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.

Village Procession Day

Today, the day before the major celebration at the temple, it was a day for my village residents to go to the temple together and pray.

I was loaned a sarong and sash, and told to wear my white top. White top? Yes, with long sleeves. My snorkel shirt, to prevent another bad sunburn.

The procession was due to start at 3 pm. For the past week, the teenaged boys had been practising in the gamalan band. They were as ready as they'd ever be.

People trickled down to the village temple (news flash, there's a village temple in addition to each compound’s temple. Basically, the one road in the village is lined with temples, so I thought the one at the end of the road was just like the others).  I walked into the temple because it was expected of me, then left to the spot I'd scoped out half way down the hill.

Soon, I heard the band. People kept scooting up the hill, trying to make it before the road closure. When I saw a motorcyclist pull over, I knew it was show time.

First came the village leadership, then the tall flags and parasols. Families walked together, parents holding hand with their children. Men walked hand-in-hand. Women carried offerings, some in plastic bags, others in baskets. The band was in the middle of the procession, followed by groups of families and friends.

After everyone passed, I followed. My sarong limited the length of my stride, as did the steepness of the hill. Whenever I decided it was time for a photo, I struggled to catch up.

Across the bridge and up the hill.  The throng was sufficiently large that I couldn't see the front from the back until we got to the large field outside the entrance. I watched the flag bearers climb the steps and enter the temple.

The assembly stopped at three temples in the complex of 14. They may have stopped at more. I found I was getting overheated, and left early.

Upon arrival, the band parked by a platform inside the second circle. There was the usual bluster of a group of teenaged boys on show. They were well behaved, and quite a few checked out who was looking at them.

The first temple stop was by the holy water alter. It was a bit difficult to see what was going on -- that alter is positioned in a U-turn from its entrance stairway. There was a collection of priests and important people gathered, while villagers sat on the lawn. Two women seemed to be dancing, at least with their arms. With fluid sweeping motions, they looked like they were invoking good while swatting away bad.

Then the handbells started, and the assembly lifted their arms and put their hands together in the classic prayer position, with palms even with foreheads. When the bells stopping ringing, hands went down. After three prayers, priests moved through the crowd sprinkling holy water over each person. Another priest followed with a flat bowl of uncooked rice, and each person took a few grains.

They moved from the holy water temple to the alter nearest the pagoda. Again, important people were up front and the rest of the villagers sat. Again, bells signalled prayers and hands were raised. Again, people were blessed with holy water.

The primary alter was close by, and the primary (high?) priestess lead the prayers. Two older women near me sang; another pair further over were also singing. It could have been the same song, or a different one. They were definitely not synchronized. After a prayer, people would pluck a flower from their stash and tuck it or a bit of it behind their right ear. The rest would be tossed in offering.

For the first time since I came to the village, I saw tweens flirting. I generally do not see boys and girls together, but here the divide could be safely breeched. That universal behaviour was fun to watch.

On the procession, I saw plenty of people on their phones. Once at the temple, phones were put away. Cigarettes were not. A great many men here smoke.

I lost track of the assembly after that. I was seriously overheated in a long sleeved top and the sarong over my shorts. Once out of the temple, I hiked up my skirt and high tailed it home. Villagers started appearing about 20 minutes later, so I'm confident that I didn't miss much.

Tomorrow, the main event begins. I'm looking forward to the traditional dancing.

Alternative route

Today I looked at maps.me and decided it was time to try a new route for my daily walk. I've done the trek up to Jatiluwih seven times. I don't want to be a stick in the mud. Set in my ways. A slave to routine.

So rather than cross the bridge at the bottom of the hill, I turn right. Sure the hill was initially steep. I was fresh. It should be all right. Only the steep hill kept being steep and it kept climbing. Past the chicken farm with galvanized metal barns. Through a small wood, into the rice terraces. These ones were still the ploughing stage. It'll be another week before they are planted.

Finally, the top of the ridge, open fields and the possibility of a cell phone signal. I got through right away. Miracle of miracles. Usually, I dial a minimum of 12 times before connecting. While Anita and I had a lovely conversation, one of my students went by on his motorbike three times. He was carrying tools from one field to another. The last time, there was a man who looked like he was probably his grandfather on the back.

