Exit holyground and climb in the SUV backseat—surfboard's resting in trunk, nose jets out over headrests so I duck as I enter. We whiz down the mountain through local towns and villages, and I bemuse myself waving at the locals, all of whom (literally every single one) shines a smile or waves. We pass deep valleys of rice paddy, women carrying things on their heads, and the landscape is unnaturally green, literally electric, so bright, I can almost hear the plants shouting “GOOD DAY! YES FRIEND, I TOO AM ALIVE AND WELL!”
After 2 hours we arrive in Ubud (Bali's art capital).
*sidenote: Bali's economy is almost totally based in tourism and export. Consequently, districts and even whole towns devote to producing a specific good—in the hills there is a 'jewlery town', where the bulk of jewlery is molded, finished, etc. There is a furniture district, where 5 blocks of shops make bar stools, and the next few blocks focus on tables. Near Kuta, there's a big stretch of masonry (2 miles long?), where various totems, fountains, and statues are carved.
Ubud is apparently where the art gets done, 90% of shops sell paintings, widdled figurines, and the like. Many locals are western artists who decided to settle down, as well as old Dutchies (Bali was once a Dutch province), and laid back Balinese. We check into our hotel—quaint clean place in the town's heart, across from a massive soccer field, adjacent to an elementary school—during every morning shower I hear kids cheering, laughing, and being young.
An old friend recommended an incredible yoga studio—my health isn't up to par on account of Australia's liver bashing, and the wild nights of Kuta, so I say “what the hey” lets get healthy. I rent a motorbike ($3 per 24hrs) and scoot over. It's called 'Yoga Barn'. I walk around the place...
They offer every sort of class—75 minute breathing, abdominal strengthening, relaxation, Kung Fu?—most Yoga Barn teachers are very experienced and designed their own programs. I buy 12 classes—time to get normal.
Ride back to our hotel and a roar is floating over from the school (recess?). I fall into bed and quickly drift off. When I wake, Bradon is lounging playing Tetris on our laptop. We discuss Ubud's activities and map an agenda for the week.
Attend a sunrise yoga session—holistic balance through breathing (it was called something in Sanskrit, but so help me God). We do all sorts of new postures, and at end I feel open lungs. Leave and scoot down a few blocks, enjoy breakfast at Lilipad Cafe.
(view from my table)
Return for another yoga session—jungle yoga, strenuos 75 minute class devoted to total body strengthening. Leave on a cloud scoot round town—pass Monkey Forest Temple—enormous ancient trees reach out over stone walls, walls where innumerable monkeys sit watching passersby, while others crawl skip whatever in the road. Arrive home for another relaxing evening reading doing nothing.
Next day begins with another yoga class. Afterward, I meet up with Brado to check out Monkey Forest Temple—it's totally swarming with primates. We drop 2 bucks on 2 bushels of bananas (called 'sugar bananas', much smaller than those of home, and much sweeter). Walk through the place and shoot these little guys can eat! whole hordes follow you staring at your bushel—some hop your leg shimmy up torso then grab the fruit! We hide the bushels under our shirts, pulling out just a single banana when we see one worth feeding. Then one learns our secret—he shimmies up my leg and starts biting my shirt! AAAAH freak out and he grabs the bushel, and I'm out of bananas. Damn.
(sorry about the angle in the video)
The janitor back at our hotel told us of a secret road that runs behind the temple's front gate, behind the monolythic statues, and it runs behind the madhouse ending at some remote village—it's just wide enough for a motorbike.
We jump on our mopeds and return to the temple entrance, sure enough the road's there, and we vroom through the jungle over a worn cobblestoned path, twisting pass artifacts, broken columns, monkeys staring curious from trees— at road's end there is what appears to be a temple-back-entrance— we see a big gate bordered by two watchful monkey statues. 
Yoga Barn for sunset, and when I return home Bradon's glued to the computer—Tetris “hold on high score”—I flop down on my bed. Bradon begins mumbling distress, mumble mumble then “Woah! Dude I can't change the shape! NOOO! WHAT! The keyboard is fading! AAAAAH (cursing)!”—you can imagine the agony of a high score being stolen, the blocks falling incorrectly, helpless, and that's when our laptop broke, forcing us into grimey internet cafes for the following 4 months. Pain-in-the-ass.
