Bali Karma

I’ve heard this now three times. Bali has a way of bringing out your Karma. You come here, and get exactly what you deserve. I’m not sure why this is, I can’t quite figure out if there is an excess of negative ions due to the pressure dropping regularly, and rainstorms changing things up, whether the community is small, insular but international, whether people come here in search of a spiritual something, but I’m definitely bumping up against myself here in a pointed a direct way.

After a particularly gnarly night where I managed to alienate the entire local Bikram population from me (well done another cherry bomb in my life) at a party, I was thankful to happen into the perfect meditation class the following day, on enlightenment, of all topics.

I admit, wholeheartedly, humbly, I am a highly flawed and often misinformed individual. Against my better judgement I went to a party where I knew there would be partying of the Burning Man type, which is all fine and good, but I happened to get particularly bent out of shape by the local Bikram teachers, “what’s your yoga Anu what? Who’s your teacher, Frank somebody?” who had done a catalogue of questionable things to my friend, and now had discovered the more psychotropic drugs, which I guess are opening their minds. I shouldn’t have gone to the party, but I had just taught a class that day on finding where the resistances were and going there. So I went. And I watched. And I judged.

And therein is the problem. I am a judgmental asshole. This culminated in a particularly ill-advised act which consisted of me, frickin visiting American teacher, going up to the owner of the local Bikram studio and saying, “What are you doing?”.

“Hey?” he said in his thick Australian accent.

“What are you doing?” I didn’t mean in that moment, I meant, as a yogi, as a person, as a propigater of yoga in Bali. He knew what I meant.

We stared at each other for a long pregnant moment, and he said, quite rightly, “Who are you to judge?”

And he was right. So I said, “You’re right,” and quickly embarrassedly tried to leave, tripping most excellently on my flat treadless sandals, and then had to spend the next 10 minutes finding a ride home amid the snickering teachers, no doubt laughing at my gall.

The next day at Desa Seni, an amazing teacher, Jason was leading the third of a series of Bok Jinpa meditation classes- a form of Tibetan Buddhism that emphasizes compassion and intention as a means to enlightenment. And, as far as I can tell, the concept that everything outside is a reflection of your inner state. So what, was that party showing me about me, and my yoga.

Like I have to ask.

I know already the parts of myself that are tamasic, and lagging and which I must unconsciously bring into the vibrational fold that I want to live in and teach about. I know all too well the parts of myself that continue to slumber while acting out among those around me. And that conversation, with that poor Australian Bikram teacher, who everyone agrees is a nice guy, was only conversation with myself.

What am I doing? I often wonder what business do I have for teaching yoga, and why should anyone listen to me. I tell myself it’s not me, and I truly believe that but the flickering candle of ego constantly plays with concealing and revealing the big Self that I am seeking to maintain. I don’t suffer fools gladly, but when I look at them as a projection of myself, I am again brought to my knees , humbly, begging for forgiveness.

After listening to Jason talk about Enlightenment coming in the form of prayer and action, and compassion breaking down the differences between us and them, about the projection inward on the mind and the projection outward, I was so so so grateful. “You can’t change others” he said, “but you can change yourself.”

It’s not like I haven’t heard this before, but I’ve always been a fantastic procrastinator. Railing against those things outside of me while failing to look at the me it reveals.

So, as the wind blows through the palm trees I sit here immersed in the Karma of myself, and feel so humble and so grateful, for the work I have to do.

Paradise, or Paradise Lost

The Bali Microcosm is fascinating. Here on this tiny island we have some of the world conflicts being played out. Because everyone of every world nationality has come here either to live and create a new life for themselves or to vacation in paradise. Many abandon their own culture, sometimes livelihood, sometimes past to live a seemingly more stress-free life here on the island. You have a mini- consortium of the international community all co-habitating on this alleged paradise. I can’t quite see yet if it’s paradise or paradise lost.

I was thinking about this while on the very private and gorgeous beach of Karma Kinara, a chain of Japanese owned luxury hotels, this one with an elevator that takes you down to the beach where a DJ spins music and you can buy a $20 bloody mary. The Russians next to us were screaming and carrying on, taking endless faux model shoot pics of each other, pulling down each others bathing suits, and generally inching in on our space. My friend May wondered if they weren’t on mushrooms or E. The very very newly rich Russians are a common site here in Bali, second to the wildly drunk Australians, and the burning man Americans.

Other people have told me that the crime in Bali has gone up with the descent of the new Russian money. I’m not that up on world politics, but I do know that the new Russian money has them snapping up 10 million dollar houses in Miami, and making lots of dramatic appearances in all the most expensive places. Apparently, they will outright come here and offer to pay someone cash for their successful business, and thus are snapping up places in Bali. Of course , I was told too that there was a Russian brothel an hour away that all the Japanese business men like to go to.