The path was “normal” for quite some time. A set of parallel cement lines, each about 18 inches wide. Then the cement ended. Then the track looked progressively less used. Soon there was only one track, one sporadically muddy track. It began to follow a canal. Up to that point, I had seen rivers and ditches.

It's never quiet in the rice terraces. At this time of year, there is always water flowing through ditches and from paddy to paddy. Where there are gives of trees, the din of crickets can be quite deafening. Cowsheds dot the terraces, and there is gentle lowing. And dogs question my right to be there.

Water flowed swiftly along the canal. On the far side, there were sometimes terraces, sometimes woods.

All the time, the path was getting less distinguishable.

I knew I had to reach the road to Jatiluwih at some point. Eventually, I saw cars and then the staircase to the road. I had to cross the river that fed the canal and there was a convenient bridge with a sluice gate. Then the stairs.

Asian stairs are notoriously steep. Fortunately these were not, although there was no railing. I counted 68 steps, made of large rocks set in concrete.

Then I got to climb the hill on the road. The first village was one I've seen in the distance. Jatiluwih was still about 600 meters away, past a sweeping U bend in the road.

At last I reached my familiar route. There were so many tourists on it (okay, maybe 15 people), and they weren't respecting protocol (move out of the way of farmers on motorbikes; keep your entire party on one side of the track). Needless to say, I felt superior.

Today, it took 1.5 hours to reach the top, and an hour to make it back home. I was very very glad to get back.

Double rainbow

As sunset was approaching today, I saw my first tropical rainbow:

You can barely tell from the picture, but it was a double rainbow. The second photo shows the second rainbow a bit more clearly.

What surprised me most was the colour. It's mostly pink (or red & orange).  I'm used to rainbows that show a more complete colour spectrum. 

I was also intrigued by the arc. It's fairly steep, compared to rainbows further north. I'm at 8 degrees south right now. Most of the time, I'm around 48 degrees north.

The rest of my day was quiet. I went up to Jatiluwih to download some books on iTunes, then read one. Most of the men in my class has been busy with a local death & cremation, so I cancelled class today. 

Tomorrow, it's back to normal.

Growing rice

Always one to be on the cutting edge of fashion, I tore off a banana leaf today, and used it like an umbrella when I was unexpectedly caught in a tropical downpour.

I know what you’re thinking. It's the rainy season. I've talked about the various rainfalls that I've watched, skirted or tried to avoid. So how was I caught out in the rain? Well the clouds looked neither dark nor dense.

If it gives you any consolation, a group of women planting in a field looked up and had a hearty laugh.

Last night, I had only three students. Some others were called away to help attend a death of someone in a neighbouring village. No foul play; just a lot to do to prepare for cremation tomorrow.

I don't expect many tonight either, so I needed to prepare a lesson that would reward those who came and not hurt those who didn't. It's a perfect time to talk about rice.

I started the day on wikihow, learning about what I've seen:
Seeds are soaked in water 12 to 36 hours before being planted
rice likes clay soil, and it likes the soil to be moist.  Weeds are removed, the field is levelled and flooded. It is then ploughed. Most farmers use gas powered ploughs, but in small fields, some still use water buffalo.
Like many crops, rice germinates in a nursery setting. Generally, the seeds are sown densely.
When the seedlings are six to nine inches tall, they are transplanted about four inches apart in rows that are 12 inches apart. There is no measuring. The lines are straight and even with experience.

I have been here for prep and planting. I haven't watch the rice grow, although the fields I walked through in Sumatra were in the growing stage.

paddies are monitored and weeded as the rice grows.
After about three months, it starts to mature and change colour
The fields are drained and the stalks turn golden.
To harvest the crop, the tops of the plants are cut off and laid out to dry. The tops are like other grasses -- the seeds (grains of rice) are on a stalk
Dry grains are sifted, to separate the rice from the hulls

According to the United Nation’s Food and Agriculture Organization (FAO), one hectare of rice yields three tons of rice. The Jatiluwih rice terraces cover more than 600 hectares. Conservative math means the area produces more than 5,000 tons of rice each year.