The remainder of the week was relaxed—nothing to 'write home about', except for the chuk-chuk dance:
Dark evening clouds, everything obsedian. Almost 9 o'clock so we scoot to a specific temple. There we walk beneath old candles, through a stone pillared entrance, through an outdoor corridor of high burning torches, into a candle-lit arena—a crecent of guests sit on the brick floor (a smokey hue), or on stones or folding chairs. We find 2 chairs facing the stage, which isn't a stage, but rather, 45 immense stone steps where a stage should be—they lead to main temple, a huge, elegantly unpainted, mysterious structure, adorned with innumerable curlicues, all chizeled 100 years ago. Between us and the steps, crescent center, is an open area, pintailed by a forlorn bouquet of unlit candles, the holder made of tall weathered rod-iron—a deep bucolic feel.
Got some extra time—strain our eyes reading a performance brochure. The story's Romeo-and-Juliet-like, only with trecherous demons, mischevious faiiries, and holy monkey kings... should be interesting.
Chanting is heard from a vague location, louder and louder. A procession of Balinese men appear at stair summit, half enters from left, half enters from right—all dark island skin, shirtless, clad in clothe hats and surong. They're shouting and moaning their chant, bouncing with it, creeping toward the center. A shoulder-to-shoulder-line forms facing us at summit, behind which a crowd of performers organizes, chanting all-the-while.
The group begins bounce-stepping down, throbbing toward us slowly, concentrating on the chant. They fill the arena center, and form a 5 person deep ellipse around the candles. Bouncing evolves: they hop-shift from foot to foot, then 1 yelps and they chant louder, hop-shift harder. Another yelp and all quickly fall into a cross-legged pose, chanting still now with arms outstretched to left, in unision they reach out then relaxe back, out and back out and back with the chant, high yelp and they switch to the right. This remains constant throughout the 1 hour tradition, during which an elaboratly costumed ensemble used only dance to tell the story.
Then the ensemble a scurries off, and a man removes the candles, and the chanters, in the same fashion they entered, move to the base of the stairs forming a shoulder-to-shoulder line, facing us still chanting. Then 2 men walk down the stairs with a large (size of outdoor trash can) bamboo basket. They scurry to arena center and dump the contents into a big mound (5ft diameter)—dead coconut husks. The men ignite the mound and it explodes into bonfire.
Suddenly a man drifts into view at the stair summit. He is constumed as a horse: he is wearing a 6-foot long, white-bamboo-contraption that is shaped like a stallion—his torso is sticking out the stallion's spine, he controls the neck and head with bowed arms, while the tailend just rests at the man's back.
He is ostensibly sleep walking—his eyes are tight slits, he stumbles drunk-like then stops rigid, total control, leans into another long swirve then stops rigid, again, and again. Then he ruffles the contraption, expressing a shivering horse. He leans into another swrive, this time rushing down the stairs right toward the bonfire and POW he runs right through it! Now I see that his only raiments are clothe shorts, a hat, and an orchid behind hid right ear.. shoeless! The 2 men who lit the fire use push-brooms to gather the now scatterd burning husks: they reform the mound. The horseman stands rigid, swirves, shivers, swrives, then POW blasts right through the new pile kicking fire everywhere. The 2 men rebuild, the horseman floats around, then POW blasts through it again, only this time I notice he's standing right on a burning husk (barefoot), not flinching, not doing anything, then he swirves and swirves again onto more embering husks. Another mound is rebuilt. POW! rebuild POW! rebuild POW! ...
Finally, the horseman gets hugged/tackled, forcefully, by 1 of the firebuilders who holds him, and he's still got that expressionless sleep-walk gape. A priest saunters down the temple stairs, stands before him, and sprinkles water on his forehead while reciting something extensive. And it was over.
firebuilder and horseman(wearing hat)
tourists getting photos taken with some of the dancers
coconut husk embers after the show
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1 comment:
Gar Bob, Thanks for the moments, thanks for the photos. Amazing stuff. How the hell do you train to be a fire walker? I mean, do you just get up and do it some fine morning? Amazing stuff.
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