4 days of vacation

Last week Hindu Bali celebrated the holiday of Galungan, honoring the creation of the universe, rather like Rosh HaShanah.  Galungan is also a celebration of the victory of good over evil.  The Balinese calendar is on a 210 day cycle, so Galungan occurs about every seven months.  I have paid close attention to the Balinese calendar for many years as the entire island closes up shop and there is no chance of any of my workers paying attention to my projects. 

A strongly visual aspect of Galungan is the placement of a penjor outside of every home.  A penjor is an extremely tall bamboo pole decorated with dried palm leaves and a variety of other adornments and, somewhat like Jacob’s Ladder, signifies the connection of the holy and the earthly by going up high into the sky, then arching downward from the top.  It was a great pleasure on Galungan Day to take a joy ride on our motorbike through numerous villages, appreciating the creativity and the variety of penjor.   

Before Galungan the Green School children had their own celebration.  All of the students dressed in their best Balinese ceremonial clothing.  Each classroom spent a couple of weeks designing and constructing their own penjor.  Sofia and a friend were the designated penjor holders for their grade, carrying in the long pole for their assembly.  The first grade explained and acted out the basic ceremonial duties for Galungan and the second grade, dressed to the nines in ritual costumes, performed a Balinese dance.

In the midst of Galungan we also celebrated the eight days of Chanukah.  On the first night our Indian neighbors, who last month had invited us to share in the Diwali lights with them, now joined us in lighting Chanukah candles.  A couple of teachers asked me to talk to their students about the meaning of Chanukah.  Sofia loved having me address her class and helped with the explanations.  The first graders listened attentively, active sponges they all are, and became fascinated with the Hebrew language, something new for just about all of them.  They drew pictures of their own version of a chanukiah and asked me to spell each of their names in Hebrew.  They got a kick out of the letters going from right to left.  Multicultural Green School at its best. 

Galungan is a school holiday; even though the end of the semester and winter break are just a week away, we had three days off from school this week.  When there is a break, we are on the go.  Another vacation!  What a joy!  After years of travel primarily for business, we have been deeply appreciative of our (increasingly frequent) real holidays.  

This time we set off for Nusa (island) Lembongan, a small island to the south of Bali, only 30 minutes away by boat.  Along with several other Green School families, we jumped into the shallow water of Mushroom Bay and walked across the sand to check into our hotel. Sand and water were our life for the next four days.  Ocean water, pool water, outdoor shower water, more ocean water.

We did a good bit of exploring by motorbike.  Cars are not allowed on Nusa Lembongan and, though we did encounter a few trucks and some other motorbikes, the roads were mostly open and clear.  Clear of other travelers, that is; the bouncy, rocky, pitted roads of Lembongan make the Bali roads look smooth, but busy.  

A high metal bridge painted bright yellow connects little Nusa Lembongan to its even more diminutive neighbor, Nusa Ceningan.  The bridge is just wide enough for one way motorbike traffic, but as the only bridge it is, of course, two way, making for some interesting moments of instant non-verbal communication.  The bottom of the bridge, the part you drive your motorbike across, is made of wooden slats.  Some of the slats are missing.  The bridge sways.  For those who are able to look -- that is, those not driving and needing to concentrate straight ahead, or those with a fear of heights and eyes scrunched tightly closed -- the view from the bridge is of tropical jungle, beautiful bays and numerous seaweed farms in the shallows.  Nusa Lembongan is far less developed than Bali, and Nusa Ceningan is even less developed than Lembongan.  It’s worth braving the bridge to discover Ceningan’s hidden beaches in pristine coves.

We came across promontories overlooking see-through turquoise waters.  We found perfect white sand beaches strewn with cowrie and other shells, tucked between steep, rocky cliffs.  Body surfing, frisbee throwing, sand castle building, shell collecting (later donated to Grade 1 for use as  eco math manipulatives) and ocean gazing took up our hours until all the snacks were gone and everyone was starving.

Alas, even the mildly trodden, nearly pristine beaches of Lembongan, Ceningan and Penida have bits of trash and plastic bags caught in some of the rocks.  It washes up from...?... bigger islands...?... cruise ships...?... The Green School has its work cut out for it educating a generation about natural living.

Asher and I shared romantic moments snorkeling hand in hand, allowing a gentle current to pull us past some of the biggest schools of fish I have seen.  The ever social Sofia, who took to snorkeling with natural ease in Flores, chose to stay on the boat with her friend who is not so keen on snorkeling.  Our outboard vessel dropped us at a stretch of beach difficult to reach any other way on sparsely populated Nusa Penida where we spied a piece of natural sculpture/furniture in the form of a gigantic driftwood tree root and took turns lounging in its arms.  

A highlight of the vacation was some scuba diving magic, making worthwhile my recent uncomfortable, sometimes scary scuba certification process.  Our first dive, at a spot called Manta Point, was ho hum.  No mantas. Not worthy of its name.  As the boat bounced over choppy water to our next dive location we spotted something floating nearby.  Is it a car hood?  A manta!  The boat slowed, the driver and the dive master excitedly training their experienced eyes on the nearby cove.  More mantas!  Many of them!

Fully loaded with gear, I rolled backwards over the side of the boat scuba style.  As I bobbed up, two mantas were just before me and moving right towards me.  My initial reaction was to want to get the heck out of there, but as the giants passed on either side of me I sensed their gentleness.  For the rest of the 45 minute dive the curious mantas circled continuously around us; I was completely fascinated and completely at ease.  Mantas dance through the water, elegantly flapping their wings like space ships from another dimension.  Usually while diving we are hovering over coral looking down but, with the mantas feeding near the surface, we mostly dove underneath them looking up.  Each manta has distinctive markings on their underbellies and it became easy to distinguish them.  My favorite looked like an abstract painting of strong black lines and circles on a white canvas.  My new intelligent, dreamlike friends helped me find comfort underwater.  Swimming with mantas is like being touched by an angel. 