Rice, like grapes, tea and chocolate, is subject to terroir. Rice grown here doesn't taste the same as it would if grown in Denpasar, near the airport, or those rice fields that I visited in Sumatra. Even so, the special crop grown locally is red rice.

I walked the fields today, like I do most every day. Most of the time, I stop at the top, in Jatiluwih, to get a strong internet connection. Today, I used that connection to learn that Balinese Hindus believe the god Vishnu first grew rice in the ground. Then Indra, the god of bad weather, taught people how to cultivate rice. That is why it is grown in waterlogged soil.

I also learned that rice prefers slightly acidic clay soil.

Rice has been feeding the world for more than 5,000 years.

Indonesia is the world’s third-largest rice producing nation, behind China and India.

When I met with the head of the NGO that I'm volunteering with, he said some farmers complain that the fields are not retaining water as well as they once did. He contended that when animals are used to plough the fields, they compact the soil more, and this helps prevent excess seepage.

Productive land here is used primarily for growing rice. Land that is too steep may have palms, bananas, papaya or forest. I've seen ferns the size of trees in some gullies.  This morning I saw an elderly woman with a sickle (large curved knife) pruning a tree on a slope so steep I was sure she'd slip away.

Every now and then, I'm completely surprised, wondering why I didn't notice something before. Two days ago, I saw a row of pineapples growing on the wall of a paddy.  Another day, I saw a rose bush. I had to go back, just to make sure I wasn't imagining things.

The majority of visitors to Jatiluwih seem to be East Europeans. Australians come second. I chatted with only a couple of Americans and met a father-daughter team from Montreal.

As I've said before, these terraces are far more impressive than the comparatively puny ones at Talalagong, yet those ones get the crowds. They are also close to Ubud, and are on the usual tourist trail. I'm happy to be away from the tourist circus. I feel bad that people don't see the splendour that I do.

Chicken farms

I've talked about my walks through the rice fields, and how astoundingly beautiful they are. I've mentioned that my guesthouse is in a village of 110 families. Now it's time to mention the most numerous residents: the chickens.

The village is on a ridge supported by steep slopes. Terraced down those slopes are chicken farms. On the west side, the side I walk down most often, there are at least a dozen barns, each containing 500 to 1,000 chickens. There are more barns on the north, east and south sides of the village. So while there are 800 human residents, there are easily 32,000 chickens.

Every day there are trucks taking pick-up loads of eggs to the city to feed the hungry tourists. When the birds lose their laying power, they also go to restaurants.

Farming is hard work, and much of that work falls to women. Every other day I'll see a truck parked on the side of the stereo slope and a woman cautiously balancing a 20 inch basket of manure on her head as she slowly and deliberately makes her way up the plank to empty her load. I marvel at her strength and balance.

Walking by the barns at certain times of the day is amazing. There's a gentle roll of sounds from the hens, like the sound of surf rolling onto a pebble beach. They don't exactly cluck and it isn't quite a purr. It's very comforting.

There’s a pair of barns at the bottom of the hill, near the river. At times, the hens are louder than the water. Other times, the hens are silent.

And then there are the roosters. They seem to be partly for men's amusement. They are kept close to the house, sometimes in upside-down meter-high baskets. They sound from pre-dawn until dusk, a constant reminder of their collective presence.

The barns at the bottom of the hill.

The chicken statue at the turnoff to my village.

Some live chickens.

First lesson -- speed dating

Things went pretty well with my first English lesson today. I decided to start with a bit of speed dating. That would give me a chance to listen to people's ability without making them talk in front of everyone.

They didn't understand when I asked one row to turn around and face the other, even when I showed them. They couldn't grasp the idea of talking in pairs, or pretending to be the guard and pretending to be the tourist.

Once they got over that confusion, they seemed to get in the spirit.

As in any group, there are some who have good language skills and there are some who seem to have none. There are some who are willing to try and there are some who are sceptical.

We spent 15 minutes collectively going over the greeting patter, then I asked three people, sequentially, to greet me. The middle one did great. The first one mimicked my hand gesture when saying “very far” after hearing where I was from. It was very very funny.

