Now, if you’d like to be chronological, scroll to the bottom of this page, and click on “previous,” which will take you to the entry called “Bend and the ET’s.”

The next entry here will take you to August 2008, when I moved to Hillsborough, North Carolina, and then my experience in Tijuana, Mexico and San Diego, where I went for yet another dental experience. Soon to be posted.

Denpassar, Bali

Three days ago I arrived in the metropolis of Bali. No one seems to have anything good to say about Denpassar, and I would have never come here if it weren’t for the fact that a friend who spends a lot of time in Bali, who married a Balinese woman, recommended Dr. Sucipto, who works out of Denpassar.

I came to the city by car, with a driver from Candidasa named Made who just happened to go to school at the Gandhi Ashram.

Thanks to the Lonely Planet book, I located a very nice place to stay called Nekusa Familiar Inn. It’s run by Anon, a jovial, gangling big Japanese man and his family. It’s about $8 a night with the fan, and $11 with A/C, but there is no hot water. I told him I would be staying for a week, which reduces the cost of my room to about $10. “You stay for a week, you are now part of my family! Later I take you to museum, art gallery if you want.” Such a sweet man. He learns his English by watching language lessons for kids on TV.

The first night I was here I wandered over to the open-air market, which is enormous, and I was befriended by a young man named Wayan, who speaks very good English. He offered to be my translater, and just attached himself to me. Then he took me over to meet his wife, who sells beautiful fabric, and I was glad to buy some cloth from her. “Now,” she said, “we are family,” and she introduced me to their son. After that, Wayan’s wife urged him to take me all over town on his motorbike.

Every morning at 4 am I wake up to the sounds of chanting. I’m a sucker for chanting. Any kind of chanting. There’s some kind of church or something around here, and they have the chutzpah to pipe their devotional sounds out into the neighborhood on a very loud loudspeaker at 4 o’clock in the morning!

I’m loving it, but I’m not so sure I’d appreciate it if I lived next door to the loudspeaker! It sounds like it’s coming from fairly far away. I pulled myself out of bed and went to sit on the balcony to hear it better. I wondered if it was a recording, or if it was live? I decided to record it. I was disappointed that the second morning didn’t sound as good as the first because there’s a static sound. I couldn’t tell if it came from the recording, or from the speakers

On the second morning I woke up with a vision. I saw myself packing up my laptop and my mike and walking down the road to find out where the sounds were coming from. That was a little intimidating. I thought of asking my friend Wayan to meet me at 4 am and take me there on his motorcycle. But no, I think I would have to do this by myself. But not today.

On the third morning I woke up to the chanting and felt like it was time to follow my vision. I’ve always tried to follow my visions, no matter how irrational they seemed to my conscious mind. If I have the inspiration, it must be good! It was scary, in a way, to think of walking through the streets of Denpassar in the middle of the night. But it was also intriguing. Even if I found the place, I had no idea if they would let me go inside the building. I had no idea what to expect.

But it seemed like a good idea to wear a long skirt and to cover my arms and wear a shawl. A sarong didn’t seem appropriate, but I do have a long purple skirt. I’m not exactly well equipped with subtle clothing, but I managed to put together a disguise that seemed like I might be able to blend in. I put on my big round ugly glasses that I use for driving at night, and that made me feel very safe. I figured I could pass for an eccentric little old lady. I deliberately did not take my backpack; only schoolchildren wear backpacks in Bali. I put my small laptop into a shoulder-bag that I concealed beneath the shawl.

I slipped out of my room, hoping to pass quietly into the night. I walked down the stairs and out to the street, only to find that my host had closed and locked the gate for the night. Alas!

I stood at the gate, watching people walk by and drive by for about fifteen minutes. I felt strangely peaceful. I had a feeling I was going to be able to find a way out soon. Then a light came on from Anon’s compound. Through the window I could see an elderly woman walking around inside. I went to the door and knocked. When she opened the door she jumped back! I scared her in my disguise!

I quickly took off my glasses and pulled down my shawl and tried to communicate my desire to leave. She woke up her son who speaks a little English, who offered to drive me, but “No,” I said, “I want to walk.”

“Where you go?”

I point to my ears and then up into the air. “I want to find the church.”

“Oh! Mosque!”

“Yes, yes,” I say.

He points in the direction where the mosque is, which is what I figured, since that’s where the sound was coming from. Reluctantly (out of concern for me) he opened the gate and let me out. I asked him to leave it open for me, which he did, also reluctantly.

I made my way into the night, and I did in fact feel invisible. No one offered to sell me anything or drive me anywhere. I felt like the intrepid reporter, going out on his beat, into the seedy part of town.

I walked one block to the left, turned right and crossed the busy street (a bit challenging, even at this hour, with constant motor-scooters whizzing back-and-forth). I felt a bit concerned that my disguise would make me almost invisible to motorists. Then I walked about two full blocks, constantly closing in on the sounds, which sometimes grew louder and sometimes fell away altogether.

At first the chanting seemed to be coming from the building on the right. Then from the big structure on the left. It had on lights and a mosque, but no people. Then I came to the river, and the sounds were coming loud, echoing from both sides of the bridge, so I was completely confused. But I kept walking, over the bridge, ever more fascinated by this heartful chanting in an unknown language.

Just past the bridge, the sounds grew very loud and I knew I was close. I felt excited and happy that I had come. The sounds seemed to be coming from down a side lane. I walked down the lane, and there on the left was a big open temple with tall pillars, and you could actually see people inside, dressed in white, their heads wrapped in white, bowing and prostrating.

I found a little stoop in front of a storefront just across the lane from the mosque. I sat there quietly, watching and listening. One or two people nodded at me, but mostly I just faded into the background. There were many people going into the mosque. During the half hour, I must have seen 100 people going in.

During a lull in the chanting, I surrepticiously brought out my laptop, hooked up the mike, brought up the Final Vinyl program, and pressed Record. Making sure that it was in fact recording, I closed the lid most of the way, placed the small mike in an advantageous location, and tucked the whole apparatus under my shawl.

Soon I’ll post this here so that you can hear the chanting that was so intriguing to me. You can hear the chants and in the distance you can hear the response. It was not a recording! There were live people inside who were chanting in an antiphonal call-and-response.

