Fashion Forward

Once again I took the opportunity to be fashion forward today. I went in search of long sleeved tops. Mine are locked in my apartment, and the locks on the building have been changed.

As many of you know, the building has been under reconstruction since June 2016. I hoped to miss the worst of it during my journey. However, optimism and construction timing are mutually exclusive terms, and my folly was proven.

Someone exposed some asbestos. A stop work order was issued more than five weeks ago, and Canada Post suspended mail delivery. Late last week, the results of the asbestos testing came in and residents were moved to a downtown hotel.

I emailed, saying I'm returning on Feb 2, and can I please have a hotel room and one time access to my apartment to get some winter clothes.

Yes, the reply came, you can have a hotel room on the landlord’s dime, and no, you cannot enter your apartment. Thank you for your understanding.

I have one long-sleeved top and one pair of lightweight long pants. Drat. I'll go to Costco for a new pair of yoga pants and to the Gap for some new tops. I won't look any different than I always do. My wardrobe is pretty uniform. As I said, predictably fashion forward.

That's when I got the idea that I could get a new long sleeved top at the Gap in Bali. I checked, and it is in a plaza that I passed on my walk yesterday. I needed a walk today, and there was no threat of getting lost. Everything was coming up roses.

Well, not everything. The colour of the sky was ominous grey.

Even so, it didn't rain on my way there, although it rained for a bit while there. And the cloud colour improved. There were no shirts I liked at the gap, but there were some lovely tops at Mango, a fabulous French chain. Size was a problem, as was the weight of the fabric. There were ideal for local (Bali) conditions, not for Victoria coming out of winter. I'm still thinking of a sweater I saw at Zara, that chain known for fashion replicas (not really knock offs).

I started the walk back to my hotel (about three quarters of an hour), and felt the odd raindrop. Nothing to be concerned about.

Then what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a deluge that would have deterred even a deer. I ducked under an awning, knowing it wouldn't last. This wasn't the first day of celebration at Besi Kalung temple, and it would lighten up.

When it did, I fished out the nylon shopping bag that I carry at all times, folded it diagonally into a kerchief, tied it under my chin and went my merry way, as fashion-forwardly as I could. I was only about 15 minutes away, and my head stayed dry.

A successful return.

Kuta Beach

I approached these last few days in Bali with some apprehension and a great big dose of get over it.  I voluntarily put myself in the position of being in the urban fray of Bali. I'm staying where all the people are, and I can manage.

As I told Anita, it makes a big difference knowing how to get around and knowing a few places to go to eat. I also have a slightly better understanding of where things are.

So today I set out on foot to find a restaurant on the beach for dinner. I have the maps.me app on the iPad, and I decided to either go to the Hard Rock Cafe or the restaurant where we had dinner on Anita's last night here. The Hard Rock Cafe was about 45 minutes from the hotel, according to the time estimate on Google maps.

Perfectly doable. And I'm happy to report the walk was pleasant. Only twice did I sneer that it's wrong to park your motorbike on the sidewalk -- didn't the drivers understand that pedestrians take precedence.

Although it was 20 minutes before I hit the beach, the city roads were pleasant. They were mostly lined with shops and restaurants for locals. Hotels were modest and not Westerners’ extravaganzas. By the time I got to those super hotels, I no longer saw them as a blight.

Maybe it helped that I wasn't part of the vehicular traffic, and didn't notice the motorbikes inching their way into every cubic centimetre of space. Or maybe there was just less traffic and therefore less sense of urgency.

This time, I saw the beach as a lovely place, full of people relaxing and enjoying the surf. There were certainly a lot of people with boards, and breaking waves for them to try to catch.

It was so pleasant that I walked the extra 15 minutes to the Seaside Restaurant that I visited with Anita.

The Hard Rock Cafe is one of those places that I think I'm supposed to like, but don't actually enjoy. I consider eating there because it's safe.  It's where I chose to eat when I landed in New Orleans, just after I learned the first Gulf War had started (bombing had not begun when I took off from Dallas, but had commenced when I landed in New Orleans).  I picked it because I knew the menu and surroundings would be familiar when the situation was surreal. The rock music was off that day, and dozens of tv screens were tuned to the news.