Poolside, back at our hotel, all the way out on this tiny Indonesian island, one of my favorite India Arie songs is playing on the hotel sound system like a soundtrack to my life:

Freedom is mine today

I found

Strength, courage and wisdom

It’s been inside of me

All along

I close my eyes 

And I think of all the things 

That I want to see

Cause I know that 

I’ve opened up my heart

I know that anything I want 

Can be

So let it be

6 DAYS in my life

I felt their presence before I spotted them.  On Wednesday morning a group of men were eating breakfast, some seated and some standing, at a bale near the Green School warung.  A bale (pronounced bah-lay) is an open sided, raised wooden platform with a high ylang ylang grass or ceramic tile roof, found in every village and roadside, usually with village men casually relaxing together on top of and around it.  These particular men, new arrivals at the Green School, gave off an energy different from the rest of their surroundings; they were not speaking yet they emanated a strong signal.  Looking closer, I could see the men were clearly not Balinese.  Maybe they are from Timor, I thought.  Later, while serving up mango wraps in the warung, I saw the same men walking single file down a gravel path wearing only grass skirts and headdresses with feathers.  That caught my attention.  Their loud silence reminded me of an experience I had decades earlier, back stage with a group of Nigerian musicians (Sunny Ade’s first U.S. tour), a thundering meditative silence bursting forth into a musical explosion of creativity.  I followed the grass skirts and found the men sitting with clusters of fourth graders, teaching wood carving skills using bamboo.  I discovered the men are from the Kamora tribe of Papua, guests at the Green School for the week, sharing their traditions.

A storm blew through on Thursday.  I was at home preparing food for the dinner I would be catering on Friday night.  At first the sky grew dark and I had to turn lights on in the middle of the morning, but the rain held off for so long that I forgot about it.  When the sound effects began, one thunderclap so loud I gasped and jumped, the downpour was not far behind.  Lightening struck a tall tree beside our neighbor’s house, felling a massive branch.  Meanwhile, at Green School, it was lunch time and the entire student body was just finishing the midday meal in the Heart of School, seated at tables according to age group.  Strong wind blew the rain in around the circumference of the open sided building, corralling the children into the heart of the Heart of School.  They shrieked with each thunderclap.  Ordinarily after lunch all the students socialize and play outdoors until the gong announces class time, but the teachers could not let anyone outside in such a powerful storm.  They insisted the children stay on the first and second floors only, safe from a potential lightening strike to the top floor roof.  Ben Macrory flew to the rescue, grabbing his guitar and leading all the children, from the first floor and the second, in singing the school song “Living in Bali”.  I love the image of all the children taking shelter from the rain and singing together.  I picture it as the Green School version of High School Musical.

Living in Bali 

We know where we’re going

Our river is flowing

And the current is strong

The light in our eyes

Is the place we believe in

Destiny’s weaving 

It guides us along

Hey, hey, yaaaaa

This is who we are

Hey, hey, hey yaaaaa

Living in the heart of Indonesia

Living in Bali

The island’s life giver

The great Ayung River

That flashes and darts

It carries our hopes

From the hills to the ocean

A powerful motion

That strengthens our hearts

Hey, hey, yaaaaa

This is who we are

Hey, hey, hey yaaaaa

Living in the heart of Indonesia

Friday was show time, my big day.  Cynthia Hardy hired me to create a raw food dinner to kick off John’s birthday weekend celebration.  I wanted everything to be scrumptiously magnificent.

Over the years some of my favorite films have involved food.  The Spanish language film “Like Water For Chocolate” has a lead character who pours mystical awareness and the full force of her being into all the meals she creates and everyone who eats her food falls in love.  “The Big Night”, a movie that contains one of my favorite lines (you have to “take a bite out of the ass of life”), an Italian chef stakes everything on one magnificent dinner, putting his heart and soul into every dish.  I witnessed aspects of these films coming alive through me as I thought out the menu, gathered the ingredients and sculpted them into edible treasures.

A car arrived for me in the late morning and I loaded it with stacks of food containers, each meticulously labeled.  Every course contained multiple hand crafted components.  Once I arrived in the large, open kitchen at the Hardy home I wondered how I could fit all of my food into the single refrigerator.  Not to worry; the spacious “cool room”, a cave- like walk in refrigerator, allowed all my creations to spread out in an orderly fashion.  I adored walking in and out of the cool room, which I needed to do about five thousands times, each and every time reveling in the sudden delicious contrast with the tropical heat.

I worked slowly and consistently, wanting to take my time and remain in the joy of creation, mostly ignoring the sarong clad staff of four to six to eight... more arrived as the hours wore on.  I asked for their help only when it was convenient for me to do so; some thing are easier for me to do myself.  While I hand tied each of the colorful dumplings, an appetizer to start off the evening, a small video crew from Java, hired to document the weekend, interviewed me about raw food.  Once it was crunch time -- as the next course needed to go out -- I made up a sample plate showing each layer, sauce and garnish and the staff built the rest of the plates assembly line style.  A stream of servers carried the final creations out the door and I began on the following course. 

The party took place next door to the home at a hotel the family owns.  All the buildings are Indonesian antiques reconstructed.  The staff set up for dinner in the Javanese Panjang building, a long open structure built high on stilts, with cushions on the floor, painted Balinese temple trays as individual tables, and candles lining the stairs.  

The party was eating the appetizers and I was in the kitchen coaching the helpers on assembling the salad mandalas when I thought I heard John call my name from all the way over at the Panjang building.  One of the serving staff informed me John had requested my presence, so I made my way through the family gardens, across stone paths, and climbed the dramatic stairs to where the party lounged on their cushions.  They all broke into applause.  John said, “ Avara, you are crazy good! This food is insane!”  Sometimes an accusation of insanity is the highest compliment.

The rest of the evening flowed beautifully.  

