The street shrines of Kuta

Even in the most modern of Thai cities, one can walk down the street or stroll a university campus and suddenly happen upon a stupa, an ancient Buddhist shrine around which the city has grown up as if the structure were protected by a force field. Some of these objects date back to the reign of Charlemagne or to the early Middle Ages, when Notre Dame of Paris was being constructed. Some are so old that, like primeval mountains, they are eroded down into pitted mounds. They aren't nearly as grand as the vast wats, Thai temples with which the tourist soon becomes watted out. They are simply part of the urban landscape. But people still leave offerings of flowers, food, and drink at them, and they remain undisturbed no matter where they stand. To stumble across such remarkable artifacts in the midst of a bustling city, unnoticed and unheralded by plaques or guided tours, is a constant revelation.

  

Here in Kuta, Bali, there are even more such structures, though here they are Hindu and not usually so archaic. Some of them are parts of actual temples, pura, but even the little back-alley neighborhoods of Bali look like temple complexes because of their coronet finials, internal courtyards and shrines, and tiled or thatched rooflines.



Apparently, once these edifices are installed, they are never removed.  There are remnants everywhere, still rising silently amid the empty spaces surrounded by ongoing hotel construction.

                                 

Some are now doorways to nowhere, protected by leering guardian demons, dvarapala, who bear weapons and fearsome scowls.

Some dvarapala stand in front of bars and surf shops that have sprouted around them. They are respectfully draped in checkered robes or shrouded like mummies. 

                                                

Barely noticeable twin shrines, contained by iron fences, flank the vacant lot that cuts between The Pad Bar & Grill and our hotel, giving it the illusion of being a bit safer at night.

Antique stone walls coated in emerald-green moss surround a muddy parking lot off Legian Street.

But the newest shrine erected in Kuta has a grimmer origin. Regrettably, it is listed as a top TripAdvisor attraction, in front of which one can see visitors in Santa hats taking one another's grinning photos and their own selfies. On the site of the destroyed Paddy's Pub, a busy corner off Legian Street, stands the massive carved-stone Ground Zero Monument, a memorial to the 2002 terrorist bombings in the Kuta tourist district. It lists on a black marble plaque the names and nationalities of all 202 victims, most of them Australian partiers. One of our drivers, Gede, was among the lucky, bartending at Paddy's when first one, then another bomb went off, leaving him with a permanent tinnitus in one ear and covered with the blood of customers whom he had been serving just moments before.

                                        

The monument bears a handful of smaller, more poignant memorials from the families of individuals who lost their lives there: Jerry & Andrew, Happy Birthday Joey, May Family. One wonders why there are so few of these remembrances.

Like the other mute shrines around the city, it will no doubt stand forever. But it is unlikely that it will ever be as solemn as they. There is now an annual "Kuta Karnival" media promotional event--originally an attempt to bring tourism back to Kuta, but now a big beach party--that celebrates the anniversary of the bombings,

Full circle in Bali

The people whom one meets in Kuta, Bali, are likely to be either Indonesian or Australian--two of the most fun-loving, outgoing nationalities on the planet. They, and the island of Bali, where our journey will end, could not be more different from the people and the island where the journey began: Iceland.

It was thus a serendipitous surprise to learn that the person with whom we've conversed the most around our hotel pool is a pale Icelandic youth who has been at the hotel for over a month, even longer than we will be there.

Siggy is a web designer by trade and thus able to work wherever he can find a good Internet connection. Who can blame him for choosing workplaces other than his frigid and, as he puts it, insanely expensive homeland?  Of course, we don't see much evidence of his toiling away on the hotel's excellent wifi connection. After all, he has found a lovely Indonesian girlfriend, with whom he cuddles by the pool when not chatting with us about his worldwide adventures.

And what adventures Siggy has had! From his deposit's being held hostage by a Kuala Lumpur hotel to running out of money in New York City.  And yet, voluble as he is, he shares his countrymen's peculiarly frozen demeanor--a reserve that keeps their bodies swathed in soft control and their ice-blue eyes nearly unblinking.  Icelanders make no sudden movements.