So here in Bali, I set out to maybe eat at the Hard Rock Cafe. It was a tangible possible destination.

At that point, the road followed the beach, with a decorative concrete fence separating the beach from the road, and hotels, restaurants and shops filling the other side of the road.

I waked on the beach for a while, and decided that I should be paying attention to restaurants. Once I had ordered, I could admire the beach.

Kuta Beach is actually quite narrow. There's a shelf about 30 feet wide, then a slope that's about another 30 feet wide the goes down about 10 feet in elevation, then another shelf with breaking waves. On the top shelf, there are lots of vendors with beach umbrellas, chairs for rent and cold beverages. Beer, coke, water, etc. It melts into Legian Beach and others up the coast.

On the walk, I picked out other restaurants that I can try. My primary criteria were that it had to be high enough to see over the since, and it had to have non-dairy Western food on the menu. It's going to be a few weeks before I have rice again.

I think this was the first time I've enjoyed being in this part of Bali. Clearly, the attitude adjustment made a difference.

End of Celebration -- Jan 27

It's one of those days that the weather is uncertain. The colour of the clouds provide a subtle hint of rain. The humidity level is high, and the temperature is matching it. At the same time, it's bright.  Who knows whether it will rain on my chosen path.

I set out to Jatiluwih, knowing it would be the last day to make the hour long trek up through the rice terraces. For some reason, there was no spring in my step. By the time I was a third of the way up, I was fairly sure I wouldn't make it the whole way.

The lure of food, and of bragging rights, kept me going. I was pretty sure that one reason for my sluggishness was lack of food. I couldn't face another breakfast of rice, so I ate some peanuts. Not enough peanuts.

If I made it to the top, I could have a chicken burger. If I gave up, it was rice for me.

Also, it's an extraordinarily beautiful walk that I will miss. I wanted to drink it in.

The rose bush on the side of one paddy isn't in bloom yet. I'll never know its variety. The cows were all accounted for in the sheds that dot the terraces. The dog that barks to keep me away from her pups was on guard. Hardly anyone was on a motorbike on my upward journey.

There was also a lot of wind today. No gentle breezes. Full fledged wind.

Not many tourists til the end flat stretch. There have been a lot of Russians in the past few days.

I made it, and enjoyed every bite of my chicken burger. I feel like such an entitled prima dona every time I whine about having rice three times a day. It's absurd to have the opportunities that I have, and to complain about something as mundane as the menu.

On the way back, I stopped at one of the check points to chat with my host and his brother in law, the head of temple security. Every time I see the head, I think about the Jack Sparrow look that he has going. They debuted new uniforms at the Celebration, and they include headgear that looks a bit like a three cornered hat without actually being one. Incorporated into the traditional headband cap was a triangular scarf. With his goatee, flowing hair and twinkling dark eyes, I can only see Jack Sparrow.

I managed not to gawk, and to engage in friendly banter. Things are obviously winding down after two and a half days of celebration. No one has fallen in the mud or on the moss covered sidewalks (four falls in the first day’s rains). No one is lost or missing their child. Traffic is down to a trickle.

I didn't go into the temple today. Walking by, there were fewer people I. The kitchen, and hardly anyone in the parking lot. The market stalls set up outside the gates were empty of both merchandise and customers. Inside, priests were using microphones.  Perhaps their voices were waning, perhaps they decided to try it out.

The best part of my chat with the security guards -- they snagged me a ride for the final 600 meters, down one hill and up the next. Phew.

For the remainder of the afternoon, I've read one of the books that I downloaded from iTunes. Yet another reason for my walk to Jatiluwih today.

Oh, and I got there and back without any rain.

Mid celebration -- Jan 26

I decided to take my usual walk up to Jatiluwih this morning. I didn't want to wear my temple clothes for the third day in a row, and I wanted to figure out my internet access.

Objective one complete. I've been comfy and cook in my t shirt and shorts.

Objective two: status unknown. I get messages from my phone provider saying I have all kinds of credit which should allow me internet access. I check my status report. Dismal standings.

I'm very frustrated.