Saturday morning was the John Hardy birthday hike.  Our family had signed up to go but chose to stay home all day and all night.  We lounged.  We rested.  Friends came over to visit.  We hung out.  A most unusual, quiet day.

Sunday was the John Hardy birthday bike ride.  Open bed trucks left from the Hardy home, one carrying people and one loaded with bicycles.  First stop was breakfast at a lovely setting overlooking a gorge, the restaurant of a boutique hotel owned by a Green School family.  Then back in the truck, holding on as it rounded corners, dodging low lying branches, all the way up the mountain to the top of volcanic Mount Batur.  We grabbed our bikes and lined up in front of the temple where women with trays of small offerings blessed each of us with flowers, incense and holy water, squeezing an offering between the break cables.  We descended the mountain in three groups accompanied by Balinese guides; two intermediate groups and one advanced-Asher-style-go-for-it group.  I chose the intermediate experience which required good breaks; we mostly cruised downhill past stunning views in every direction, downhill except, of course, when the road went (steeply) uphill.  We returned into the rice basket north of Ubud, rice terraces to the left and right, in time for lunch at John’s favorite little warung.

Sunday night brought the conclusion of John’s birthday weekend with a dance party at the Hardys’ home.  Sofia, of her own accord, made John a large birthday card covered with drawings on four sides and many loving messages.  According to an East Bali tradition, we sat for dinner upon cushions on the lawn with dinner spread on giant banana leaves instead of tables, a long line of rice down the center vein of each leaf.  We reconnected with an old friend from our years of traveling to Bali, mingled with many new friends and danced up a sweaty storm on the dance floor. I was happy to have an opportunity to swirl in my Yes! dress, the Ginger Rogers meets Aphrodite silk extravaganza I have been producing with my friend Elise.

Monday morning my friend Paula and I drove with our dive master to Padangbai, a southeastern beachside town, where we completed the last two dives for our PADI scuba certification (including fun exercises like swimming 50 meters without a mask

and making an emergency ascent ssssslllllllloooooowwwwwllllllyyyyyy on one exhale).

Our deepest dive was 18 meters, which didn’t feel much different than 5 or 7 or 12.  The most exciting moment was seeing four large sea turtles in the afternoon; one of them didn’t immediately swim away but spent some time floating with us.  Now I have an official card and a log book, and can dive in Malaysia at Christmas time.  

Firsts

I have a growing list of firsts, new things I am doing for the first time.  Somehow they are all occurring together at once in a clump this week. Standing alone they are potentially invigorating, even enlivening.  Packed into one week they are a bit much and none of them is particularly relaxing. I had thought I would arrive in Bali and, after the extreme intensity of the last two years, take a few months of ease, some time to just be.  Instead I am continuing my advanced course in maintaining a balanced central nervous system through any kind of circumstance.

Most of my 24 previous trips to Bali involved eating in many restaurants; now I am the restaurant, (but with weekends off).  A lover of improvisation in the kitchen, I am now consistently producing, and training my assistant to produce, the same dishes so that each item has a reliable flavor.  This involves a skill set that includes writing out recipes, measuring, maintaining inventory of ingredients, pricing out costs, and keeping track of sales, not jazz improv.  

So what did I do this weekend?  I filled every moment of it, and parts of the week before it, with scuba diving certification.  Without a moment of fun floating with the colorful fishes, without time to get comfortable with the equipment and breathing underwater, we moved immediately into emergency training skills like removing our masks and replacing them, and having our air turned off and then back on by the dive master, not particularly soothing activities.  I took the written test, with (bare) minimal study, in a loud seaside restaurant full of vacationers.  On Sunday we were to have our last 2 dives, completing the course, but our air cylinders had all received contaminated air and we had to abort.  That means another journey to the coast and another day devoted to discomfort and sometimes anxiety under the sea in the name of safety.  During the Christmas holiday we are going to Malaysia where I hope to finally have fun floats with pretty fishes and a dive master who doesn’t touch my air supply.

(On the way to shore after our aborted scuba dive, we had a dramatic James Bond type encounter with two testosterone driven Russian spear fishermen.  Our Balinese boat diver, keenly aware of his surroundings as Balinese people are, pointed out to our dive master that two men were dangerously fishing protected reef life in the scuba zone.  When our boat approached the men, one swam out to sea and the other denied fishing, spear in hand.  Our boatman drove to the fishermen’s buoy, a dead reef fish tied to the side, and pulled the buoy onto our boat.  The enraged fisherman tried to mount our boat and threatened our dive master directly with his spear.  Mark, our dive master, repeatedly asked the man for his spear gun, telling him he could reclaim it at the dive shop, but the Russian man refused to comply and denied understanding English.  Then in English, insisted Mark give him his dive computer in exchange for the spear gun.  The Russian’s trust level was low and his adrenalin was high, a dangerous combination.  He made a grab for his buoy, catching the cording in his fingers and yanking hard. Mark, using his dive knife, cut the cording free.  We returned to shore where our boat driver notified his village authorities who in turn contacted the local police.  Within moments every Balinese person up and down the beach knew what was happening.  When the police arrived the village authorities knew exactly who the responsible men were and which restaurant they were sitting in.  Mark and the machine gun carrying police had a polite discussion with the spear fishermen and their girl friends, and eventually the police drove away with the spears, holding them until, I suspect, some money changed hands.)     

During all of my previous Bali trips I hired a driver.  I was content to be a passive participant in the dance of the Balinese roads. This week in a move toward independence, I have been learning to drive a motorbike, starting off around a flat futbol field and progressing to actually driving on the road, passing trucks, swerving around potholes, swimming in the sea of other motorbikes.  Look out!  The roads are for the most part unmarked and any rules seem to have exceptions if convenient.  For instance, in Bali vehicles drive on the left, but if you are on a motorbike turning right and feel like continuing on the right, you can just go ahead and do it.  Same thing goes for a one way street; that’s one way for cars, but if you are on a motorbike and want to drive against the flow of traffic, go for it.  Plenty of others will join you. 