You can also hear people driving by on their motorcycles, and some talking. There is the sound of water because there are 6 spickets out in front of the building, and before people go inside they stop and wash at the spickets. The women just tend to pull up their skirts a little and hold their feet under the water, sandals and all. Then they kick off their sandals into a big pile in front of the mosque and go inside where they obtain white costumes—except for one woman who wore a black head covering.

The men get more enthusiastic about washing their hands and arms and even their faces and necks. Near the end you can hear one man who drove right up to the spicket on his motorbike, parked it there, and proceeded to expectorate loudly as he washed himself. There’s another place that looks like a bathroom just to the left of the big doorway, and many men stopped in there. When they go inside, all the men sear caps and sarongs. There are lockers on the right, but I don’t see anyone using these.

Then I hear some sounds from inside the shop that I’m sitting in front of. Someone drives up in a van and almost runs me down. I have to pull up my legs to prevent my toes from being run over. The woman driving the van shoos me away. Obviously my disguise is working! (She would never treat a white woman like that!) I wonder what she thinks as I quickly put my laptop into my bag!

But it’s okay, because I’m able to step back over a little barrier, into an entryway for a small house just next to the shop. As I sit and absorb the vibrations of the chanting, I fully understand why so many people make their way here at the beginning of their mornings. I can feel the passion of their devotion. It helps me to feel more connected with muslims who choose to worship this way. I would have loved to have gone inside, and I would have been willing to do prostrations.

For me, soulful chanting in a foreign tongue is synonymous with spirituality. When I was a child, my mother would take me to the Synagogue in Chicago, and she would hold me in her lap while the Rabbi read from the Torah and the Cantor chanted the prayers in Hebrew. I am sure that she thought of her beloved father who had been both Rabbi and Cantor for his little village in Radontzyn, Poland, where there were very few Jews.(Just as here, these Moslem people are a distinct minority, surrounded by the mostly Hindu Balinese.)

I loved the sounds of the Cantor chanting! My mother had some old 78 Records that she kept in the basement rumpus room of our home in Chicago, of Cantors chanting. I would play those records over and over, and I was heartbroken when she left them behind when we moved to San Diego when
I was eight years old. There my parents joined a Reform Temple, and they did not have a Cantor. I refused to go to Temple! They could not make me go. I was a very willful child.

So with my grandfather’s blood running through my veins, it is not surprising that so many shamans from the other side have chosen me as a willing and enthusiastic channel for their sounds, especially in a healing context. You can hear an excerpt of my Shamanic Sounding from my CD, Altered States of Planet, on the home page of my website at http://highvibrations.net

Meanwhile, my adventure for the morning was now complete, and I could return incognito to my little apartment for my morning meditation.

This beach town is kind of a disappointment. A bunch of little retreats all strung together, and no real town. I get a ride here with a couple of guys from the Ashram, at a good price, and they take me to check out three of the four places mentioned in the Lonely Planet Guide. The first one is right on the beach, and it seems fine (only $8 a night, with just cold water). The second place is closer to the third place which has some potential as a a retreat location. The third place is the possible retreat location, but it doesn’t have enough lodging—the Swiss man tells me to come back tomorrow to speak to his partner. I was really hoping to find an Indonesian-owned place.

So I stay at the second place (also $8 a night, with cold water, which I have learned to adapt to). It has a good view, and they say it’s a short walk to the beach. But it turns out to be quite noisy because it’s just above the highway. Next morning  the woman owner, Wayan, tells me that the best beach for snorkeling is down the road, and she can take me there—for $3.50.  Plus $2 for the gear.

It’s 7:30 and I’ve arranged for a driver to come and get me at 10, to take me to Tejakula where there is a beautiful upscale retreat center with a great meeting and yoga room, and fairly affordable. That’s 1-1/2 hours from Amed.

Meanwhile, I’d love to experience the famous snorkeling at Amed. Wayan drops me off at the top of the stairs leading down to the beach and shows me where to walk. There’s a sunken ship down there. There is no beach; just a lot of rocks. I walk down and there are a few guys hanging around, and a little café, where they rent snorkels and masks. They’re friendly, asking me the usual questions: “Where are you from? Are you married? Are you traveling alone?” They say I can leave my backpack there. One guy offers to guide me, but I say I’m okay on my own. After all, I’m from Hawaii! So I go down to the water and put on my mask and fins and head out into the water.

No sooner do I get into the water than I feel as if something has slashed across my face and it’s burning! Then I feel stinging sensations on my legs and arms. Suddenly it feels like I’m surrounded by jellyfish! Visions of a woman I met whose husband died in Australia after getting bitten by something in the ocean dance in my head.

I’ve only experienced being stung by jellyfish once, in San Diego as a child, but it was a memorable experience. “Well, maybe I’m just imagining this,” I say to myself, “but here I am with my eye all swollen up, and I don’t need to expose myself to any further abuse! Why the hell did I come to a third world country in the first place? Maybe this was all a big mistake! If I’ve been stung, I’ve gotta get out of this water and take care of myself!”

So I turn around and head back for shore, thinking I must look really wimpy to those guys, and I go over and get my towel and ask if there are jellyfish out there, thinking they won’t know what I’m talking about. “Oh yes, sometimes there are jellyfish here. But no jellyfish at Gilly Island! We can take you there for just 180,000 rupiahs.”

I vetoed that. “I need some green papaya,” I said. It’s a good remedy for jellyfish sting. They don’t seem to know what I’m talking about. “What do you use for jellyfish sting?” I ask.

One guy says, “Tobacco!” He’s thin, with a soft, kind face and a little cap; maybe around 18 or 20. I think his name is Made. He looks a bit like a Modigliani painting. At first I’m not sure whether he’s a man or a woman.

I say, “Can you get me some tobacco?”

He goes back to the house and comes back with a bag of fresh tobacco. By this time the other guys has wandered off.  “What do you do with it? How do you put it on?” I asked, vaguely remembering something about moistening it, maybe chewing it first and mixing it with saliva.

But he says, “You just put it on!”

