I am high up in the mountains of north-central Bali, jut outside the village of Munduk. At the moment, I am having dinner at an outdoor restaurant at Puri Lumbug Cottages, where I will spend the next two nights. The view is spectacular – massive mountains with mist clinging to their skirts and clouds kissing their peaks. But this view is only the latest in a day of spectacular sights and experiences so let me begin at the beginning.
I had planned to get up early this morning and lie by the pool for a couple of hours but the day dawned gray again. Instead, I rolled out my Yoga mat and perched myself so I could see the black sand beach and glassy sea just through my hotel room window. Two and a half hours later, having worked out a boat-load of kinks and locked-up muscles, I sighed with satisfaction and headed for breakfast. This is the first time I have done any Yoga since leaving the States. I don’t really know why I didn’t maintain my practice while I was in Vietnam. Perhaps it was the fact that my time there was crammed full of tours or maybe it was the crazy energy of the country that put me off my practice. Whatever it was, it sure feels good to be back to my Yoga. Read More
Bali is soft. Bali is easy. Through the mist and rain I shoot photo after photo, convinced that if I could reach through the viewfinder of my camera to touch the terraced rice paddies they would feel like the softest down fur on a baby rabbit.
If Eskimos have over one hundred names for different kinds of ice, then Balinese surely must have hundreds of names for different shades of green. From the lime green of tender new rice shoots to the brown-green of rice ready to be harvested, every hue is represented. From the misty green of rice fields at dawn’s first light to the saturated greens at sunset, every luminosity has its moment at some point during the day. Read More
I arrived in Bali last night and my guide, Wayan Sueta (pronounced Why-Ann) was at the airport to pick me up as promised. Peoples names are easy to remember because everyone here has one of four names: Wayan, Made (Mah-DAY), Nyoman and Ketut, which stands for one, two, three and four. So if you are the first born (regardless of whether you are a boy or a girl) you are named Wayan, the second born, Made, and so forth. If a family has a fifth child they just start all over again. Wayan describes it as a method of birth control.
Forty-five minutes later we pulled into the town of Ubud, the cultural and arts center of Bali, which is located in the mountains of central Bali (it is a small island). I am staying at the Pande Pembai Bungalows, in a newly refurbished room that still smells of paint and varnish. There was some consternation over the key to my room. Finally they handed me a TINY key, the kind used for small metal padlocks that you put on your luggage. They explained to my guide (and he translated) that the lock on the room was broken so they temporarily replaced it with this padlock. I was just getting settled when I realized there were two lamps and a mini refrigerator in the room but nothing was plugged in and I could only find one receptacle. So back I went to reception, up a dozen steep concrete steps in the pitch black, to get an extension cord. Fortunately I am prepared with a small flashlight – oh yes, add this to the travel list; always carry a flashlight.
I am winging my way toward Bali with a brief layover in Singapore and am having one of those days of crystal clarity that I wish came more often, but am unspeakably grateful for when they do come. I cannot remember a time ever in my life when I was more content, more full of joy. When I am in this mode everything affects me so deeply. I am overwhelmed with thoughts and emotions and when they come at me like this – fast and furious – I just have to get them out. The only thing I know to do is to write because it is my peace, my devotion, my solace, my great desire. So, here are some random thoughts. There is no common thread running through them. They are just rumbling through my brain.
Having eaten nothing but a simple fare of rice and vegetables for the past two weeks I splurged in the airport gift shop and bought a tin of sesame encrusted cashews. I offered some to the fellow sitting across from me and he took one, then declined more, so I voraciously devoured the rest of the tin. The next time he looked up from his studies I was licking my fingers. “Did you eat that whole thing?” he asked, incredulously. “Yep,” I replied. He laughed. You snooze, you lose.
I was nearly brought to tears by the beauty of the hair clip that held back the long black mane of the Vietnamese woman in front of me as we boarded the plane. I kid you not.
For the last two weeks I have been eating everything with chopsticks with absolutely no problem, so can someone please explain to me why I kept spilling my food all over my lap on the plane when I was using a fork???
If not for a late plane today I would have left Hanoi believing that most Hanoiites are sourpusses. Instead, I spent two hours in a room full of locals, waiting to board the delayed flight to Saigon. With the exception of one vacant chair, the seats directly across from me were all filled with men – most of them dressed in suits and ties. At my back, a couple of rows away, a TV was tuned to one of those bad martial arts movies, with Vietnamese subtitles running across the bottom. Slowly, I became aware that all of these proper-looking men were watching this ridiculous movie. Some of them were openly and avidly watching it. Others were feigning only a casual interest, but it was obvious that they were hanging on every word. About this time, two tiny little girls from one of the duty free counters sat down together in the remaining empty chair and, holding onto each others’ hands, became transfixed by the program as well.
Only one man – his nose buried in a newspaper – seemed to have no interest. Suddenly I caught this guy surreptitiously sneaking glances over the top of his newspaper. His head didn’t move – just his eyes, as they rolled up and over the newspaper every few seconds, in an attempt to hide his interest in the movie. Little by little, each of the men began to chuckle at the antics in the movie. Soon they were laughing out loud and joshing with each other over the movie. I looked beyond my aisle and saw that, as far as I could see, every face was painted with a broad smile. Even the guy with the newspaper finally relented and openly watched the TV.
So despite the delay, by the time we got on the plane everyone was in a pretty good mood – me included. For a few moments I thought I was going to get lucky and be in a row with no passenger in the middle seat but it was filled at the last minute by a short man in jeans, a knit top, a baseball cap, and simple sandals. From his appearance I guessed he was a Read More
From the moment I arrived in Hanoi things got difficult. The taxi trip from the bus stop to my hotel on the day of my arrival was no more than a kilometer and the fare should have been around 8,000 Dong. Half way to the city center I glanced at the meter and saw it already said 90,000 Dong. I pointed to the meter, asking, “Meter say 90 – that mean 90,000 Dong?” (I’ve slid into the simple English spoken by the Vietnamese because it’s easier for them to understand). “Vuong (yes), 90,000 Dong,” he replied. I had warning of this – there are discussions of Hanoi’s rigged taxi meters all over Lonely Planet’s Thorn Tree Forum. “Meter no work – you turn off,” I said sternly. “Vuong, vuong, 90,000 Dong,” he insisted. Although I had few options at 5:30 AM on dark, deserted streets with not another taxi in sight, I bluffed. I yelled, “You cheat me – I report you – you let me out of taxi right now!” “No – it OK – I fix,” he said. By the time we reached the hotel the meter read 108,000 Dong. We negotiated and I ended up paying him 50,000 Dong. Had it not been for the fact that he held my suitcase hostage in his trunk I would have simply walked away without paying him at all.
On Sunday I booked an all day city tour. Our first stop was supposed to have been the Ho Chi Minh Mausoleum to view the preserved body of Ho Chi Minh. Uncle Ho, as they fondly refer to him, was the President of North Vietnam until his death in 1969. His embalmed remains have been lying in state since and there is a long queue every day to view his body and pay respects. Instead, our guide took us first to the Museum of Ethnology, which features displays and films on many of the 54 different ethnic groups that inhabit Vietnam. Interesting, but not what I had signed up to see – this stop wasn’t even on the itinerary. Just to be sure, I asked if we were going to the Mausoleum. After informing us that she was a new tour guide and politely asking us to “be sympathy for her” because she “is learn English,” she told us we would go to the Mausoleum in the afternoon. From that moment Read More