An entirely orange butterfly just flew into our house, danced in front of Sofia and I to our delight, fluttered across the length of the room, took a moment to visit our orchids and left as silently as it entered.  This is a first.

One more first:  today I was commissioned to cater a raw dinner party this Friday night.  In addition to my warung prep, I will be creating a multiple course gourmet meal on a stunning property overlooking the Ayung River.  

Let’s see... how much more can I juggle?....

Food

This week I began offering raw food at the Green School warung.  Suddenly I am busy.  This is an understatement.  Food prep began on Tuesday for a Wednesday inaugural launch; soaking, sprouting, chopping, grating, blending, dehydrating.  I thought I had made enough to last a couple of days or maybe through the week.  Then I sold out of nearly everything the first day.  On the list of potential problems, this one is pretty high up in the favorable category, yet it is something to contend with, if I would like to include sleeping in my daily activities.  In order to create more delicacies for the next day I was now working around the clock.  Truly.  I am preparing all the food, hand crafting and selling all the food in the warung, explaining about raw food, how I create it and why, then preparing again.  This is completely unsustainable... and at the Green School, model of sustainability!  

When we first arrived in Bali we hired a pembantu (helper) who is lovely in many ways but turned out to be unreliable.  She is still fetching our drinking water from the school well and doing our laundry.  I had just found a new pembantu and she started working this very week.  Komang is smart, trustworthy and eager to please, but speaks no English at all.  I have been training her, in my limited Indonesian, to assist me in the food prep while doing all the food prep.  Today I said something in Indonesian that I swear was close to correct (close, of course, doesn't count): Komang started giggling and then we were both cracking up laughing.

Spending the day in the Green School warung is enjoyable.  The warung staff members are lovable and Sri, the woman in charge, is a bright light.  The kids flow in during snack time and at lunch.  Parents of the students and various visitors eat raw macaroons, raw tropical cookies with star fruit or raw brownies (with a raw creme anglais piped on top or a mint fudge drizzle) with their cappuccinos.  (Asher has now brought his locally grown, fresh roasted coffee into the warung, upgrading the espresso to the delight of the international coffee drinkers.  We have infiltrated the warung!)  I started with one lunch item, mango/coconut wraps (I order dozens of young coconuts delivered to my house by wheelbarrow from the Green School gardens) with ginger cashew pate, shredded vegetables and a sesame dipping sauce, thinking sweets would be more accessible to raw food newcomers, but the wraps are a hit.  I need to make more and more of them.  They are the first item I teach Komang to prepare, showing her how to smooth them just so and sprinkle each one with chopped mint.

The table I have been using in the warung (bamboo, of course) is not dedicated to me; I share the table with the lunch staff.  Before lunchtime two men come and carry my table away, back to the Heart of School where it used to live before I came along with my raw food, then return it (usually) after lunch is finished.  That is rather inconvenient, for all of us.  Fortunately John Hardy, who has been sampling all of my wares each day, recommended that I choose whichever table I like from the kitchen where, as I have already written, many interesting experiments in bamboo furniture design reside, but do not get much use.  The kitchen, located across the river from the school, is a rather inconvenient place from which to move my chosen table.  I'm wondering if the staff will carry it by hand across the rustic bamboo bridge (closest to the kitchen), or the newer, safer Green School bamboo bridge, or if they will find a truck, load it on the back and drive it all the way around (driving across the river by car requires going a distance out of your way either north or south)... Or will I be the one to carry it?

Friday was International Day at the Green School.  Each classroom chose a country to represent, studied their chosen country, decorated their room and created a presentation, including costumes, music, song or dance, for the weekly Friday assembly.  Loads of parents attended and made loads of food platters from the various countries.  With all that (free) food around the possibility existed that they would ignore my raw food in the warung.  Nope, not at all.  It was a busy day.  By the end of Friday I was beyond exhausted, ridiculously sleep deprived and not in a particularly clear state of mind.  Fortunately I found a second person to soon begin helping me in the warung so I will have freedom to come and go.

Friday night our friends and neighbors, Mona and Ajay, originally from India, invited us to join their family celebration of Diwali, the Hindu Festival of Lights commemorating of the victory of good over evil.  We sang sacred Sanskrit chants while waving a tray of lit candles, then placed the candles in different parts of the house and along the path to the doorway, assisting Lakshmi, Goddess of Abundance, in finding her way to their home.  It was sweet and intimate, and an honor to be included in the ritual as well as the meal of delicious Indian food.  I had been having a hankering for Indian spices and yes, I tasted the cooked food.  And yes, I felt the difference the next day.  I think my next creation for the warung will be Indian samosas raw style.

I needed a weekend in a big way.  We had previously planned a big weekend away, not exactly the weekend I was needeing at this point on the exhaustion timeline.  I came close to sending my family off on the journey and staying home alone, but I love an adventure and ended up packing clothes and... ugh... food, again.  (An overdose of food preparation could become a diet trend.  I find the more I am around it, the less I want to eat it, although I adore creating new recipes, blessing the food and sharing it with others.  To me food is an art form.)  We started off at Tree Tops, a series of zip line courses in the immaculately kept Bali Botanical Gardens, with most of the Green School first grade families and some others who wanted to join in.   We used to have a zip line on our property in Oregon and Sofia was afraid to ride it.  Now she is clipping and unclipping her carabiners from one line to the next with her buddies.  A big group of people and death defying zips through the trees into rope nets did not really constitute a restful day for me.  We ended the afternoon, along with 4 other families, in a well appointed lodge way up in the Bali highlands with a view of a lake.   We brought our own food and many cooks took over the kitchen.  I thought I had escaped food preparation when the request came for me to make salads.  No rest for the weary.  On the counter were whole enormous fishes, eyes bulging, headed toward the grill, and beside it I prepared my raw, vegan salad mandalas.  First the children ate at the large table and once the adults sat down I was, finally, asleep on the couch.