But I'm probably not as frustrated as a group of four Chinese tourists that appeared in my village. They were lost, and they couldn't figure out how to get help. The security folks at the top of the hill (they've been controlling traffic flow to the temple, a critical requirement given the narrow winding road and the volume of traffic) couldn't figure out what they wanted, so they called my host. He picked me up half way up the hill, and we figured it out.

They wanted to go rafting. That much was obvious from the fact that they each wore a personal floatation device. I also figured out they had been walking for some time. But that's as far as I could take it. By this point, one had figured out he could call the rafting company. He handed his phone over to my host. My host arranged for the company to pick them up in the village. It would take about half an hour. I showed the lone woman the time on my phone, and she told the others. All was fine and good.

There’s nothing like the power of pantomime in international communications. I tried telling my students to use their hands when talking. They didn't believe me, and laughed during the exercises that involved a visitor needing help. I gave them two options: do you want directions? Or  is someone hurt?  A positive response to the latter would then elicit “Please show me.”  Okay, so the laughter was because I was particularly frenzied during these exercises. I felt like I was doing the hand motions to Little Bunny Foo-Foo. “Help me! Help me! Help me!” I said.

Time to bow out. I'm going to see if I can photograph those boar costumes from last night.

UPDATE:  whatever I did worked, and now I have more internet credit than I could imagine. The boar costumes were gone, but most of my students were there, so I got a picture.

Celebration Day -- Jan 25b

During the village procession, the teenaged boys made up the gamelan band. Today, the first day of the celebration, I'm sitting here listening to seasoned players. The youth had enthusiasm. These men have experience. Some beat time  on drums, others on a gamalan.

I've just had to duck for cover, getting uncomfortable close. The rain started, and I can see people scurrying for the covered platforms and tents dotted around the grounds.

Back to the band. The primary player strikes the tune with a fine gilded hammer in his right hand. On each side sit the men who take on the harmony lines. With their left hands, each controls the length of the vibration. From a distance, I could barely tell.

There’s a row of hand drums behind the primary and secondary players. On the right are men with hand-held cymbals. At the back, the large gongs.

There’s no Stairway To Heaven on the playlist. The songs are both melodic and repetitive. And very traditional.


It's an hour later. A man wanted to practise his English and kept a conversation going. The rain is pelting down, harder than ever. And the band plays on. One of the lesser front row players started it. He was fooling around, almost playing jazz, and the rest of the band joined in with their traditional reverie.

This morning started off clear. I thought I'd be safe wearing my runners, and put my raincoat in my bag as insurance. Now I'm really missing those sandals. The few people that are braving the rain have abandoned even flip flops.

It's hard to believe this much rain can fall.


Finally, the rain let up a bit. It didn't stop; it was just less heavy. I, like many others, ventured out. I felt so bad for so many people. They were drenched to the skin in their very best clothes.

I walked home, despite being offered a ride several times. This reminds me of a conversation I had on my walk back yesterday. I was almost at the top of the hill when one of my students pulled up in a truck. He opened with “Hello, how are you.”  I replied with the standardized patter. His wife was giggling, so I added “Where are you from?”  Her giggles turned to laughter when he relied with the name of his village, and the laughter turned to a roar when I said “very far.”  I to.d my students this phrase would relax people in a conversation. Every one of their white visitors will come from somewhere very far. It's a safe expression, and will help the other person relax.


Back to gamalon bands. I almost left around 10:30 in the morning, but I saw a number of older men entering the temple, all wearing burnt orange rather than white. Some carried stands for gamelan keyboards. This band will play in the evening, when there is also dancing.


Despite the fact that it is the rainy season, the rain is rarely as heavy or as long as it was today. It started around 11:15 and ended around 4.

I'll go back to the temple at 7:30 to watch the dancing.

UPDATE: Thursday afternoon a women’s gamalon band played, every bit as well as the men’s.

Celebration Day -- Jan 25c

Why I thought I should go to the temple without my camera is beyond me. Sure, it was evening, and sure the rain hadn't totally stopped. But I knew the dancing would be well lit.

You're just going to have to relive my memories.

I arrived near the end of the ladies dance portion of the program. There were five women in their twenties, makeup like porcelain dolls and perfect hair. Each carried a brass base of flowers, each had a fringed yellow sash. At one point, they held their sashes out and formed a circle, their sash arm working as the radius for their circle. Another time those in the back came forward.  Hand movements are controlled and exaggerated. Head movements are as if they were each a bobble head, bouncing from side to side.

