Balinese discipline

Life in Padangbai continues to reward in its gentle, relaxed fashion. We've now spent more time here than any other place in the journey -- and our familiarity with this place is rewarded by people greeting us by name as we walk its few blocks of warungs (shops), hotels and restaurants. (Well, truth be told, I am greeted with Eric -- pronounced enthusiastically as "air-EEK!" -- and Julie is greeted as either as Julia or, much to her chagrin I'm sure, Mrs. Eric.)

I have been relishing finally taking time to dive into long-deferred projects that I envisioned dedicating my presumably abundant free-time to earlier in our trip. (That's a vision that did not contend with the demands of camping and near-daily motorcycling, to say nothing of the wonders of Hawai'i and New Zealand.)

At the moment, I'm sitting at the Buddha Bar, one of several frequent haunts, all of which provide ample shade from the intense mid-day sun. The Buddha Bar is unique in town in having a prominent salt-water pool, and a relaxed policy about patrons using it. When hanging out here, my routine is typically to order a mango juice ($1.25, and containing nothing but juiced mangoes, but so sweet you doubt it), crack open Proust (fittingly enough, I'm making my second attempt at In Search of Lost Time) or pop open the laptop and work on various coding or video projects. Might not be your cup o' fruit, but it's definitely mine. That is, when we're not spending the day snorkeling, swimming, or scuba diving.



We have several days left before leaving for Ubud, often called the cultural heart of Bali, but honestly, I am not eager to leave. Little did I know that I'd fall so completely for this routine and rootedness. Little too did I know that in so short a time I could become proficient at discerning a really, really exceptional mango from a merely really exceptional one. (It's mango season here right now, so those are the only two varieties on offer.)

The U.S. State Department -- typically, the most conservative travel advice you could find on the planet -- describes Indonesia with a tacit chauvinism that feels so unjust given our experience here. To be sure, Bali is not typical of Indonesia, but even the way our government describes traffic patterns here, namely, as "undisciplined," feels both needlessly antagonistic and inaccurate. Traffic here moves very differently from back home, but it abides its own discipline, however chaotic it might first appear to Western eyes. Drivers are attentive, communicative and frankly, quite skilled at maximizing the number of vehicles moving on the two-lane trunk roads throughout the island. In the space that two cars moving in the same direction would occupy on a similar roadway in Minneapolis, there might be a fully loaded dump truck hauling a load of dirt or lumber, a hired car straddling the center line, looking for a safe moment to pass, and a dozen scooters with an average load per bike of 2 adults, various satchels and packages, and a child or two wedged into the spaces between the rest. At the same time, there are dozens of scooters and motorbikes moving in the opposite direction, pinching without complaint down to the portion of their lane remaining which allows the hired car to stay over the center line. "Undisciplined" does not characterize the utter absence of road rage, the fact that every driver seems to view making space for every other driver on par with their objective of reaching their destination.

Dear President Obama,

I know you have a soft spot for Indonesia. Spending the time we have here, Mr. President, I see why! I know you have a lot on your plate right now, what with the economy, and the opposition to resolve our health care crisis, to say nothing of the violence and wars you inherited, but if you and Ms. Clinton could perhaps see whether your travel advice writers could make their travel advice demonstrate a modicum of respect for the places they describe, this traveler would be most grateful.

Thank you for presenting an American face to the world we can be proud of, instead of embarrassed by.

Eric
Padangbai, Bali, Indonesia

Of course, accidents do happen. We had an opportunity to watch Padangbai spring to action during a traffic accident last week. Apparently, a small SUV was parked in our hotel's driveway, with the keys in the ignition. Someone who did not know how to drive wanted to listen to music, so turned the key to activate the accessories. In doing so, they inadvertently started the car, the manual transmission of which was engaged in first gear, at the same time that they had their foot on the accelerator (again, not knowing how to drive). The car started, and rapidly accelerated, careening across the street, over the substantial, foot-high curb, onto the beach, colliding with and shattering an outrigger canoe, pulled up on the sand awaiting passengers.

Fortunately, no one was hurt, which is nothing short of miraculous. I'd just left our hotel to head to (you guessed it) the Buddha Bar, and had just set my stuff on the table when I heard the ruckus. By the time I'd walked a dozen paces to see what had happened, it seemed that all of Padangbai had done the same, a large circle of people around the car, while its "driver" exited the vehicle, stunned and shaken. Julie talked with one of our sarong-selling friends on the street, whose stand was the closest thing to the boat destroyed by the impact. She, too, was shaken, grateful the car had not gone ten feet further down the road, and hit her instead.



As I imagine might happen with a traffic accident on Main Street in small town America, this was the event of the week. People lingered, making sure the vehicle was safely removed from the beach (this time, by a qualified driver), and conferring about what happened, what each person saw, and who was responsible for what. Interestingly, in talking to one of our drivers here about the accident, he suggested that the owner of the car bore some responsibility for the accident as well, since he should not have left keys in the car.

The big event for this week has been something on an entirely different scale, however.

Every six months, the three main temples in Padangbai host a ceremony which locals say brings "all of Bali" to this tiny village. While my estimates suggest it's a fair shot short of the millions of people that claim would represent, it is certainly impressive to watch thousands and thousands and thousands of people filter into this town, clotting the parking area and streets with buses, scooters, temporary food and festival-merch vendors and the countless pilgrims. They arrive day and night, as the ceremony continues for three days, from 5:30 a.m. until midnight each day.



The main road along the beach (where we are staying) is closed to vehicles, and filled with a continual progression of people in ceremonial attire, beautiful offering baskets containing fruit, flowers, food and incense balanced atop the women's heads, as they walk down the beach toward the temples. These before-and-after photos of the main road give some sense of the change that has come over this normally sleepy village.

 

Seeing Padangbai's temple ceremony has been an unplanned, unexpected stroke of fortune.

Comfortably ensconced in my disciplined uncertainty, I don't think of myself as a spiritual seeker, and am even less drawn to regimented religious practice. That said, I have near bottomless curiosity for how people have organized themselves around humanity's eternal questions (why are we here?, where do we come from?, what happens when we die?). I hope, in participating in the ceremony, that this curiosity expresses itself as genuine, engaged interest, and not as a kind of cultural voyeurism that is particularly uncomfortable to participate in as an affluent, western white male observer (relishing neither the role of the vulgar cowboy "Hello! Make way! Anyone seen God around here lately?" or his subtler prostituting cousin "It's just so exotic, all these fancy costumes. And the people are just so peaceful, don't you think?").

In any case, Bali's Hinduism (akin but distinct from the Hinduism I've encountered elsewhere in the world), its ability to draw thousands upon thousands upon thousands of adherents from all over the island to this tiny village, and the gentle, joyful and communal way that these ceremonies occur... well, all of this is pretty darn intoxicating. And the people do seem pretty peaceful, in fact. Hmmm.

I guess there's something elemental that speaks to me about faith practices that make extensive offerings of fruit and flowers. Where the men and women are adorned with blossoms, tucked into their hair, behind their ears, resting on their head during prayer. Where each prayer service's "benediction" involves affixing grains of rice to your forehead. Add to that a stunning gamelan ensemble featuring our friend Martini greeting us on our visits to the temples, along with a thousand smiles, friendly glances and introductory questions ("Hello, where are you from? Where are you staying?"), and suffice it to say: this ceremony has been unforgettable indeed!



Our next destination, Ubud, is famous for having dozens of nightly performances of Balinese culture for tourist consumption. Seeing Balinese culture, here, in practice, somehow feels more grounded, less sanitized. Besides, it surely can't hurt to put a good word in with Ganesha for our trip, right?