The next day I  felt like a human being again.  (Should I tell you about my husband waking up the lodge playing his flugelhorn at 4 a.m.?  I guess not....) After a rousing session of pillow fighting and tickle attacks with the 8 children, I took myself for a walk up the mountain through fertile fields.  Following behind an elderly woman carrying a load of greens on her head, I came upon a large solitary boulder seemingly out of place in the green landscape.  In true Bali style it had become an alter and someone had already placed the morning offerings in its cleft.  Further along the trail someone called to me; a woman, her husband and their shy 6 year old daughter were tilling the soil.  She invited me to use her hoe and I was honored to do so.  While the husband and I hoed, we all spoke about growing food, soil quality, our families, even American politics, all in my (very) limited Indonesian.

In the afternoon we caravanned down steep and nearly unpassably broken roads to remote hot springs.  A loud and close thunderclap, sounding like a bomb, announced yet another torrential downpour.  We walked down the hill to the hot springs in the rain, under the bamboo, the path lined with bamboo leaves.  Soaked, we arrived at the tubs to... soak.  The human made pool with lovely, fresh and nicely hot water (the weather is refreshingly cool in the upper elevations) merging with the cool rain, all beside a waterfall rushing with muddy rain runoff.  We frolicked in the water beside many Balinese locals come for a soak on their day off.

Then back to the Bambu Village.  Before more food sourcing and more food prep, we hopped on our motorbike and drove into Ubud where Dave Stringer (visiting from LA) led an ecstatic kirtan.  What joy!

The second week with raw food in the warung is more comfortable.  I have someone helping me prepare the food and someone working in the warung making wraps.  John Hardy brought his wife Cynthia over to sample my food for the first time and she raved about it.  A little later Cynthia brought her friend Donna Karan (the Empress of Fashion) over for a taste.  Donna and I naturally fell into a conversation about spirituality, Kabbalah, blending Judaism and Buddhism and Hinduism.  Donna has been eating raw food for years.  After finishing up, Donna told me mine was the best raw food she has ever eaten.  Now that is another great compliment to bask in, from someone who has access to the best of the best all the time.  Perhaps I am earning the title my friend Georgia has given me, Goddess of Yum.  

Letting It Rip

I have been searching for my exercise groove in Bali.

Asher has transitioned smoothly from Oregon to Sibang Kaja.  Immediately upon arrival he bought a mountain bike and, just as in the Applegate, he is up before the sun with a miner's headlamp on his forehead, pumping up hills.  On Fridays he takes monumental rides up volcanic craters.  As an alternative, he runs barefoot, also before the sun rises, around the meticulously groomed Green School football field (grooming means one Balinese man squatting in the sun, pulling out weeds and invasive grasses by hand).

The dance floor is my temple.  Dance, as body tune up and tune in, as prayer, has been the mainstay of my practice the last two years, interspersed with bike rides, hikes into the BLM beside our house, runs through the forest and yin yoga.  Nia with Rachael Resch, exploring the joy of each movement, micro and macro, has been a profound experience for me, reliably spiraling me into deeper awareness,  bringing insights and revelations.  Free dance, especially Sarah Marshank's Embody and the dance events Eden and Ryan facilitated at our house, far beyond exercise, has been for me a communion with self and with community.   In Ashland, every day of the week someone is offering a dance circle.  Not so here in Bali.

A big thing to contend with is the heat.  If Asher is exploring in the early morning hours, someone needs to be home with Sofia.  I like to see her off to school, which means heading out for a walk or a run after 8:30 when it is already quite warm and heating up to a simmer.  I like to explore little paths and see where they lead.  Private property doesn't really exist in Bali, so any trail is a good one.  This week I walked on narrow paths crisscrossing the river, finding flowers and small waterfalls, traversing a rustic but strong bamboo bridge.  I passed an elderly man crossing the bridge; he seemed startled to see me, but smiled and wished me a good morning.  With grit between my toes and mud splashed up my legs, I leaped across rocks and eroding mudbanks.  I ended up walking through a village, seeing grandmas taking care of little ones while their mommas and poppas are at work.  It has been raining often, but this was a bright sunshiny morning and each house had a full assortment of clean laundry hanging up to dry.   On my way back home I stopped by the Green School kitchen to visit my friend Kadek and exchange sweaty hugs; she had been cooking over a hot fire and I had been building my internal fire by climbing out of the ravine in the sun. 

Tuesday mornings a group of Green School moms leave from the school for a 2 hour walk, following the little foot paths through the jungle.  This week we discovered a red pineapple growing beside the road, a wild gardenia, a canal of muddy water, and stumbled upon a Hari Krishna temple in the middle of nowhere.

I am reconnecting with my yoga practice, a gratifying reunion.  Having purchased a series pass to the Yoga Barn studio in Ubud, I am taking classes with a variety of teachers working in a variety of styles, getting a sense of what is available.  From the second floor studio, overlooking an expanse of rice fields, I have been paying closer attention to my breath, twisting happily into contortions, revisiting poses like old friends.  Leading one class was a Balinese teacher, trained in Australia, moving in and out of  Australian and Indonesian accents.  At the height of the class, in the most strenuous pose of the day, this teacher encouraged us to keep our faces relaxed and to smile.  Then, clear as a bell, he said, 'I want to see your tits."  The Indonesian language does not have a TH sound; what he meant was that he would like to see our teeth as we smile.  None of my classmates tittered (couldn't resist).  I held the pose, but found this hilarious and giggled to myself throughout the day.