“The Americans are the most dramatic,” my three ex-pat friends living in Bali all agree. “Is everyone in America having a freak out about the recession?”

I don’t know? Are we? I’ve seen people freak out, I’ve heard people are pairing back, I know people have lost their shirts, and I see people completely unchanged. I see stores and restaurants closing everyday and new ones opening. I mostly hear people talking about changes that needed to happen, a catalyst for consciousness shifting.

They talk about the balloon hoax -that attention seeking man in LA created to get on reality TV, “That’s not most Americans,” I protest, but then I hesitate because I’m not sure. I’ve always thought we were the teenagers of the world, but if that’s true than these Russians next to us are like my tacky toupee wearing grandpa with false teeth.

My friend Martina tells me that her friend working at the Oberoi hotels talks of Russian women wearing their G string bikinis- backwards. What? I can’t even imagine that.

Today I hear about three new yoga studios planning to open within Seminyak with some really bad yoga politics . Transplants from America and Australia. I hear of a friend’s clothing design blatantly ripped off by a “friend “designer and marketed all over the island, without so much as an apology.

It’s very easy to make knock off’s here, all you have to do is bring a picture, or a pattern, and someone in a village can make it for you, cheap. Consequently you have all kinds of designs being ripped off, and you have lots and lots of the international ex pats vying to create the newest and coolest business, many of them have two and three, and four. Why not open a taco stand, and a clothing line, and a yoga studio- there’s a need in paradise, and you can make it cheap. And if it does well, you can probably sell it for cash to a Russian.

The Descent of the Eople People

What to do. An Island paradise, with an exotic gorgeous local culture and something like the 4^th or 5^th most corrupt government in the world. Expats, and reinvented personalities have apparently been moving here, living here, harmoniously for decades, and now, again, a huge, huge building boom. From the ex-pats that have lived here 17, 18, 20 years, I hear a sad roar of discontent.

The other day I drove to Balangan Beach near the southern tip of Bali, a beautiful usually secluded beach, on the way, every new establishment we would pass, my new friends Stevie and Johnny would scream, “Fuck, what is that?!!”. Stevie’s a DJ from DC who’s been here for four years, Johnny a journalist, who’s lived here for eight, and May, a yoga teacher, designer for three. Stevie and Johnny are both fluent in Indonesian, and Johnny (originally from the UK) actually says things like “Blimey.” Overnight they are watching new villas, hotels, and signs that literally promise “Prada Rich” resorts popping up all over the rolling green rice field terraced countryside. Interestingly you can’t own the land here in Bali, but the farmers will sell you a long-term lease for the money, and there are no controls on the building. Well, there is, but everything has a price. My other friend/student Martine has lived here over 20 years. She just moved to a beautiful little villa, but building started directly next-door, with a generator that keeps her up at night. Beach views are becoming obfuscated with Daytona Beach style villas. The sound of construction is not uncommon.

“The Eople People are coming.” Eople People is the phrase May’s brother, Jason has given to the Eat Pray Love set. I hear that a few years ago it was almost embarrassing, by the pool at Desa Seni, every sarong wearing 30 something chic would be reading her own copy of Eat, Pray, Love. Howard, one of the owners of Desa Seni looks me dead in the eye, “Embarrassing” he said.

Of course I read the book, which is why I had great resistance when anyone would say to me, “You’re going to Bali? Like Eat Pray Love…” For the record, that has nothing to do with why I came to Bali, but also for the record, had my friend Chloe not helped me pack and not insisted that I throw out every cliché Bali outfit I would have looked like I was auditioning for the Elizabeth Gilbert part. “Obvious,” Chloe said as she threw my see-through Thai pants aside, “Cliché,” as the Balinese sarong was elected out of the suitcase. I thank her in my heart for weeding out the eople people wardrobe I almost brought.

“Crikey, it’s going to suck when that movie comes out…” Johnny says. Referring to the fact that Eat Pray Love, which just wrapped filming in Bali will probably come out next summer. And if the best selling book didn’t do enough to bring the Eople People here, everyone’s sure the movie will put it over the top. Julia Roberts stars, (the great rumor here is that she fired all extras under 40 off her set.) And if you haven’t read the book, just know that the young, divorced, soul searching writer finds love, finally in Bali- along with a local mentor and a healer- all of which, apparently, are already making mad bank off their new found success. Even her taxi driver from the book advertizes, “The taxi driver from Eat Pray Love. “

I spent the next part of the evening trying to help brainstorm with Stevie, May, and Johnny.

“Well if the Eople People are coming, you might as well make some bank off of them. What do they need? Ayurvedic centers, Spas, self help coaches, Brazilian man dating service…”

It’s not that I think it won’t suck. I just think it’s coming. And resistance seems futile. Hopefully someone will write the next soul searching book, maybe about finding love in Detroit, or Mississippi, or…

Anatomy is International

For this week, until my own house belonging to the local tattoo artist is ready, I’m staying in a pretty sick four-story house with a pool and a staff, all by myself. I call it “The hotel”, and it’s next door to Shirley and Steve. Needless to say you don’t have to pretend to be a princess under these circumstances, it actually happens without any effort. Princess so far in Bali is like back body.

