Making my way to Munduk

The air is pregnant with the smell of incense burnt by locals making the daily offering to the Hindu gods. Women and men dressed in long sarongs and belts shuffle along the side of the road bearing their gifts of flowers, fruits, biscuits and cigarettes held in green banana leaf baskets the size of two adult hands cupped together. The women carry the offerings on trays atop their heads. Their stable necks bear the burden effortlessly after years of practice. Men place the gifts on alters, temples and idols on every street corner.

The ceremonial offering is conducted daily and as I’m driving by ritual I wonder who is giving to appease a deity and who is giving to worship. Or is it an automated activity with much of it’s meaning lost, like brushing your teeth or getting dressed in the morning?

Regardless of motivation, the fragrant ritual is beautiful to behold. It seems wrong that motorbikes and feet will squash many of the scattered offerings by evening. Ants will carry away bits of biscuits and the flowers will wilt on the hot pavement. The woven baskets will be flattened and look like litter tossed aside.

Good thing they are replaced every morning.

The smells and thoughts accompany me this morning on my drive north toward Munduk, an area with rolling mountains and lakes. The temperature is shockingly cool as my bike climbs higher altitudes and the crisp mountain air reminds me of autumn in Ohio when the sun is shining but the chilled air gives me goose bumps and raises the hair on my arms.

I left Seminyak, an area in the south of Bali where I’m staying with Diana, a local girl I met through couchsurfing, at 9 a.m. to make the two hour drive before noon. I intend to spend the afternoon driving around and exploring the rolling hills, lakes, villages and rice paddies before dark, which would make the return trip more challenging because road signs are sporadic and not very informative. Often they fail to mention some upcoming towns and most of the existing signs are conveniently tucked behind trees and none are lit at night. I find that asking locals is the surest way of getting around.

Looking for somewhere to stop and eat and local drives next to me (locals don’t find it bothersome to drive side-by-side on the roads and have conversations).

“Hello Miss where are you going?”

“I’m just here to explore Munduk, no plans really, but I could use some lunch.”

“you want to see a giant tree near my village?”

“Sure.”

The conversation doesn’t make much sense, but that’s how it goes when I know a whopping ten words of Bahasa Indoneisan and he speaks a bit of English.

Acutally, Gede’s English is pretty good and he tells me – over a plate of noodles – that he works for a cruise that leaves from Miami, which he doesn’t really like and is shocked by American prices.

“I bought noodles that cost me $8!, “ he explained as I enjoyed by food that cost 80 cents.

Next we drove toward his village, 4 km outside of Munduk, and met his family who were in the midst of a five-day cremation ceremony. They gave me tea and traditional sweets – pastries filled with sugar and coconut and sweet sticky rice that was black and caramel colored -- and we all smiled at one another in lieu of words.

Four families were participating in the ceremony (four people had died around the same time so the families join together to share the ceremony and costs), and like most family gatherings everyone was dressed up, circling the food tables and passing around small children.

I met Gede’s wife, Madi, and their six-year-old son. Madi’s younger brother had been killed four months earlier in a motorbike accident and this was a celebration for him (and the three other deceased who were all elderly). I also met Gede’s younger brother who drove me up to see the giant tree while Gede changed into his ceremonial wardrobe- a long sarong, shirt with belt and a head scarf.

Two hours later I left the gathering with promises to return. In two days they would conclude the ceremony by taking the bodies and the boxes that housed their spirits up a hill to be released. I was honored to be included, but hesitant about making the long commute again. Gede and Madi offered to house me, but I didn’t want to impose during their time with family and friends.

On the drive back I stopped to photograph some of the lakes and hills that I’d passed on my way into Munduk and decided this is definitely a place I could revisit, so why not see some spirits set free?

Indonesia: Photos

Life's a party in Kuta

In need of change from the solitude and quiet of Bingin Beach, I moved to the noisy, dirty, tourism capital of Bali: Kuta, where shops line every inch of the windy roads and drunken 20 year olds can be found at any hour of day or night. Kuta is chaos
wearing a bikini and a party hat. But I didn’t feel my trip to Bali would be complete without experiencing the epicenter of Bali tourism.

Something about the place is appealing, for a short while at least.
Here I can find Gado-Gado, one of my favorite dishes that is sautéed
veggies with a creamy peanut sauce, tofu and tempe (fermented and
fried soy beans) for less than one dollar, knock-offs of every brand
and gadget and more foreigners than locals.

The crowded beach, endless streets of vendors and the buffets of parties was entertaining for a few days, and while I was in town I made some local friends through the Indonesian couchsurfing network. They showed me some local spots including a salsa club and introduced me to arrack- local liquor that is similar to vodka and made out of coconut.

I shared accommodation in a swanky resort with a pool and free breakfast with Maxi, my friend from Bingin and his two friends from the Basque country (northern Spain) and together we took on the town.

Now for me the party is over and I’m taking the ferry to Lombok – the island below Bali.

I will take my motorbike, surf board and backpack and hit the road in search of the island’s beautiful beaches, local culture and maybe a hike up a volcano.