I was ready to call it a day (leave them wanting more), but they wanted a bit more. We talked about why you don't ask someone their age, and when that question might be appropriate (only if someone is in trouble, and their age might impact the problem). We talked about the answer to the question how far is it to the top of the rice fields, and what the question sounds like.

I made it clear that the punishment for being on your cell phone is a step on the foot. You might have to stay late and learn more. You will not be allowed to leave. Same if you don't talk English when you're supposed to. A step on the foot. Say yes to corporal punishment.

I think it went well. We’ll know tomorrow when we see how many come back.

Water buffalo and weed eaters

Today, I timed my walk perfectly. I left after one rain, and made it home a minute before the next one. For three days now, I've done the circuit up to the momument marking the Jatiluwih Rice Paddies as a Unesco World Heritage Site.

I can't tell you how long the circuit is. My map doesn't have a scale, and everyone walks slower in the tropical heat. On top of that, there are a few steep hills. Today, I didn't rest at the momument and it took me one hour and 50 minutes.

It's a pretty amazing route. I leave the village by going down the steep hill that had that cursed loose gravel (see Winter, no, fall), cross the bridge and go right. Up an almost as steep hill, past the temple and into the fields.

Yesterday, someone was repairing a lower wall. They’d scoop out some muck with a hoe that has a blade that's 10 inches wide, and pile the sludge on the spot that needs repair. Then they'd tap it down and shape it with bare feet. When satisfied, they'd repeat the scoop and tap routine until the wall was the desired height.

For the past few days, the hills have been alive with the soft drone of weed eaters. These are used on the tops of paddy walls, and along the exposed side of the tall wall.

There has also been the gurgle and chug of gas fired ploughs, turning the mud and preparing a bed for the next crop. Dotted throughout the fields are cow sheds, with one or two complacent animals chewing as the watch the world go by.

Today, after seeing a motorbike pass me, where the passenger had a gas-powered weed eater in one hand and a sickle in the other, I was even more surprised to see a farmer ploughing his field with a water buffalo. It's the only one I've seen in this area.

So my views of old and new are complete. Tourists with selfie sticks by the monument and farmers with water buffalo in the fields. All on a January afternoon in 2017.

Slow start

Today, at 8 am, I was supposed to meet the people in my English class for the next two weeks. I thought we were clear on the meeting point. I thought we were clear on the time.

Apparently we weren't. I was at the appointed time and place. I was alone. For an hour. When I got home, I was greeted with “Juliette where were you?”

Good grief.

I was excited that I finally had something to do. I was excited that it was something the community wanted.

Last night, I met with the head of security in the village and for the Besi Kulang temple. They want me to help the people (men) who will be providing security at the temple to feel more comfortable greeting visitors in English. No grammar lessons please. Yes, most of them want to learn; we are not forcing them.

The total number of learners is 24. I asked that they be split into two groups of 12. When a group is 12 or less, everyone talks. When there are more than 12, loud ones talk and others keep silent. If you want everyone to practice speaking, the groups have to be smaller.

The lessons have to be at night. It's planting season, and men are in the fields all day.

No grammar. The other English lessons have all had grammar, and it has scared the men from learning. They are afraid of saying something incorrectly, so they don't talk at all.

Fine. English grammar is complicated, and is too much for two weeks of lessons.

I thought we had set up everything to everyone's satisfaction.

Then I got to the meeting place at the meeting time, and I was alone. For an hour and 15 minutes.

I eventually found the group, and the man who was supposed to introduce me, and nothing happened.

So I went home. And that's when my host arrived home asking where I've been. Argh

We went back to the temple, this time in the car, and I had lunch with the men before being introduced. There was much frantic talk, sprinkled with the word “grammar”. No, I said, we will practice talking. We will not be learning grammar.

What an effective way to discourage someone from learning a language. Start with the grammatical architecture. Actually, that's an effective way for some, and my own English improved when I learned formal grammar. But I was already comfortable with speaking, reading and writing. The early lessons included grammar; I just didn't know it.

So I'll sneak it in. When someone says “I went through the rice fields” they mean that they were already in the rice fields.  When they say “I go to the rice fields” they are on their way there. Go and went are different ways of saying the same word.