As many as 50 percent of them also hold a guarded belief in elves. These are not the tiny, pointed-green-cap, curled-up-red-slippers species of Santa's Workshop, but rather the powerful huldufolk ("hidden folk"), human-size, somewhat-invisible beings straight out of Lord of the Rings. One researcher in Icelandic folklore has written: "You've got to get right up close before you can be sure it's an elf and not a human." These creatures are said to be mostly benign, and in fact protect humans who accommodate them nicely, but they dislike having their territory monkeyed with. If it is, dire accidents can befall both equipment and humans. In fact, I am having trouble posting this entry.  I may have offended them.  If so, I heartily apologize and accede to their power. Really. I now fear returning to Iceland without their approval.

Once you've seen the craggy lava fields between Reykjavik and its airport, where hunched gnome-shaped rock formations dot the landscape, belief in such beings begins to seem downright rational. Icelandic seers over the centuries have claimed to sense the energy of elf churches and underground dwellings, and still advise such governmental departments as the Icelandic Road and Coastal Administration. Work on a recent highway project near Reykjavik was halted until a plan could be devised to avoid disturbing well-established elf habitat.

It's all a bit strange, though Siggy is not. On the other hand, perhaps he is an elf rendered visible by the warmth of Bali. I suppose we must get right up close to be sure.

Indonesian as a Second Language

Our first interactions with Balinese people were less than positive. There were the immigration official who took our entry visa fee as well as the last of our cash, and the cab driver who, we later learned, charged us twice as much as the going rate from the airport.

But the first of many Indonesians with whom we have had delightful interactions is a little girl named Putu, who waited on us at Surf & Turf Bar & Grill. Putu was our first ISL teacher, tickled that we even asked about some of her words.

Me and Putu

Conversing in a new country's language after having practiced Thai for a month, as we did, is an exercise in focus and restraint. One oughtn't to toss off Thai phrases in Bali, because they're incomprehensible here. If one appends the Thai greeting forms "kah" and "kap" to the end of one's sentences, Indonesians will respond as if to the squawking of a crow. The only time our Thai was understood here was by a serious young American IT specialist, on holiday from California with his buddy. As luck would have it, he was born in Bangkok and astonished to encounter Americans in Bali speaking his family's tongue. Speaking with him in turn helped us to get the Thai out of our systems.

Two wild and crazy guys on holiday. The fellow on the right is smoking a dangerously strong, but popular, flavored tobacco,  shisha, which he exhaled in vigorous clouds that engulfed his entire body. His Thai colleague (left) managed to keep a lid on him, but in return ragged him mercilessly by calling him Pakistani, which he was not. 

An early order of business, then, was learning a few useful Indonesian phrases.  They speak a good bit of English here, such as "toilet," the most indispensable phrase of all for afflicted travelers. But some very handy Indonesian phrases are those for "no"; "thank you"; "you're welcome"; "how are you"; "I'm well/very well indeed/ghastly"; "my/his/its/anything's name is ____"; "I like" (two entirely different phrases, applied to things like T-shirts or to food); "excuse me"; "pretty"; and the innocent-seeming "I'm full"--a potentially embarrassing phrase that can mean either "sated" or "erect." The phrase ti da, da rima kasi ("No, thank you"), spoken with a pleasant smile, is particularly effective against persistent street vendors. Their eyes widen, they smile back a little, then they quickly move on, no doubt thinking, "This person is no tourist. She must live here and have everything that she could possibly require." I can never, of course, honorably use this phrase with the beach vendor who taught it to me in the first place.

In our first lesson with Putu, she explained that her name, like others in Balinese, designates her birth order. "Putu" means that she is the firstborn daughter in her family. Then she quickly plunged us in over our heads, briskly jotting down the words for numbers 1 to 10 in script that looked like Elvish. She approved of our pronunciation, but eventually understood that the concept of how much anything cost, never mind the names of the numbers involved, would remain beyond us.

