason. Perhaps 25% of them do not have owners and must scavenge for scarce food.

The Balinese believe everything has a soul and for that reason they say they have respect for all living things but sometimes I just don’t see that respect in the way they treat other animals and dogs especially seem to get the short end of the stick.

In addition to the usual hard life of the street dogs there is now a rabies epidemic in Bali and the Indonesian government has, in its cruel, blind ignorance been killing street dogs with strychnine. The World Health Organization has carefully documented the necessity of vaccinating 75% of all dogs to control a rabies epidemic and has proven that culling dogs has never, in any country, worked to control rabies.

But there are many organizations in Bali working diligently to vaccinate, feed, and sterilize the street dogs. BAWA probably has the highest profile and they have done wonders. There are also vet surgeries, individuals, and charitable organizations doing great work to help these dogs find better living conditions such as our local vet clinic.

Puppy looking for a new home. Dogs come first

here. People must step over the high barrier to enter.

Good Karma Veterinary Clinic

Plenty of puppies ready for a new home

Lucky falls into the 75% category. She will be fed, loved, and receive regular medical care. She has already been to our local Good Karma vet for her first exam. She has been de-wormed and vaccinated. Her mange cannot be treated until one week after her vaccination so she is a bit patchy. Lucky will probably live at the work site until we move in and then she’ll become another of our house dogs.

Until her mange is treated we won’t bring her into contact with our other two dogs but she’s too young to be motherless and she should spend time with an adult dog who can teach her doggie manners in a way no human ever could. So, as soon as Lucky’s had her mange treatment Sugar will have some parenting duties to perform and hopefully she’ll realize the importance of this job and take it seriously.

With two dogs and a cat we didn’t feel a need to add to our menagerie but sometimes Life throws us an unforeseen event or addition and it seems that Lucky is one of ours. It will be interesting to see how Lucky adds to our lives as she outgrows her shaky little legs that collapse at unexpected moments.

The Healer

“100% village.” That’s what someone recently said on a Bali expat forum in response to a comment and he didn’t mean it as a compliment. He seemed to be suggesting that the comment was narrow-minded and insular. A southern good ol’ boy would have said, “What a redneck.” An Aussie may have had a put down comment about yabbos.

Maybe. I don’t know. But I am noticing something I like. I came to Bali with no preconceptions and no prejudices about Bali or the people that I can think of.  And that has certainly been to my benefit. I’m learning more because I’m not filtering things out. I’m enjoying the people more because I’m not in judgement. And I’m aware of how much Hinduism has in common with Christianity and other religions because I’m not trying to mentally make the familiar better than the new.

Thankfully I have no way of judging the people, mainly because I don’t speak Balinese or Indonesian. So I’m accepting everyone at face value and those beautiful smiles make face value something special.

I am seeing the village life as something to emulate, not sneer at. People who belong to a village have ties and support their whole life long and even into death.  The village is an extension of the family and is a large part of what teaches morality, religion, consideration for others, responsibility to the community, respect for elders and friendship.

In western society doctors are usually put on pedestals almost to the point of worship for their abilities. Hmm. Let’s see. Do I want to go to the university trained medical doctor or to the village healer. Well, honesty compels me to say it depends on what is wrong. But recently I was having enough pain and swelling in my knees that walking became difficult and it wasn’t getting any better. I didn’t expect the local medical clinic would be of any help and I was willing to try almost anything that wasn’t a further threat to my health. So, when someone recommended a village healer whose abilities run in the family down through generations I was looking forward to our session with great anticipation. No idea what I was in for but as willing and eager as a Labrador pup.

Ketut’s smile preceded him as he came to our house. It would light up a four-tier chandelier. He immediately put me at ease. We put cushions on the floor so I could lie down for our session. He explained that our session would last about an hour and be part reflexology and part reiki. Reiki is nothing more than the laying on of hands so it’s a great medium for those engaged in quackery. But for those people who truly do have healing hands it often seems to work miracles. Part of what Ketut did was familiar. The mentholated rub, the massage, the reflexology, all were familiar. But what I didn’t really expect was that my knees would be virtually pain-free and unswollen by the time Ketut was finished. He truly does have healing hands. He’s coming back for a final session in a couple of days but really he’s already eliminated the pain and the swelling. So I have a new respect for the village healer and 100% village sounds really good to me.