I checked out my first Biodanza class.  Birthed through Rolando Toro, a Chilean psychologist, anthropologist and poet in the 1960s, Biodanza is an inspired system fusing music and movement with emotional exploration and community building.  I had read about Biodanza while still in Oregon, finding an interview with Rolando Toro before his passing, and felt the authenticity of his work.  I questioned it though, in the yoga studio, with the international crowd grooving to the beat.  It seemed a little fluffy and superficial.  I felt my judgements arise and, with them, the opportunity to pass through the doorway of What I No Longer Have.  That passageway is not particularly pleasant and has to do with my kitty cat Malia, our wonderful home in the forest, the amazing array of organic products at the Ashland Food Co-op, Nia class... I could go on and on, but it won't make me feel good.  I kept dancing.  I did my best to stay open.  Our focus was on yin and yang.  We danced a series of segments exploring our yang, building up to stepping into our warrior power.  I let it rip.  I drew power up through the earth, the roots, the Bali mud, into my limbs.  I growled.  I roared.  Something shifted for me and, sure enough, something shifted in the room.  Having expressed our power, the tenderness of the yin movement was sweet and deep and real.  Total strangers, dripping with waterfalls of sweat, shared dance, eye contact, touch, love.  I thought, I can be here.

An exercise of a different sort:  persevering through the storm.  We went to a first grade party at a colonial style teak house in the hills for futbol (kids vs parents), potluck and conversation.  We were among the few remaining families still chatting at the party when the rain began.    We had all arrived by motorbike and decided to sit out the storm.  It took hours.  So much water fell to the earth that the grassy area that had been a futbol field was now a lake.  The rain pounded.  It got dark.  Finally, in a light drizzle, we attempted the ride home.  We were off to a questionable start on a little dirt road, fishtailing right and left in the muddy debris.  On paved roads it was smoother, though in one spot the terrain was so steep the bike could not pull our weight.  Asher drove Sofia up the hill, I got off and hiked.  South of Ubud parts of the road were still flooded (eventually all the water finds lower ground) and we cautiously made our way through pond sized pools of water in the dark, again and again.  At one point we passed large trucks pulled over to the side of the narrow road, discovering they were avoiding downed power lines.  One motorbike after another drove through the massive puddles, over the power cables, and we followed.  We were past all that and nearly home when we had a direct hit with a pothole.  The wobbly bike let us know that we had a flat.  In true Bali style, the moment we pulled over to the side of the road, a man who had been sitting in front of a shop leapt to his feet to help, knowing exactly what the problem was, and gave us directions to the nearest place that could fix the tire.  While Asher went off to repair the flat (at a hole in the wall shop he would never have found without the earlier directions), Sofia and I people watched at the nearby night market beside vendors frying wonton type snacks.  We were grateful for a dry roof over our heads once we finally arrived home.

More about excess moisture:  We have a stretch of wood floor in our bathroom next to the shower that never dries out.  Yesterday morning I walked into the bathroom to discover a mushroom growing out of the floorboards.  I'm wondering, with all this heat and humidity, if fuzzy green things and mushrooms will start growing out of my pores.

  

The Green School has been letting it rip in the appearance department.  Last week it was Crazy Hair Day and now it is Halloween.  I got wild with pipe cleaners on Sofia and Avishi, our neighbor and Sofia's most constant pal so far.  I'm also including evidence that Asher is tuning in to his feminine side.  

Basking

Basking in pleasing thoughts is like catching a good wave and riding it for every inch it will carry you.  I love being in the tide of inspiration, or basking in a wonderful memory.  Sometimes I find myself falling off surf out of basking and into the churning deep, sucked into the undertow.

The other day, for example.  Asher and I had important errands in Denpasar, the grimy congested capitol.  I wanted to go by car and Asher wanted to go by motorbike.  Our

usual driver had another job for the day so we took off on the motorbike, although we have never driven ourselves into the maze of Denpasar.

Driving in Bali is a dance.  Sharing the narrow roads are endless streams of motorbikes flowing around cars, oversized tourist buses, and open bed trucks carrying rocks or filled to capacity with villagers dressed for ceremony.  The motorbikes pass on the left or the right at will, shooting through gaps of oncoming traffic and dodging, on the roadside, elders carrying agricultural products in baskets balanced on bamboo poles, school children in uniforms, processions of sarong clad devotees with offerings on their heads, a little kid with a bike too big for him, a dog or a chicken darting out of a family compound... It sounds chaotic but it is not; driving in Bali has rhythm and consciousness.  It is a spiritual practice for all involved, an opportunity to be keenly present, to chart your course and yet always give way to another.  The rule of the road is grace.

It's one thing to drive through villages and past rice fields, and quite another to drive into Denpasar.  Aside from the congestion, the fumes and the hot sun, road signage is minimal and directions are usually along the lines of, "turn right at the street light that is not a light."  We memorize the names of the streets we need to get to and don't bother with the numbers as addresses in Bali are not sequential.  We just go for it, Asher and I on the rented motorbike.  We get closer and closer.  We know we are closer because the traffic thickens and the street options increase.  At one junction I spontaneously, without thought, tell Asher to turn right.  A moment later we are on the very street of our first destination, a silk shop, as if transported by fairy dust.

If we had gone home after that I could have easily basked in the ease of the journey, but we went to our next destination.  We found it without difficulty, but it was much farther than I remembered, meaning more fumes and more baking in the sun.  The real challenge was in returning home.  I was getting hot and tired of being on a motorbike seat when Asher decided to take a turn that I sensed was going in the opposite direction of where we live.  The road went on, and on, and on.  Asher said, "let's manifest a magical place to have a cold drink," but instead we passed endless Balinese compounds, ending up on a major road I recognized, with a groan, to be somewhat full circle from where we began.  Coming upon a gas station, we filled up the tank (for about $1.50), downed some bottles of cold water, enjoyed the relief of removing our butts from the bike seat, then wound our way home, stopping to ask directions (in Indonesian) every so often (then trying to figure out the response).

Thoughts are things, I know, and thoughts create.  My thoughts were rather sweaty and stinky at this point.  Basking is much more fun, and so is the result.