My face is hurting. “Could you show me?” I pleaded.

He came up to me and took a bunch of dry tobacco in his fingers and just started rubbing my face with it. “Your face is all red!” he said sympathetically. He seemed to be rubbing off the scratch marks with the tobacco, and it did seem to be helping. It was kind of an intimate thing to do. I really appreciated his tenderness and concern. “You have a big heart!” he said, smiling as he cupped my face in his hands.

Then he rubbed some on my arms and legs as well, and it definitely felt better. But I was still wanting some green papaya.

“We only have yellow papaya,” he says apologetically.

“No, no! Before it turns yellow, it’s green!”

“Oh!” he laughs. “Oh! We can do that!” He runs off to tell a younger kid to go get me a green papaya. A few minutes later the kid comes back with two green papayas and I chose the small one and he peels it with his knife, and I asked him to slice off the top and I gratefully take the papaya and pass it over my skin in all the tender places. That definitely helps a lot, and Made is quite fascinated. He thinks I am very clever.

By this time the other guys are trying to convince me to buy a drink or something. I give the kid a tip for getting the papaya and pack up my stuff and started heading up the stairs to wait for Wayan to come get me, even though I still have 15 minutes. Made touches me arm tenderly and says he will walk up with me. I am glad he is coming, and I am glad to leave the others behind. We walked to the top of the steps and he sits close alongside me, touching my arm.

Then I see a sign saying that Meditasi is just 1.5 km. That was the last place listed in the Lonely Planet, and I wanted to check it out since there were signs saying that it was “very peaceful.” Made is eager to give me a ride on his motor scooter, so that seems like a good use of my time. He wants 30,000 rupiahs, but I say, “No, I could walk there! 20,000 at most!”

“How ‘bout 20,000 and a kiss?”

“You’re funny!” I say, but I climb on his scooter and we head down to Meditasi, stopping on the way for petrol.

I’m a sucker for a tender touch. Of course it was flattering to receive such sweet attention from a good-looking young man. Maybe I’m just kidding myself, but who knows? Maybe he was just interested in my money. But honestly, I felt that he was totally seeing through to my spirit, beyond anything external, and completely unabashedly appreciating what he saw and felt.

In any case, it was fun to have a playmate, and as we sped along on his motorbike, he took my hands, which were gingerly placed on his hips, and wrapped them around his waist, and I let him do that. But when he started to feel up my leg, I figured that I now knew enough about motor scooter seduction, and I removed his hand.

Meditasi turned out to be a lovely place, and I would gladly return there, just by myself or with a whole group of people. It is owned by locals.

Later, when Made dropped me off, he said, “I will always remember you, Joy.” And I do believe he will.

This whole experience gives me more compassion toward older women who go for younger men, and for older men who go to the Orient and return with sweet, pretty young wives.

Candidasi (pronounced Chan’-dee-da-see)

The Ashram doesn’t look like much from the road! They aren’t exactly trying to bring in tourists! I hired a driver in Ubud for $15 and asked him to choose a nice route, so he brought me over the mountains,

and past the rice paddies,

and down to the coast,

and it was so lovely. We left at 9 am and arrived at noon.

The Gedong Gandhi Ashram feels like one of the most peaceful places I have ever been. My lanai is literally right on the ocean.

At the moment, I’m the only visitor here, though I’ve heard there’s a couple from Italy next door, and about ten people living here at the Ashram. My little bungalow is precious. It even has a loft, so in a pinch it could sleep four. To the right is the ocean, and to the left is a sweet lagoon.

On the other side of the lagoon is the road, and almost every other lodging in Candidasi is right on the road, so Candidasi is not considered a highly desirable location.

The Lonely Planet Guide (that’s how I found out about it) said that there were bungalows on the ocean and you could stay for a donation. I pictured a little bed platform with a grass roof. I figured that would be nice for a night or two. When I arrived, they told me it was $20 US per night, but that includes three meals (and tea at 3:30)—of absolutely delicious vegetarian food, with occasional fish and eggs if you wish, and water. How perfect. Then Deena, a soft-spoken young Balinese woman, walked me down to the little bungalow, and I fell in love. Yes, you can go swimming right outside the bungalow!

On the back of the door is a sign:

Let Us Live Simply
So That Others May Simply Live

“We invited all our guests to take part in as much of our Ashram life as they choose, and otherwise come you to relax and enjoy our community while observasing these few rules
•    Maintain quiet during times of prayer and meditation.
•    Refrain from smoking, drinking alcohol, and mixed sex cohabitation while on the Ashram grounds.”

At the bottom it says:
Augustus 2004

If you wish, you can also join the group for activities throughout the day, very much like at Sogenji, starting at 5:00 in the morning. The only requirement is that you join the group for yoga and prayer in the morning and in the evening. Suffer! There is an internet place nearby, but it’s expensive.

I find that I am deliciously unmotivated. I will take three days of rest. I try to do that once a month, and I am very ready and this is the perfect place. Normally it is difficult for me to do nothing, but I worked hard at cultivating that ability when I lived in Big Sur.

Well, Ubud certainly wasn’t a place to do that! Nonetheless my early morning meditations on that lanai with the grasshoppers and birds were exceptional.

After lunch I chill out for hours, and then go inside to take a nap. I can hear the wind picking up. At 3:15 I get up, knowing they will be bringing tea.

Now I am wishing I didn’t stay in Ubud so long! I only have five more nights before I have to be in Denpassar for my dental appointment, and I want at least a couple days in Amed. But I had a good time in Ubud.

I arrived here at the ashram just as they were finishing their lunch, so Deena offered to serve me lunch on my lanai. Here she is.

The Balinese women carry things so gracefully on their heads. Each dish was covered with a cute little straw hat. So much food! There are greens with a great sauce, a fried egg with another great sauce, a good potato dish, sliced cucumbers, and a tangerine.

Deena keeps me company as I eat (the Balinese seem to think they should do that and I feel torn between enjoying these visits and just wanting to be alone). She tells me that she has been here for 6 years, since high school, and last year a woman came from Australia and offered to pay for her college education. But it is difficult to commute one half hour each way without a motorscooter. The founder of this Ashram, Ebu Gedong, was an Indonesian woman who died four years ago at the age of 80 (her face is on one of the four Indonesian postage stamps honoring great women). When she was alive, many many people came to the ashram. That was when there was a wide sandy beach, before all the tourists came and destroyed the coral.