Food, Glorious Food

Dutch apple pie, four-cheese lasagne, chocolate mud cake, parmesan broccoli casserole, pineapple upside down cake, pepperoni pizza, glazed cinnamon rolls, stuffed baked potatoes, pumpkin scones, double-chocolate whopper cookies, and southern biscuits. Have you figured out what all of these have in common except that they are foods? And none of them are diet foods, either. Food has become a serious matter for me lately and I don’t want any boring, miserable diet foods in my mind. All of the foods listed above, though, are in the forefront of my thinking and they all require the services of an oven.

I was wrong if I earlier said I’d be o.k. without an oven until we have our own house. It must have been while I was in the throes of Bali intoxication. The first priority in building our home was road construction so we could get to the property without walking along the 200mm-wide ridge running between the rice paddies. My ungainly self is embarrassed by all the falling into the rice paddies so I was all for being able to walk along a 3 metre wide road which even I can manage without falling off.

The Bear probably thinks the next priority is putting in the house foundation but I do believe we need a wood-fired oven, a pizza oven, next. And I may just be able to convince The Bear of this critical need if I talk enticingly about Chocolate Chip Whoppers and Grandma’s Best Cinnamon Rolls. And maybe I can paint a mouth-watering word picture of romantically sitting in the field eating pizza fresh from the oven with cookies coming right behind to convince him of the serious need for an oven.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m still looking forward to our container of stuff coming off the boat. Having no more than a 1-litre saucepan, the smallest size frying pan, and no cooking utensils makes cooking a creative challenge. So I want my rice cooker and I want my wok. And something larger than an eating-sized spoon and fork to cook with will be nice.

I’ve fallen in love with Balinese food and I want to try my hand at making nasi goreng and puyung hai but alternating with our new and still somewhat unfamiliar Asian foods I want the comfort of the kind of food that feeds my soul.

So, if you know anything about how to build a wood-fired oven I want all the details. And if you have any influence with The Bear please write to him letting him know The Cook needs an oven. Do I need to start one of those petitions that goes ‘round the world?

The Village at the Base of the Mountain

I knew as soon as Wayan invited us that we would have a great time. He invited us to visit his home village at the foot of Mt. Agung, the Home of the Gods. Wayan grew up in this small village and it is still the place he considers his ancestral home. Wayan and Putu, their two children, The Bear, and I drove about 1 1/2 hours north to visit his family compound. Wayan’s father, mother, stepmother, and sister all live in the compound. Wayan has a house there. So does his brother although he, like Wayan, does not live in the village full time. One of his sisters has a home there and, of course, his parents also have their house there.

Typical of all family compounds in Bali this one is a large, walled area that also includes a large temple. All the cooking for everyone in the compound is done in one kitchen because everyone eats together. The interior space of each house isn’t large because people spend most of their leisure time outside on the verandas. And that’s what we did after we’d been taken on a tour of the houses and to see coffee trees, cocoa trees, and large clove trees.

Everyone except Wayan’s sister was sitting outside. She is a tailor and has her lovely trundle Singer sewing machine inside. Wayan told us she is well known for the beautiful ceremonial clothes she makes and I believe him. I spent most of my afternoon watching Nyoman work magic with that sewing machine. After the cutting and sewing she then sews and appliques the garment into a work of art. I’ve seen many kebayas, the tops women wear to the temple, but none as lovely as the works Nyoman was creating.

For our land purification ceremony I didn’t have a proper top or kebaya but soon I will. On the way up to the village we stopped at a fabric shop and, with Putu’s help, I chose a white lace piece of fabric for Nyoman to use to make my kebaya. This will be so different from anything I would normally choose to wear but I’m excited about it. I know my kebaya will be gorgeous and it will fit beautifully since it will be made just for me.

While I was absorbed watching Nyoman create a kebaya everyone else was enjoying sitting on the veranda, whiling away the afternoon. All were gracious and welcoming even though we couldn’t speak a word of Balinese or Indonesian. We were given coffee from beans grown, dried, and roasted, and ground right there and it was delicious. They also gave us a bag of ground coffee to take home and I am enjoying a cup of it right now.

There are only a few coffee trees around the family compound but Wayan’s father has a coffee plantation and Wayan said the next time we go up there he’ll take us to see the plantation. Good. That means we’ll be invited again and that I’ll be able to see a working coffee plantation. I’ll tell you all about it just as soon as we’ve been there.

The Ceremony, Just To Be Pure

Bali is a daily delight and we’ve just had another great new experience; the ceremony for the purification of our land before we can build a house. Before this ceremony we couldn’t do any digging or building on the property.

In the past the land was used for the growing of rice so the goddess of rice, Dewi Sri, must be appeased and must leave the property because now it will be a building property not a rice cultivation property. We made offerings to the bad spirits so they will become good spirits. We prayed and made offerings to the gods.