I've asked to be taken to a city with a bookstore tomorrow so that I can buy a Balinese-English phrase book. I'll leave it behind for people to use in their interactions with tourists, or while they are waiting for tourists to come. A shift at the security desk can be lonely.

As we were leaving today, there were three groups there -- more than I've seen. As with my first visit, one group was from Moscow.

The father in the family said he will not return to Bali. Too hot, I asked. No. The food. He doesn't like rice or spicy food. He's been enjoying Australian food, especially lamb. To say what he meant, he put his hands up like horns and went baa. Then he told me how he likes to barbecue at home. His early 20s son and daughter were there, mortified by their fathers conversation. Parents all over the world embarrass their kids. There's something comforting in that.

So. My first lesson is tomorrow (Friday) night at 7. Wish me luck, and confidence.

PS:  yesterday I posted some pictures of the village and the rice fields. To get a strong enough internet connection to upload, I sat at the viewpoint over the rice fields. I felt ridiculous to be in such a pastoral area with my various electronic devices, but it's the only way. So forgive me for not posting pictures until I'm somewhere with a strong wifi service.

Pictures -- My Guest House & Village (rural Bali)

My host's house

The first house in the compound

My room

The corridor to other family's homes (those of siblings)

The village from the way up to the rice terrace viewpoint:

Pictures - Jatiluwih Rice Paddies

The Besi Gulang Temple, from the path through the rice paddies

t

From nursery to spaced plants

Friendly neighbourhood cock fight

My host and I returned from a motorcycle ride to view the temple from high in the rice terraces to find the driveway blocked by a handful of men with their fighting cocks tucked under their arms.

Two moved across from each other, held their birds by the chest, pinning their wings, and pushed the birds toward each other. When the birds seemed sufficiently aggressive, the men released them into the street.

It's only a friendly fight, my host assured me. There are no razors, nothing to cut with.

The birds flew at each other, head feathers raised in a crown. Their chests puffed out as they led their approach to the other with as much body showing as possible. Confrontations were made in the air. Sometimes one flew over the other; sometimes they bumped chests.

There was squawking, there was flapping, and one bird would back away. The birds would be caught by the tail, then the body would be tucked under the owners arm and it was quiet again.

There was no way to tell from a quiet bird what it would be like in an aggressive situation. One bird looked well groomed when quiet, and was tattered and mean when showing its feathers. Another was similar in the rest position, and imperial with its crown feathers making a perfect ruffle around its head. I can't remember which one won their fight. I was to busy looking at the visual differences.

A white rooster was not interested in fighting its designated opponent. When released, it went down the road, out of reach and started searching for food. The opponent joined him and the onlookers laughed at their owners.

At this neighbourhood event, there was no betting. Just cajoling, teasing and laughter.

Night market

My host’s wife works at a bottled water plant. Last night, she had to work three hours of overtime, so my host and I picked her up and visited the night market. I'm not sure where it was -- possibly Tajem or Penebal. It was in a town, and my guest house is in a village.

There were about 20 stalls, most serving food. One had an assortment of plastic goods laid out on a tarp on the ground, and there was a toddler’s carousel adding a festive note. It played happy music while two children rode in the six-car circuit for a very long time. Some stalls were food carts, others were more complicated collections of food prep and sales areas. Only fires to cook things were on the ground, and usually contained in a small metal barrel about the size of a barbecue propane tank.

The customers all (except me) looked local, and most were middle aged. One of the families that used the toddler carousel was three generations. Four year old, mom and grandparents.

We stopped at three stalls. The first offered deep fried bananas. Warm and crispy on the outside. Soft, melty fruit on the inside. The second offered banana coconut tacos. One woman put a spoonful of batter on an iron pan, and spread it around to form a four inch disk. When it set, she added three diagonal slices of banana, covered the pan with an iron lid and moved on to the next of three pans atop wood fires.

When she deemed a pancake ready, she lifted it off with a spatula and placed it in a rectangular cake pan for her colleague. The second woman added shredded coconut from her bowl, and folded the pancake just like a taco. She stacked a dozen together on a paper, then placed them in a plastic bag. That's what we got.