When I finish lunch she leaves with the tray on her head and I lay down for a nap. When I wake up, there is a Balinese man sweeping around the house. We get to talking and I tell him that I am looking for a place to bring people for workshops. We talk about a couple places that I know about, and a locally-owned place, and he offers to take me there on his motor scooter tomorrow afternoon. His name is Ja-ti.

Then I take another nap (realizing that I am really quite exhausted; I’ve been waking up at 4 or 5 am most mornings). I awake feeling inspired to take a dip in the ocean. I stand up and I hear a voice, “There you are!” She must have seen me through the window. I grab my skirt and go to pee, feeling a bit guilty for not responding to this cheerful voice more immediately. Well! It’s a good thing I found such a nice private place to be alone!

When I open my door I see a round-faced Balinese woman standing alongside my lanai looking up at me from under the tray on her head (apparently she has come to do an offering), anointing her own forehead with water from the bowl on her tray, and fishing around in the bowl with her fat fingers for flower petals that she is pasting onto her forehead as she asks me how long I will be here and where I am from and do I like it here and her name is Maria. She is like the backwards-clown version of the graceful ladies who did the offerings in Ubud.

When she leaves I put on my bathing suit and go down the stone steps directly into the ocean. It is very shallow and the bottom is full of coral, so I go flat on my belly as soon as possible, and float out, guiding myself with my hands. It is barely deep enough to swim. Three little girls swim up to say hello. I swim out deeper but it isn’t much deeper, and I swim back and forth a few times, watching the beautiful patterns in the sky. I’m very happy here.

Then I go back and wash off the saltwater. When I’m dressed I hear a voice out front and I walk outside and Na-Om introduces himself, telling me he used to live here, but now he lives about 1 kilometer away, but he comes every day to help out. His real job is a fisherman, and he goes out in his little boat every morning at 3 am with all the other fishing boats, and comes back at 7, and sometimes he takes tourists with him for very cheap, and almost every day the dolphins come out, sometimes 200 of them. He likes to watch them jump, but sometimes they make him angry because they rip apart his fishing net trying to get his fish, He just charges $8—much less than the commercial places.

I heard there were lots of dolphins here, but I hate going out in a big tourist boat, so I wasn’t going to go at all. This sounds perfect, so I agree to join him on Friday morning (because Thursday is a big festival so everyone will be going to the temple) and he says that on the way back from fishing he will take me to a good place where I can snorkel. By now I’ve decided that I will go to Amed on Friday, after I come back from fishing. That will give me two nights in Amed before I go to Denpassar.

Just as he leaves, another fellow comes up and says it’s time for dinner. After dinner I go back to my lanai and though we are supposed to go back and pray in half an hour, there is a wonderful thunder-rain (not a storm, just a gentle rain with lots of gentle thunder and a little lightning), which I record, and I use the rain as an excuse to stay on my lanai and just relax and enjoy this time in QUIET and SOLITUDE!

People seem to feel sorry for me, traveling alone. But I actually spend very little time alone. Half of me is really a loner, and sometimes it gets a bit frustrated with the other half which is so darn friendly.

FULL MOON IN BALI

The full moon and the “dark moon” are two important days in Bali. Everyone goes to the Temple.

Tonight I see just one star. I’ve always wished on stars, but what is there to wish for?

Here it is: I wish that I will continue to have clarity in making decisions about my life, one step at a time.

I love it here, and I feel as if I will come back to Ashram Gandhi. But I have no concern about it; the world feels full of special places. So if I can just have clarity in each decision . . . no anxiety, no desires, no disappointments.

I made up my mind to take the bike trip. It’s been an awesome day. Incredible mountain views that were totally not visible from the town of Ubud. Beautiful back roads weaving through rice paddies. Going right out into the paddies and interacting with the people. Such friendly people! Always so happy to see us. The children running out to say “Hello!” and holding out their hands to be touched.

And the sheer fun of riding a good bike mostly downhill, but not too steep, and always weaving through little villages. Then stopping to eat in a Balinese family compound (the owner’s family—so nice that the business is owned by locals). And what incredible food! The most delicious tempe I’ve ever eaten (and I don’t normally like tempe).

I thought I would be totally wiped out when I got back from a 2-1/2 hour bike ride, but after a brief nap I feel great.

It feels as if I have been procrastinating about this trip. Every morning Dewa comes and asks what I would like for breakfast, and I give him one or two slices of spelt bread, and he returns with nice scrambled eggs with tomatoes and onions, and my spelt toast, and a tall glass of fresh tropical fruit juice, and a dish of fresh sliced papayas, bananas and pineapples. Then he sits and watches me eat while we chat about various things. Often I will stash the fruit and the juice in my little refrigerator and have them later.

Dewa tells me that Balinese name their children by numbers, from one to ten, regardless of their sex. But nowadays the government discourages people from having more than two children, because most people cannot afford to support a larger family. The Balinese word for first is Wayan, which is why it is such a popular name. Second is Made. Third is Neoman. Fourth is Katut. When you add an “I” it indicates a man; like my friend, I Made. “Ne” indicates a woman. Wayantaka means “older sister of Wayan.” And Wayanadik means “younger sister of Wayan.” And (if I got it right) Butuwayan means “sister of Wayan,” and Ebuwayan means “wife of Wayan.” Ebu means aunt or sister, or simply a term of respect. So Dewa and the others addressed me as Ebujoy.

Every morning I tell Dewa, “Tomorrow I will take the bike.”

In my room there is a nice yellow laminated flyer that tells about a great trip that you can take up to Mt. Batur. The bike trip is not very expensive; just about $35 US, and that includes meals.

But since I learned that I didn’t get the royalties that I hoped to receive (sad to say, the sales on my new book, Vibrational Healing through the Chakras, have not been doing well, and the old book, Color and Crystals, has been out-of-print, waiting for the new edition) I’ve had to be quite frugal, and besides, I’ve been awfully busy. But it turns out that Dewa can provide me with a bicycle for my trip to find Ketut Liyer, for just $2 for the day.