Later I decided to go to a yoga class.  Asher would collect Sofia from school and I would find my way into Ubud.  I'll just hire someone from the neighboring village to drive me the 20 minutes to Ubud, I thought.  It actually took a long time to find someone, then I had to wait for him to eat at the small warung and once we got on the road, with just barely enough time to get to my class, we got caught in a logjam of traffic.  I apologized, got out of the car and walked home, not a happy camper.  Clearly, when in allowance, things just flow.  And clearly, the farther I got out of the vortex, the farther still I moved out of the vortex.

It's a few days later and I have cleaned up my mental act.  I'm surfing again.  In the nick of time I remember that back in Oregon I had signed up for a John Hardy led tour of Green School for this very day, October 20. At the time John was a legend to us, yet a stranger.  Today he is somewhere between an acquaintance and... I'm not sure, but  today he said 'Hello, cupcake," as he gave me a kiss.  Our tour group consisted of myself and Asher, Ciara -- an Irish woman who has been teaching internationally for the past 10 years all over the globe and has just arrived in Bali for 2 months, placing her son in Sofia's class -- and Alixis -- a French Canadian man who runs scuba diving expeditions from yachts in the Maldives.  (The Green School attracts fascinating people and the student body represents 30 different nations and counting. They keep flooding in. Sofia is no longer the new kid in her class; 3 more have arrived after 

us!)  

John is no lover of redundancy.  Every tour is different.  Our tour began at PT Bambu Pure, the newest John Hardy empire.  On a green mission to do right by the planet and his potential grandchildren, John has not only created the Green School but also become a developer of bamboo construction.  The company structure, a bamboo warehouse he said he built for a few thousand dollars, houses stacks of enormous bamboo poles and vats of boron used to treat the bamboo for protection from insects.  Bamboo grows as a grass from a mother root, can mature to full height in 4 years and, once the stalks are cut, the same mother can produce again, and again.  On site were a couple of prototypes of their bamboo yurts; to my eye more beautiful than any other yurt I have seen and outfitted with some spiffy bamboo furnishings.  Each building they construct begins as a miniature model.  Initially they used glue to hold the sticks together, but that doesn't last long in this climate and, realizing the pieces should be archived for the future, now have a remarkably patient and nimble restorer tying each tiny piece together with string. 

We walk down the road to the Green School kitchen.  The multiple story building, bamboo of course, sits high on a hill just a one minute walk from our house.  We are across the river from the school which means the kitchen is across the river from the school.  Every day at lunch women carry all the freshly made food on their heads into the Heart of School building, serving all grades and any visitors at the same time.  The food is wholesome and most of it is grown on the school grounds.  We enter the kitchen through a tunnel at street level.  At work preparing the school lunch is my friend Kadek, who is in charge of the kitchen, and we have our first reunion since my arrival in Bali.  I met Kadek on our last trip to Bali and we had a huge, immediate heart connection.  During the jewelry years Kadek traveled around the world with the Hardys as their chef and at one point they sent her for training in raw food preparation, all unusual for the Balinese who rarely leave their island and don't eat much raw food.  The original concept for the kitchen is that it would also be a restaurant; each level was to be a different style of seating, earthy on the bottom level, posh tablecloths on the top and something in between on the middle floor.  Right now the kitchen is... a kitchen, and also a repository of various experiments with bamboo furniture design.  Most Balinese home kitchens are smoky little rooms with wood fires or ranges burning gas, but the Green School kitchen is airy, open and burns bamboo saw dust, a byproduct of the construction.  (That is also how they heat the water for our houses in the Bambu Village.) On the way out we sample fresh long beans (really long green beans) from the kitchen gardens.

After the kitchen tour we head out on motorbikes down the road a bit -- John's brightly painted three wheel motorcycle (that's 2 in front for greater contact with the road) turning many a head in the little Balinese village --  and across the river to the latest construction site: 18 luxury houses made entirely of bamboo, starting price $350,000 U.S. in cash. (That is still  a pretty penny here in Bali, but part of the gentrification boom I have mixed feelings about at the moment.  Bigger, more expensive structures are going up everywhere, most of them not green.  I can't blame anyone... I'd like to create something, too! ) The first three houses are currently under construction, all with a  view of the jungle ravine, all with sweeping roofs and organic curves built into the side of the hill.  Years ago I had a dream of building a curving bamboo house in the Blue Mountains of Jamaica.  I am not sure I want to live in a bamboo house forever, but after the tour, in the middle of the night, I dream of a large bamboo structure on the land we are interested in as our retreat center way out in remote Tabanan, little bamboo yurts dotting the property.

Throughout the tour, in the midst of his entertaining, informative, opinionated and lively dialog, I notice John glancing or even staring at my neck.  A couple of times he interrupts himself saying, "That is a beautiful necklace."  Being in the jewelry business a long time and always wearing my creations, I am used to this, yet receiving such a comment from one of the most successful contemporary jewelry designers feels like a significant compliment.  We end the tour at the Green School warung where we sip ginger fizzes and fresh young coconut water.  At one point John takes my hand and examines my ring.  He asks if I still have workers,  says he likes what I do, and perhaps I could make something for him.  Yes, of course, I would be thrilled.  

Even if we never discuss it again, I will bask in this appreciation.  Just thinking about it now, I'm riding the wave a little longer and the radiance feels good.