When she ran out of coconut, she got out a large slab of wood with a roughened side. She took a large hunk of coconut and dragged it across to shred the meat into her bowl.

The tacos were made with whole wheat flour, which added to the textures and helped cut the sweetness. Absolutely delicious.

The third vendor we visited offered chicken sate. He soaked the skewered meat in peanut sauce before cooking it over an open fire. He gathered 20 skewers in a folded paper containing more peanut sauce, and stuck it in a bag. The sate proved a nice relief to the sweet banana treats.

Off we went, to get the tired wife home.

Winter, no, fall

I decided to get a relatively early start this morning, so shortly before 9 am, I headed out to do a loop through the rice terraces. Without photos tips, it should take about two hours.

I knew which way to go. Yesterday, my host took me into the fields so that I could see his temple from above. He's the security/tourist greeter at the Besi Kulang temple. I also knew that the local men are working on widening the road down to the river. It's steep, and has potholes.

It was interesting to see them work. Someone worked the cement mixer at the top of the hill. The concrete was shovelled from the mixer onto a sack, and two men would carry the sack by the corners to its desired spot. Two other men shaped he concrete, one flattening with a trowel; the other with a hand-made broom. There were several pairs of men doing the carrying, and there was another mixer and crew near the first bend in the road, maybe 30 feet from the top. Sacks of mixed concrete dripped moisture.

I had a short conversation with the supervisor. To me, he looked more Japanese than Balinese. He wanted to know how long I was here, and where I was staying. Truthfully, I could answer neither question, Mobutu I did my best and picked my way down the road.

Roughly at the time I got to the spot where there were construction materials on the road, I felt the loose gravel roll under my feet. Down I went, and away went my water bottle. Fortunately, I landed on my bum. Pride was definitely NOT intact. I accepted the extended arm, got up, took my water bottle from another saviour and continued walking down the hill.

At the bottom of the hill, there’s a small river, and beside the river, there's a hot spring. When we passed it yesterday, some young men were soaking. Today, it was empty.

Over the bridge, past the chicken and pig farm, and up the hill I went. Up, up, up. At the top of that rise, there were rice paddies on each side of the narrow track. Not far along the flat was a small hut, guarded by a scare crow in a priest’s while coat. His face was a wooden mask, and his hair made of coconut.

It took about an hour to get to the Monument proclaiming this to be the Jatiluwih Rice Terraces World Heritage sight.

A family from Fiji was taking a break on their bike tour. Very tall dad (Caucasian), tall for a Fijian mom, two lanky teenaged sons, one daughter. They were going down the road that I had just come up.

There were a handful of other tourists in the monument area. It was nothing like the circus were saw at the Talalagong terraces that we passed on our own bike tour. And the terraces are much more spectacular because they are more vast. The entire bowl visible from the town was terraced, and rice was at different stages of development. If I had to guess, I'd say it was 20 times bigger than the more famous terraces.

I followed the road for a short way (maybe two long city blocks) and started down the track once again. There were a few tourists in flip flops. Hopefully they were only having a photo stop, cause I know I couldn't have walked for two hours in flip flops.

Then it was me and the occasional worker, enjoying the clean air and wonderous beauty.

The cell phone reception was strong there, way stronger than in my guesthouse village, so I wrote a couple of emails in the shade of a cocoa tree.  Yes, I felt ridiculous, but I can't talk to Anita (my cell phone won't connect the call) and connecting with her was important to me.

Soon the track turned into a footpath. I needed to dodge someone's tarp of drying rice, so I stepped on to the edge of the neighbouring paddy before hopping back on the path.

When I emerged on the road behind the temple, I met up with the Fijian bicycling family.

I stopped at the temple to tell my host of my fall. He'd already had a call from the police. I showed him that I was not hurt and went on my way.

At the base of that hill, by the bridge, there were three van loads of people in priest attire. One was the head of the Tabanan district, doing the rounds before January 25.

Up the hill again. This time, no audience and no fall. And another story for me to tell.

For anyone considering a trip to Bali, I highly recommend this walk. It's away from the hoards, it's beautiful and it gives a wonderful glimpse into rural life. With photo and email stops, it too 2.5 hours.