“I’m really going to do it today, Dewa. I’m going to rent the bike.”

“You’re going to see Ketut Liyer?” he asks knowingly. We’ve talked about his daughter who was born with a hole in her heart, and how the doctors say that she needs an operation. But that would put him into major debt, probably for the rest of his life. Right now he just makes about 500,000 rupiah a month (which is pretty good in
Bali, especially since the bombings), and that is just barely enough to support his family with two kids. So we’ve both wondered if possibly one of the traditional healers could do anything about a hole in the heart?

“Yes,” I say with determination, “today is the day,” as I finish up my breakfast, mentally going over the list of things I need to do before I leave, so that I can get off by 9:30 at the latest, before it starts getting hot.

He puts out the bike for me; the one with the basket in front, and I buzz over to the internet cafe. There is some important business that needs to be taken care of right away, so by the time I get back, it’s after ten. The Balinese tend to take a long lunch break and nap from around 11 until about 2 or 3, but if you walk into their home or business during these times, they will politely get up and take care of you.

I wish I had gotten an early start. But I didn’t, and I’m afraid that if I put off this trip again, I may not make it. I may want to leave Ubud in a couple days, and I have plans for tomorrow and the next day, so I need to go today—even though I am feeling kind of depleted after yesterday’s bout with diarrhea.

“Maybe this isn’t such a great idea,” I think to myself as I pack a little lunch with sliced apple (the pectin is good for diarrhea) and a spelt bread sandwich with tahini and honey) and a bottle of water.

I am intimidated. I rarely get intimidated, but I am intimidated. This is twice as far as I’ve gone, in a whole different direction, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to find people out there who speak English, and I don’t know what the roads are like. I consider hiring a driver, but that would be a bit pricey, and I need the exercise, and I wouldn’t feel comfortable having the driver hang out while I’m taking as much time as I want, to be with this person. I don’t know if he will even be there, or have time to be with me, or want to be with me.

I do have a strong impulse to take my crystals. I have the feeling that he will enjoy looking at them. That means taking a heavy pack (not the heavy one I take on the plane, but still, a pretty heavy one). When I go out to the bike, I’m relieved to find that the pack fits into the basket. I guide the bike down the narrow lane, past the children shrieking as they chase after the white chicken that has been dyed bright pink, and out to Monkey Forest Road, a one-way road with bikes and motorbikes that go in both directions.

I wait patiently until the traffic thins, and then I try to get the bike going with one foot on the outer pedal and hop on with the other, but with the heavy bag in the basket, the bike weaves wildly from side to side until I finally get it fairy under control. When I look up I see a group of Balinese smiling and laughing as one heavy guy imitates me, weaving the top of his body back and forth, pretending he’s holding onto handlebars. I think it’s pretty funny, and we all laugh as I weave on by.

Although it takes me considerably out of my way, I try to stay with the predominant one-way flow of traffic. So I feel pretty flustered when I find myself on an even narrower street, going the wrong way. I try to hug to the right side and stay along the curb, and I have to powerfully will everyone who passes me on a motorbike going in the opposite direction to pass me along my left side so I can feel safe hugging the right curb.

After awhile I smarten up and remind myself that even if I am going the wrong way on this street, I would do better to be on the LEFT side of the street (on the jagged side, next to where the cars jut out because they’re all parked at an angle) because people in this country DO drive on the left side of the road.

I come to a mysterious juncture that wasn’t on the map as I recalled, and I want to ask somebody but there is no one to ask, so I take a leap of faith and just follow my instinct, going straight and hoping for the best. By now I’m in the proper flow of traffic.

Soon the road plummets downhill into a dark jungle. I don’t mind going down, but I’m terrified of having to come back up on this one-speed bicycle. So I get off and walk the bike down so I can scope it out and change my mind if necessary, though there’s hardly any place to walk. Soon I see that the road does flatten out after awhile, so I take my chances and ride the bike down the hill while seriously questioning my sanity. I do not have a helmet. I wish I had that Lloyd’s of London Traveler’s Insurance for $600 a year. CANCEL! (That’s what I say when I have negative thoughts and I want to avoid programming them into my subconscious.)

Now it’s time to ride the bike up another hill, and I try to get some speed but the gears are too loose, and as I rise up out of my seat to pump, reminding myself of how well that worked when I was with my monk friend in Japan, somehow the bike just doesn’t have enough traction, and I’m working very hard and accomplishing little.

Finally I just get off the bike, huffing and puffing, and walk the rest of the way up the hill. It is now 11:30 and the sun is at its zenith, and the sweat is pouring down my face, making it difficult for me to see. My chest feels tender and I am totally wiped out.

I find a grassy place to sit down. I’m grateful that I brought along some food. I nibble on the apple and tahini-and-honey sandwich, willing myself to find strength from the honey.

I’m not even sure I’m on the right road. It was really dumb to have gone out in the middle of the day. It’s so hot! I haven’t seen any of the landmarks on the map (though I’ve been too preoccupied to look for them). I definitely need to ask someone for help.

I study the map carefully and determine that I need to find a major intersection with a road that crosses on the right and the left. It takes awhile, but finally I do come to such a road. At first I cavalierly pass the road, confident that I know where I’m going. (I can’t read the street signs.) But then I realize that I should have turned left at that intersection.

So I double back, and make the turn, and I don’t see anybody to ask, so I just resolutely head off in that direction.

After a fairly long time, I get really really convinced that I need to ask someone, so I stop my bike. There’s a big car repair place. I go inside and ask, and show them the map. No one speaks English, and they don’t seem very good at reading maps, and they don’t know who Ketut Liyer is, and the only thing that everybody is sure about (because several people have gathered by now) is that I should go back. I’ve gone too far, or too much in the wrong direction. “Go back.”

But I’m too tired to go anywhere. There’s a beauty parlor with a big bench in front of it. I sit down on the bench and close my eyes and pretend that people aren’t staring at me. I’m quite exhausted. I’m kind of ready to give up the whole idea. I wonder if my bike would fit into one of those cabs? (They’re really just big vans.) Honestly, I just want to go back to my room.