This ceremony isn’t the biggest one involved in the house building. That will come at the end of construction when an auspicious date is chosen for the moving in ceremony and we move in on that day. But, I’ll tell you, this ceremony was big enough.

A woman who is apparently very good at this type of ceremony and her family did all the preparations leading up to the day and conducted the ceremony in conjunction with the holy priest. There were four women, two men, and two children. They arrived in a large truck filled with all that was needed to purify the land.  The preparations took three days and many hours of work. There were perhaps thirty large baskets of offerings and materials for the day. Wayan, his wife, and their two children attended. So did the house designer. A few neighbours wandered in but not before they went home to change into their ceremonial clothes. And there was the man in the midst of us who was scything grass to feed his cow. He wasn’t in his sarong but that was o.k. because he wasn’t attending the ceremony. He just happened to be there.

The truck couldn’t get close to the land since we couldn’t construct the road before the purification ceremony. So the women stacked three or four heavy baskets on their head and gracefully walked from the truck to the land. I just watched in amazement. My clumsy self can barely walk the narrow ridge between the fields without falling off the side. I sure couldn’t do it while carrying one of those baskets and they were gliding along with a metre of baskets on their heads. It was poetry in motion.

The holy priest had an air of quiet dignity about him and he was certainly respected by all the people attending. He was in a white sarong, a white jacket, and a white headdress. Everyone attending a ceremony must be wearing a sarong and, of course, that included me and The Bear. Wayan came over before we left to go down to our village to dress The Bear in his sarong, scarf (belt), and headdress. I’ll show you a picture so you can see how almost Balinese we look.

The ceremony organizer brought in the materials to make a bamboo table. There was a large altar for the northeast corner of the property. There were flowers, woven coconut leaf packets stuffed with rice, eggs, cooked chicken and duck, fruit, an abundance of flowers, holy water, and consecrated wine to bless the land. But mainly there was praying for blessings on the land and all the people who were a part of the day and for all those involved in the future.

I guess the ceremony took around three hours so lunch didn’t happen until around 4:00. Wayan went to get some padang food. He came back with packets of rice with curry sauce, and in each packet was chicken or prawn skewers wrapped in banana leaves. Delicious.

Now I just need to learn to speak Indonesian so I can communicate with these lovely people and learn from them. LG. Life’s Good. Our land is now blessed and I feel blessed also.

A Clean Sweep

“May we live in peace without [s]weeping. May our joy outline the lives we touch without ceasing.   -   Irish Blessings

Sweeping. I sweep. He’s sweeps. We all sweep for Bali. Because without the sweeping we’d smother in tropical decay. If you walk into a café you’ll see sweeping. If you walk into a temple you’ll see sweeping. If you walk into my house … well, you get the idea. If you walk into a place and there’s not a whole lotta sweeping goin’ on you may wonder what has gone wrong. Even the gardens are swept daily.

And it isn’t because the Balinese are fanatical about sweeping and cleanliness. It’s because without the constant sweeping our floors would be littered with dead vegetation. Even our house is shedding sand. So every morning I have an intimate dance with my broom all through the house and veranda. Then I mop the house and veranda. In the afternoon I meet my broom again for another twirl around  the whole house and veranda again.

But, I’ll tell you this. It is worth all the sweeping to have the lush tropical gardens everywhere we look. The sweeping is a small price to pay (and there is a price to pay for everything) for the outstanding beauty of this place.

And it isn’t only sweeping goin’ on. All the cars are shiny. Not a single car has so much as a scratch or a dent in it. The contrasts are In Your Face because amongst all this cleanliness is rubbish like you’d hardly believe. If the Balinese are ready to discard something it is only necessary for it to fall from the hand.

But let’s get away from the sorry subject of rubbish and talk about shiny cars. This morning this intrepid driver entered the shiny shanemobile and prepared to face the kamikaze drivers on the streets of Ubud. Well, I don’t have much to report. It was easy, just as our driver, Wayan, had said it would be. Yes, the traffic comes at you from every direction and the white painted lines were a total waste of taxpayers’ money. So were the traffic lights. No one pays them any attention. But somehow everyone stays calm and it works in mysterious and inexplicable ways.

The only problem was the embarrassment of getting lost after assuring The Bear and Wayan that I would find my way home. I had forgotten to take my phone and had to ask someone to ring Ketut to ring Wayan to please pick me up on Monkey Forest Road. I was suffering from embarrassment and relieved in equal measure when I saw the grinning faces of The Bear and Wayan.

Tomorrow is a new day and I’ll venture out again but this time I’ll remember to take my phone. I wonder if all these doves around here would work as homing pigeons.