Flores Adventure

So far life in our new home feels somewhat like summer camp in a bamboo cabin.  Then, after Sofia's first full week of school, we take a week's vacation.  Vacation from summer camp.  It's the Green School's mid-term break; while we were still in Oregon some new friends invited us to join them for a journey to Flores and we just had to say yes.  On the map Flores is a couple of islands to the right of Bali.  In all our years of traveling to Indonesia we have only seen Bali and a bit of central Java making this a big adventure.  We love big adventures. Our travel group is 4 families.  Each family has a first grader in the Green School.  An international rainbow, we fit nicely together: Asher and I (American Jews) with Sofia, our adopted daughter from Hunan; Michelle (Southern Cal) and Andy (Jewish Southern Cal) and their domestically adopted daughter, Kaila; John (London) and Edith (Bostonian Chinese American) with their 3 stair-step girls, two years apart, Lydia, Phoebe and Amelia, plus Edith's mom, June (Taiwan) visiting from America; Steve and Renee (both Canadian, both former U.N. employees in Asia) and their boys, Lochlan and Seth. We meet at the airport in Denpasar, Bali and excitedly board the small plane to Labuan Bajo on the west coast of Flores.  It's a loud, vibrating plane ride, rather like flying out of Medford, Oregon, only a wave a cigarette smoke floats through the cabin when a stewardess leaves the cockpit.  An Indonesian pilot can get away with that.  We fly over ocean and islands, landing on the small airstrip of a tiny airport.  We wait for our luggage in a room with no air con and intense heat.  Welcome to Flores. It takes 3 bimos to transport our herd and all our luggage to our hotel.  A bimo is a ragtag little van with bench seats that face each other, operating somewhere between a taxi and a bus, and is a common form of transportation for locals all over Indonesia.  It seems to be a form of expression for Florenese bimo drivers to decorate their windshields with decals and dangling stuffed animals to the point where you might wonder how they can focus on the road.  Driving the roads in Flores, as we soon learn, requires a high degree of concentration.  Tourist money from Bali is definitely not finding its way to creation of infrastructure in Flores.  To drive is to swerve around potholes. We take our lodging at Chez Felix, up high on a hill overlooking the port.  The rooms are humble, clean and cheap, with overhead fans and cold water showers.  The restaurant area has a view of the ocean and is decorated with a picture of Jesus.  (Flores, once colonized by the Portuguese, is largely Christian.  The Portuguese influence in the gene pool is evident in the features and wavy hair of many Florenese.  We see brightly painted rustic churches throughout the countryside, as well as mosques with silvery mushroom domes.)  During our first outing into central Labuan Bajo, for a meal, a fitting of scuba gear, and a scorching walk along the gorgeous but not so tidy port, Michelle (who has made all the arrangements for the trip, for everyone -- I have not had someone else plan a trip for me since I was a child traveling with my parents) discovers that the two live-aboard boats reserved for us are not what she expected, but more like simple day boats without cabins or tables.  We would all be in intimate quarters, sleeping under the stars.  She is unhappy with the news and feels responsible for the group.  It becomes my job, and Asher's, to know that all is well, that a solution will unfold.  It was an uncomfortable evening for Michelle, but by the next morning we have an even better arrangement than Michelle was anticipating; through another company we have secured one big boat we can all fit on instead of two, and for the same price.  We leave a day later and entertain ourselves by visiting a bat cave and tooling around fishing villages on motorbikes.  The hotel staff give us copious blessings when we depart. Three days at sea... beauty in every direction, endless magnificent cloud formations reflecting into tranquil  waters, a softness and a moistness always in the air.  Mystery and beauty below the water, majesty and beauty above.  We motor past nameless islands and set anchor several times each day, moving from one diving spot to another.  None of us are too keen on our cabins so we sleep comfortably on cushioned lounge chairs pushed together underneath the glorious stars.  The crew prepares all our meals (I teach them to make green smoothies and not add sugar.)  On one idyllic beach we find fantastic shells we cannot keep (national park land) and see perhaps the most gorgeous sunset ever (we did get swarmed by mosquitoes shortly thereafter and had to dash for the boat), only to be rivaled by the next morning's sun event: dolphin sunrise... at least 100 dolphins jumping in the reflection of the sun on the ocean.  The past becomes irrelevant and the future is non-existent. Five of the adults are diving; I have not dived before and take the little motor boat with the children and 2 other women to various stretches of white sand beach and nearly perfect snorkeling (except one day when an aggressive trigger fish charges at three of the children and actually bites one of our Flores crew members).  Two firsts: Sofia, who during swimming lessons this summer still refused to put her face in the water or even try on a pair of goggles, takes immediately to snorkeling in the open sea.  Initially we go out together for long stretches with my arm around her.  Later she tells me I don't need to hold on to her any longer.  She wasn't even phased by the trigger fish coming at us like a torpedo and bouncing off her mask.  The last day,at Asher's encouragement, I took my first ever scuba dive.  With only basic explanation, I got suited up, jumped in and breathed my first breaths underwater.  I didn't have trouble clearing, but every time I went horizontal to swim I bounced up to the surface.  I'd like to get certified and try again.  I guess seeing komodo dragons in the wild is another first.  We did that, too. The last three days we spend in a much more beautiful and comfortable hotel on the beach, with air con and a swimming pool.  The highlight for me, perhaps of the entire trip, was the journey to Cunca Rami, a waterfall in the highlands.  We went by bimo, bouncing and curving our way up to a remote village where we created quite a stir amongst the locals at the opportunity to porter our children in along the 2 km path.  Each of our children had someone who carried them piggyback style down the sometimes steep and gravelly footpath, then back up again. Down, down, down the narrow footpath we paraded, our 7 children and 7 porters, about a dozen school children and a few random adults who decided to join us.  Down, down, down through a jungle of tall trees, across a mineral rich stream, through terraced rice fields, and the stunning waterfall always in the distance. Then we happen upon the falls and the natural swimming pool of clear, fresh water.  The power of the falls sprays cold mist on everyone who comes close enough.  I couldn't wait to get in and swam against the current to let the powerful falls pound on my head.  Three of us swam behind the falls into an alcove.  For years I had visualized a cave behind a waterfall as my special meditation room.  Now it had manifest into form.  After the swim we were actually cold, quite the luxury in Flores.   Now up, up, up, climbing out of the ravine, the local boys singing angelically most of the way.  Sweaty again.  We relax another day and return to Bali.  We all get such a chuckle out of returning from vacation to... Bali!  Bali looks like a metropolis compared to Flores.  The first person we see when we return is the general manager of Green School who invites us to begin creating raw food in the school warung (small restaurant).  The Flores adventure ends.  The culinary adventure begins.