Then I get a brilliant idea. This is an emergency, right? And in an emergencies, you resort to emergency tactics. I need something to make myself strong. I will drink a Coke! (It is much too hot for a coffee.)

A nice cold Coke sounds like a great idea. It always blows my mind that I can walk into any restaurant or convenience store in the world and purchase what, for me, is pure amphetamine. So, with this hopeful thought in mind, I go back to the intersection where I made that left turn, and again I look for someone to ask. There’s a place where a young guy is selling cell phones. He’s sitting on a stool, smoking a cigarette. He takes one look at me and says, in English, “Park your bike here. Sit down,” He gestures toward another stool.

I gratefully accept his invitation, and then I open my map. He looks at it with me, and decides that I passed my intersection a long time ago (probably when I was obsessing about going up and down those hills). Then I ask him about Ketut Liyer and he says (Thank God!) “Yes — back,” he gestures back toward Ubud. “Banyon tree. Sign. Want buy paintings?”

“No,” I say, knowing that Liyer also is an artist. Then I try the word I learned from Dewa: “Fo-man-ku.” That means healer.

“You sick?”

“No, I’m a healer too. And I want him to read my palm.”

“Oh!”

“Where can I get a Coke?”

“There!” he points to the store next door. “My Mother.”

I go into the store through the back door. It looks more like his sister. I can’t see a cooler, but I ask and she points to a little refrigerator. I get out a cold can of Coke, and gratefully hold it up against my hot face. I pay and make my way back to my new friend.

I sit on the stool next to this young Balinesian guy and we don’t talk much but local people keep going by on motorbikes and waving at him and gossiping a little and laughing. He seems to know at least half the people in this neighborhood. One guy parks his bike and walks over to join us. Another guy comes over to check out a cell phone.

I can’t finish the Coke, but I leave the can with him, thank him for his help, and ride back toward Ubud. A little bit of caffeine goes a long way. It’s still awfully hot, but then I remember that I have a little green hat in my pack that Chisan gave me. I fish it out and put it on and say to myself, “This is my lucky hat!”

Now I’m riding along, looking for an intersection with a road that goes in both directions, when I notice a sign for Café Arma. Wasn’t that one of the landmarks I was looking for? I hastily pull off the road and start going through my pack to look for my map when I hear a friendly voice say in good English, “You look tired. Come sit over here.”

I look up to see a young swarthy Balinese man, dressed in traditional costume with an elegantly folded scarf on his head. “Come!” he gestures, “sit down next to me.” He leads me over to a couch in an outdoor receiving area for an art gallery. “Would you like a cold drink?” he asks. “It’s free.”

I love when these Guardian Angels appear out of nowhere, just when you need them!

I politely decline the drink, but I ask if he knows Ketut Liyer. “Oh yes! He lives down there,” he responds. Then he looks at the map with me, and tells me exactly where I must go. We settle in and talk about all kinds of things. He tells me what towns I should go to if I’m interested in woodcarvings, or in paintings, or in silver or gold. I kind of perk up about silver and gold, since I make jewelry, and he offers to take me there sometime on his motorcycle. What a kind man! He gives me his card, and urges me to come back.

Fortified and reassured, I set out to find Ketut Liyer. I am thinking to myself that yes, it would have been easier to have taken a taxi (or to get a ride on a motorbike, as someone pointed out later), but just think of all the nice encounters I would have missed!

I find the street and it feels just like walking through Hopiland. I see someone and ask, “Ketut Liyer?” He points to the right. I go for awhile then ask someone else; a little Chinese-looking man with a gray moustache and a traditional cap. He can’t speak a word of English, but he gestures with enthusiasm. When I make a wrong turn, he runs after me, talking and gesturing.

Finally I am standing in front of a compound that has a sign: “Ketut Liyer, Paintings.” I congratulate myself. It is now about 2:30. I’m glad I got an early start on this trip instead of waiting until afternoon. But I wonder if he’ll be asleep, or with patients? Elizabeth wrote that sometimes he had many many patients.

I walk into the compound. It always amazes me, in Bali, how elegant these buildings can be, even in the midst of such poverty. A woman greets me. I ask for him by name. She gestures for me to sit on the couch in a kind of waiting area. I sit down and try to recuperate. But I am definitely exhausted.

I sit with my eyes closed and try to gather my strength. Finally the door of the building on the left opens and he comes out. He is a barefoot little Balinese man with a huge toothless grin, wearing a sarong and a white T-shirt. The energy just radiates off of him. I feel welcomed at once.

He sits down on the floor of the lanai and leans against a post, and gestures for me to sit down in front of him and lean against another post. It feels like we’ve known each other forever. We talk about this and that, and he tells me that he has a bad headache. Then I remember that I brought my crystals, and I go into my bag and take out the large bag of crystals and spread them out on the floor.

He loves them! He goes right up to the Chinese bluegreen obsidian and asks if he can touch it, and then he holds it up to his head. He also has a bad cough, so he holds it up to his chest. Then he tries some other stones, and we talk about the stones and how I use them, and he’s quite delighted, like a little child.

This man reminds me so much of Grandfather David Monogye in Hopiland. I knew David when he was 83, just before he went blind. I was with my friend Paul, and my son Kalon was six months old. I just knew I had to go to Hopiland, and we ended up staying there for a month. It was so good to be with David; nothing in particular that I needed to learn from him; it was just about BEING. It changed my life. It is such an honor to be in the presence of these elders.

I offer to do a Vibrational Alignment for Ketut, but he’s not into it. However, after awhile, when I offer to do something about that headache, he accepts. I sit up close to him, our knees touching, and I close my eyes and put both my hands on his head. I’m not sure this will work, but I can feel the energy moving in his head, and it feels confused and all over the place. I’m pleased when I feel the impulse to make sounds.

It’s a little intimidating to be making shamanic sounds for a Balinese shaman. I’ve never done anything like this before. Although I did once make aboriginal sounds for a man who had lived with the aborigines, and he said they were absolutely familiar to him. But I’ve learned to put my ego aside when doing this work, so I make an effort to put those thoughts out of my head.