The second dance was a solo, featuring a woman in a gorgeous purple and gold dress. She would oscillate from being fluid to being mechanical. I thought I saw the genesis of that robotic form of hip hop. Her costume was complex, so that she could move her shoulders without moving her torso. I thought it was articulated, like an armadillo she'll.  She had a gold fan that fluttered and twirled seemingly on its own.

Then came the men. The first was a solo dancer in a white-face mask and a mane of blonde hair. He moved like an old man, curious and hesitant at the same time. At one point, it looked like he was trying to retrieve his cell phone from the folds of his long jacket. Afterwards, it was more clear that he was wiping sweat from his brow. The woman standing beside me that first time said he was going to call me, then laughed and laughed at her joke.

The next dance was a boar dance, similar to a Chinese lion dance, with a very ornate boar’s head on the front of a two-person animal. The mask’s teeth could chatter, making it very scary indeed.

The old man dancer came back on, this time with a monkey face mask. He carried a roll of money with him, trying to buy friends, then snatching the money away at the last second. Whenever someone was faster, the crowd cheered. The old man dancer, as you probably guessed, was a young man under 20.

Another boar dance followed, this one from a different village. When you live in farmland, your dances reflect your life. Makes me kind of wonder what the government workers dance might be. First retrieve and turn on your computer. Dancers in rows drinking coffee simultaneously.  Phones ringing sporadically. Dancers going in and out of groups as they attend meetings. The dance ending with people collapsing with exhaustion. Frankly, I think the boar dance, with chattering teeth challenging the onlookers is more interesting.

I left when a man in another tremendously complex and hot costume came on. I think it was probably a creation story, judging from the furs.

I've learned not to go anywhere without my raincoat. I'd like to learn not to go anywhere without my camera.

Celebration Day1 -- Jan 25a

It's 9:34, and I just witnessed my first display of toddler civil disobedience. I could see it coming. Shoulders were getting higher. The look of defiance was forming. I. Will. Not. Walk. No. I. Won't.

Then he was down. His mother swooped him up for a millisecond and plopped him back on his feet. Toddling resumed. A minute later, he was leaning heavily into his mother. She avoided the hint, and led him to shade. She offered something to eat and he wandered off, she in benign pursuit.

I'm at the temple, and it's Celebration Day at last. My English language students are watching from strategic positions. The distant jingling of prayer bells mixes with greetings and idle chatter. The various platforms are ringed with woven boxes of offerings. People trickle through a nearby gate with more.

This temple serves five villages, and most residents will be here at some point today. Many are already at prayer.

Oops, I just got moved to the platform with the temple committee. Apparently I guessed correctly. Each village has a designated gathering/safe spot. I was squatting.

I'm intrigued by the divide between the sexes. Families will stick together, but once a child is of school age, they will gravitate towards others of the same sex and age. Teenaged boys greet me with warm smiles, in groups of two or three. Grown sons will walk with their mothers, not their wives.

Everyone is dressed in their best sarong. White if they are faithful. Black check if they are security. Footwear is mostly flip flops, making it easy to slip off when entering a temple, a platform or any other designated space.

Men wear white shirts and a white headband. It's a cross between an open beret and an open turban with a front knot. There's often a bit of embroidered embellishment peeking out.

Women wear beautiful lace blouses cinched by a solid sash in a bright colour. Mine is a rich purple. Blouses are white or saffron, and occasionally bright pink. A few women carry a purse, some have a more discrete change purse attached to their sash. Hair is up, with flowers tucked into the back. As I learned yesterday, it's both for adornment and prayer.

My own sarong is red with geometric shapes of yellow, blue, green and pink. I'm wearing my white snorkel top. Yesterday, I overheated. Today, I no longer am wearing shorts underneath. My host thought he could lend me one of his mother’s tops. However, hers denote priestly status. So he asked me to try on one of his wife’s. We all laughed when I did up the top and bottom buttons and spilled out of the rest.

Fewer cell phones are visible today. I’ve seen a few discretely tucked into sashes, but no one is talking on theirs. It's likely that anyone to talk to is already beside them.