I arrived in Bali with more books than clothes. One of my main agendas while here is to dive ever deeper into the experiential anatomy of Body Mind Centering that I started exploring a few months ago under Chloe Chung’s guidance. I’m so obsessed I think I talked about it with my seat mate from LA to Taipei, and my seat mate from Taipei to Denpensar. Not the entire way, that would be ludicrous, but intermittently as it organically arose.

My first full day in the “The hotel” lying in the bale with my books, I took a study break to pop into a headstand- mostly to try to feel the direction of the lymphatic system in sirsana (you understand). When I came down, Iluh, one of the house staff was smiling and staring at me, “So good,” she clapped.

I invited her over, offering to spot her in a headstand. She protested. But she was entranced by my Netter’s anatomy book. We spent about half an hour flipping through the pages and I explained to her through English and pantomime ( her English is very basic but way better than my Indonesian) what I’m studying. I could see through her eyes she got it, not only got it, but knows it.

When we got to the pineal gland conversation, Iluh went off.

“I feel, I feel, sometimes I feel this one and everything so BIG, “ here she clutches her head then her heart with watery eyes.

“I don’t know what to do…” she says, overwhelmed.

“It’s normal,” I say, “It’s beautiful and perfect, spirit in humans.”

She takes me in with such love in her eyes. Her heart is huge.

“You such good teacher…” she says.

“You good student, “ I say.

“This one, “ she says, patting the top of her head, “Sometimes when I go to temple…” she gasps, again in awe.

I tell her about the ancient Egyptions, and the Buddha’s enlightenment flame, and point to the crown adornments on top of every thatched roof around us, and say, we’ve always known, it is what it is to be human.

Again, minutes of taking each other in without words.

“My words, my English not so good, “ she says.

“We’re communicating without words, “ I tell her.

She nods, and we hug. She invites me to one day go to temple with her. I can’t wait.

Speed Racer

January 3, 2010

One hour before teaching my first yoga class at Desa Seni, my heart is still pounding- because I, big white American that I am, managed to do what millions of Indonesians do everyday. I rode my scooter to the resort. Maybe not even a mile over bumpy roads, muddy potholes, past rice fields, and small shacks selling gas in Absolute Vodka bottles. I passed two 8 year-olds going twice my speed the opposite direction. I, in my neon blue tourist rental bike, with the speed racer red helmet, I got here! It was not without earned trepidation and fear.

Two days ago, Shirley and Steve (Former owners of Black Dog Yoga in Sherman Oaks, now running the yoga program at Desa Seni) said I should have my first scooter lesson. I stammered, avoided, stalled, and managed to ride on the back of Shirley’s bike, with their 7 year-old Charlotte. It’s not the driving on the left that I mind, but the lack of a huge protective armor between me and my speed. Steve took a very fatherly proactive approach. “We’ll go to the football field at the end of the street and practice.”

We did. In 5 minutes it seemed so easy and stupid to be riding around an empty field I declared I was ready.

“You’re sure?” He said, “I have no problem sitting here, watching.”

“Nope,” I said, “I got it.”

We go to Desa Seni to pick up my motor bike.

“They gave you girl one,” Steve says, “It’s kind of sexist, they rent these to the women, they have less pick up.”

I didn’t mind.

I put on my speed racer helmet, jump on my neon blue scooter, and follow Steve down the gravel pathway exiting Desa Seni.

At the end of the gravel pathway is a hard left turn, on the otherside of which is a flowing irrigation stream, called a “got”, really it’s a sewer.

Steve turns left.

I accidently accelerate as I turn left and don’t make the turn.

Here’s where time slows down, I see the blue water, surrounded by a three foot deep concrete trench, I can tell I’m going in, and in the 5 seconds, between seeing and entering, I think, “Oh shit, this is gonna hurt.”

Somehow I landed directly into the trench. A perfect fit. I’ m not even sure you could do it if you tried. I’m sure I also thought about jumping off my scooter, jumping the trench in action hero style, and all the other glorious options I didn’t take.

Steve shot like a lightning bolt off his bike, along with two security guards, they had me , wet,the bike and my right shoe out of the trench so fast, I barely had a second to register my embarrassment. I scraped my left pinky finger and my right big toe. Steve couldn’t believe it.

I drove the scooter home, the whole time replaying the image in my head and laughing uncontrollably.

But I’ve avoided getting back on the bike. Until today, there was no one to ride tandem with, so that term, “Back in the saddle” – that must have been made for speed racers like me.

So far so good, But I still have to get home.