“Do you mind if I make some sounds?” I ask, opening my eyes, and seeing his big smile. He nods his approval and I close my eyes, feeling for the sounds that want to come out; the sounds that somehow describe the pain, the misalignment of energy, the pressure and confusion that I feel in his head.

The sounds are not dramatic (as they often are!), but they are powerful. There’s some grumbing. Then some sounds of confusion. Then some high-pitched squeaking sounds that make us both giggle. I feel my hands making gestures, as if to let off steam from his head. I keep all this up for awhile, then suddenly I feel it is done. I remove my hands.

He gives me a huge smile and he says, “You ARE a healer! A VERY GOOD healer!”

His headache was gone and so was his cough. Now that he felt better, I asked him to read my palm. He reached out with his long Balinese hand with the long fingernails, and oh so gently stroked the side of my face as he brushed my hair behind my ear. Then he took my left palm and gently squeezed my hand a little from side to side so that the lines became deeper and easier to read, and then he said I’d live to be 104. He said I had a Very Big Heart, and a very healthy heart, and that I am strong. He saw the four marriages and the two children on the side of my left hand, and he said I would not marry again.

Then he looked at the back of my neck, and he told me that the Rice God was watching over me.

Then he went and brought me three of his beautiful Balinese magical drawings. He urged me to photograph them, so I could show them to you. They are extraordinary and they hold a definite power. It is a great sadness for me that when I got back to the mainland, the shelf that held my laptop had been improperly inserted, and it fell out, carrying the laptop with it, and it went crashing to the ground, wiping out my hard drive. All my photos for the rest of the trip were on the hard drive and had not been backed up.

The first drawing was the Goddess Saraswati. She holds the lotus flower and the lute and if I had $200, and space in my suitcase, I would have bought that drawing.

The second drawing shows a figure with double eyes, no head, and double legs. This one is about strength.

The third is about sexual magic. It shows two partners, completely entwined as one. He said, “I blessed this one for Liz (Elizabeth Gilbert). She married now. Happy.”

I think the idea is that if you buy a drawing, and if he prays over it for you, then the magic becomes yours.

I asked if I could take his photo. He was shy because “I used to be very handsome before I lost my teeth.” I told him how beautiful he is because his spirit shines through. But still, he was a little self-conscious, so I couldn’t capture his spirit quite as much as I would have liked.

Then we said goodbye, and he urged me to come back and to bring people.

The bike ride back took about twenty minutes, and it was amazingly easy. Dewa was sitting out front, as he often does, trying to drum up business for the bungalow. “How did it go?” he asks.

“It was good,” I say, “but I’m exhausted. Next time I should get a bike with gears!”

“It does have gears,” he says, and shows me how to twist the handle to activate the three gears. No wonder I couldn’t get any traction going uphill! It was in high gear.

I have been wanting to create SoundScapes for many years now. I love going to beautiful places in Nature, and tuning in to the sounds. I feel a kind of mission about preserving those sounds before civilization encroaches.

It ‘s already almost impossible to do recordings in Hawaii or in the Southwest because of the omnipresence of air traffic, automobiles and dogs. So I’ve been excited about the prospect of recording here in Bali, during the early morning hours, when such things are at a minimum.

I’ve been waiting for the perfect recording device, and when I bought this laptop over a year ago, I expected to be able to use it that way. But there were complications; I already had a great stereo mike, but I needed an adapter so I could plug it into the computer. Then I needed a program so I could do that kind of recording (Final Vinyl is what I’m using now). Then I needed to learn how to use the program.

It finally all came together here in Bali. First I recorded the nature sounds that you hear at the beginning of this blog [soon to be installed]. Then this morning, as I finished meditating, the sounds flowed out of me as they often do, especially when I’m outdoors.

It began in Hawaii. After Raphael died, a bright red cardinal began visiting me. He would fly right up to the window and peck and peck on the glass. People said he had fallen in love with his image in the glass, but I felt something else was going on. I would walk up toward the glass, and after awhile the bird would stay there and allow me to approach.

I wondered if it was Raphael’s spirit, coming to visit me? I named him Bright Spirit, and every morning he would come into one of the trees next to my lanai while I was meditating, and when I broke out into song, he would join me. Such a high, to sing with a wild bird!

My friend Karen was my housemate at the time, and she told me that when I went out-of-town Bright Spirit rarely came to the house. But as soon as I returned, there he was again!

In the Spring, he showed up with a mate. She was shy, and rarely came close to the house, but I was glad to see he had a partner.

Then one day, in the middle of the day, he came flying up to the house making a racket. “What on earth is going on?” I asked, annoyed at his incessant noise. Then it occurred to me to sit down and tune in on him, to see if I could understand what he was trying to tell me.

I sat down and opened my consciousness, and within a minute I had a vivid image of his mate flying into the woods and something terrible happening to her. Then I noticed that she wasn’t with him.

I went to find Karen, who is an animal communicator, though the main animals she talks to are cats. I asked her to listen to him. “Oh, he’s probably just looking for food,” she said flippantly, but I implored her to actually sit down and LISTEN.

Karen went out on the porch, and closed her eyes, and consciously tuned in. As I studied her face, tears began to roll down her cheeks and I knew I was right. I went outside and tried to let him lead me into the woods, but there didn’t seem to be any way that I could be of help. So I just sat down on the lanai and I toned to him from the deepest place in my heart. That seemed to comfort him.

After that he went away. I always felt that his mate had been upset with him for spending so much time with human beings. And now it seemed that he needed to find a new mate. About a month later he returned to show us his lovely new lady, and they flew away together. Just occasionally he would return after that.

But from that time forward, I always tried to meditate outdoors, and I began to sing with ALL the birds. After my morning meditations, I would break into song (sometimes I wasn’t even aware that I was singing until I heard the sounds!) and the birds—whatever birds were around—would start singing with me. I’ve always wanted to record these wonderful sounds, and this morning, here in Bali, I had my first opportunity.

I don’t always sing on key, and toward the end there is the sound of the gardener moving things around, but the bird doesn’t care. We just go on enjoying our sounds!

SOUNDS OF BALI

Soon I will head out of the very fun town of Ubud and head for the ocean. I’m loving it here. Life is very rich and full. Like last night, just passing an outdoor temple and seeing a large group of men, shirts off, muscles glistening in the light, sitting in two groups across from each other with two elder men seated in the middle calling out chants as the alternating groups of men made staccato sounds that shook their whole bodies as they swayed together or bounced up and down, making these incredible animalistic sounds that built in intensity (I’ve heard them from a distance in the night and it sounded like building to an orgasm).

Further down the street another temple is alive with similar sounds, but his time I looked in to see a similar group surrounding a bigger-than-life portrayal of what looks like a god (I’m guessing that the actors are enacting a scene from the Ramayana, from the sacred Vedic scriptures), making grand gestures, and a couple of female figures in elaborate costumes.

I know the people all over the island have been preparing for two days now for a ceremony that happens just twice a year.

So I finally have breakfast with the middle-aged woman with the long red hair. I’ll call her Evelyn. We meet at the Bali Spirit Kafe.

Just last night I got an email from Anna saying, “I think I found the coffee house we were looking for. It’s called Bali Spirit and it’s at 44 Hanuman.” Now I realize that the other place Robert Flores told me to go to was Bali Spirit.

Evelyn is boasting about her Balinese boyfriend. “I have him here in my camera, where I can keep an eye on him! They’re a commodity in Bali, you know.”

I’m about to be initiated into the private world of women, sex, and Balinese men. “It works like this. I did take a Balinese lover once. It was very clean and simple; not like in Thailand, where they attach themselves to you and won’t leave you alone until you go to the airport. Next morning, we just woke up and went our separate ways; no muss, no fuss. With the Balinese men, they just expect you to pay for everything, and maybe give them a present as a parting gift. But never to give them money! That would be like a prostitute, and they would feel offended by that.”

To my Western mind there was such an incongruity between this middle-aged Western woman and the gorgeous sensual young Indonesian man inside her camera. But why does it seem any more incongruous than the gorgeous young sensual women who marry middle aged men? There was a time when this, too, seemed unacceptable. Certainly there are situations where people use each other, and then there are other times when there is a deep love and connection. In either case, who am I to judge?

Tonight I’ll go over to the Bali Barn, which is another half mile or so down the road, where someone is playing Tibetan bells and gongs while everyone lies around on the floor. Bali Spirit and the Bali Barn are part of the large expatriate yoga community here in Ubud. I just met Megan, the owner owner and visionary of the Bali Barn and Kafe, and later today I will give her a Vibrational Alignment. She’s already talking about having me come back to teach a workshop at the Bali Barn.

IT IS FINALLY TIME TO FINISH MY STORIES!

The next day when he came to get me on his motorbike, I was wearing pants, and I asked for a helmet. “Why?” he asked. I just shrugged my shoulders. He let me wear his helmet.

This time the ride felt much less traumatic, and definitely shorter.

On our second visit we settled in at the temple, and he asked me to write my name on a piece of paper (just as Wayan had done). Then he asked the names of my mother and father and wrote those above and below my name. Then he lit some incense and passed it over the paper.

I learned the importance of the placement of chakras on the hand. This time Made diagnosed my chakras by touching his index finger to the chakra points on my left and right hands. He explained that we would both feel a slight electric shock at each point if the energy was open.

As he touched the points on my right hand, they were all open except for the third eye. When he touched the points on my left hand, they were all open except for the second and the fifth. The heart chakra, the fourth, was very strong, and the aura overall was very strong. This all made sense to me, given what I know about myself. The partial closure at my third eye probably relates to my inability to see auras.

In fact, Made was quite surprised that the chakras did not light up for me. As I thought about it, I realized that while I inherited my mother’s psychic sensitivity, I also probably took on some her fear about her clairvoyance. She could see into the future, and this sometimes frightened her. If she saw, for example, that someone was going to have an accident, then she didn’t know whether to tell them or not. She was afraid that if she told them, they would think she was crazy; but if she didn’t tell them, and the accident happened, then she was feel responsible because perhaps she could have prevented it.

My mother’s way of coping with this dilemma was to pray for her “gift” to be taken away. And it was. Except on rare occasions, when it involved members of her immediate family.

For example, in between my two sons I gave birth to a little girl. She was born with the cord wrapped round her neck, and she died. My mother, who was not invited to the birth, came anyway, because she “knew” that I would lose the baby, and she wanted to be there to help. Of course, she didn’t tell me this until later.

I have a very powerful technique for working on Reprogramming Core Beliefs, and I saw that it would be valuable for me to do this. Meanwhile, however, I thought I would take this opportunity to see what Made would suggest. He told me that normally he would give a person a mudra and a mantra and a chant and some yoga postures to work on for a month, and sometimes that would make a difference. Now I knew why Lumena was doing so much chanting next door! She’d been working with Made for a month, and she was indeed beginning to see auras.

I felt a bit torn about all this. First, I still wanted to see Ketut Liyer, and my funds were very limited. Second, both Made and I were a bit skeptical about whether having just one more session was going to make any significant difference. Nonetheless, I was quite curious about learning the mudra and the mantra, so I did make one more appointment.

Also we were talking about doing a bit of collaborating if I would bring a group of students to Bali. So I felt that I also wanted to experience more of his energy. So the next time we got together, in my room at Jati3, I suggested that I could feel his chakras. He was so cute! He put his hands together like a little child and said, “You heal me? Oh good! Everybody needs healing! Should I take off my shirt? What do you want me to do?”

The total absence of macho energy in Balinese men never fails to amaze and delight me. They are so willing to be vulnerable and soft. What a difference from most American men. This is truly a culture where the men where skirts (sarongs), and I honestly think that does make a difference!

So I did feel his chakras, and there was really only one small problem that I addressed with the crystals. And then I offered to do some shamanic sounding for him. He said that would be fine. So as usual, I just put my mind aside and allowed the sounds to come through. And they were quite powerful.

When I was done he sat up and looked into my eyes. “You have everything you need. Don’t mess with it.”

That was what I thought all along. Maybe I just came to Bali to hear someone else say that to me. I was grateful for this acknowledgement.