My beach vendor friend expanded our vocabulary further. Her name, she told us, was Ketut, which means fourth in line. That we have met so many Ketuts in the span of a week is a tribute to either unbounded fertility or total lack of effective birth control.  Gift shops apparently offer giant, penis-shaped bottle openers for good reason. It's an intriguing bit of linguistic irony that ketut in Thai means "oops!" We also learned that fifth-borns are named Wayan Balik or Putu Balik ("Wayan or Putu all over again"). It seems that, because four are about as many children as the language or good sense can comprehend, names after that are recycled. Bali thus has only four names and does not use family names tagged onto the end. As one might imagine, nicknames help differentiate all these Wayans and Ketuts. We often mistook a nearly identical bar coworker for Putu, much to the girl's chagrin. Her Javanese name is Ayu ("Beautiful"), and she probably doesn't much care to be confused with anyone who goes by a name determined only by birth order.

Ayu and us

Some of my gentlest language instruction has been at the hands of manicurists. And when indulging in an inexpensive Southeast Asian manicure/pedicure, I get the benefit of two native speakers at once, with whom I may practice without fear of ridicule. In Thailand, they quietly echo the words I use, many times, to me and to each other, as if to reinforce them. Bill had taught me "G.I. Thai" from the rural northeast, so one high-born Thai manicurist kindly corrected my use of the somewhat vulgar terms "man" and "woman" in place of the more formal "husband" and "wife."  I had, in effect, been referring to Bill as my man. This was okay with me but, she told me, would give the wrong impression in Thailand. Similarly, I had been using the Thai slang for "drink [beer, water, milk]," a looser phrase that equates with "eat [beer, water, milk]." One manicurist taught me the correct term for "drink," with which I later persisted in correcting Bill every time he used the sloppier terminology. In Bali, too, one's two manicurists will speak softly with you and each other, giggling sweetly from time to time. These calm oases are where I've learned other words, such as "color," "pink," "I like," and, of course, "beautiful," with which we all compliment one another lavishly.

In a local sushi restaurant we met a young man named Jack, rather than Ngurah, or No. 2, as befitted his birth order. Jack had spent a few years in Orlando, Florida, which gave us something in common, and while there, earned his nickname from a weakness for whiskey. He filled us in further about the complications of the Hindu-influenced caste system in Bali  One's caste, he claimed, can be immediately identified by one's name. He proudly announced that his caste is that of warrior, or leader, and mildly disparaged those of the lowest caste. In all, there are the highest, priestly caste (like Brahmans); the kings; the leaders or warriors, like Jack; tradespeople or farmers; and the lowliest.

All this quickly became too complex for us to deal with.

We have come to appreciate those with such simple names as Putu, Ketut, and Wayan. After all, we need remember only four of them.

Eat Pray Survive

Elizabeth Gilbert published her best-selling Eat Pray Love eight years ago. The "love" third of her year-long journey--following a four-month gourmand orgy in Italy and a four-month sweat-drenched meditation retreat in India--took place in Bali. According to Gilbert, Bali is a heavenly oasis of fantastical verdure, peace, and rural medicine men eager to tell your fortune and lead you to your heart's desire.

I now realize that the spot in Bali where she lived for four months was Ubud, an unspoiled, rice-paddied hillside paradise merely two hours away from the spot where we now sit, in Kuta.  Ubud seems to be eight years and a universe removed.

Because Gilbert made everything about Bali sound so damn easy and delightful, we were as unprepared for Kuta as we were for the Indonesian rupiah.  As a result, we are committed to staying here for three weeks, innocent as swans and slowly learning the ropes.

Picture the frenzied, thumping-neon zaniness of Pattaya, Thailand. Okay. Now, mix that all up with tattooed Aussie surfers (some of them wearing raw new tats swathed in Saran Wrap), bony late-middle-aged hippies with grey hair trailing down their leathery backs, and alleyways with haphazard sidewalk space that dwindles down to a footprint's width without notice, threatening to pitch you into the constant flow of traffic.

Shopkeepers here also have a disconcerting tendency to hurl water from their storefronts out into the street, just as pedestrians are passing by. And motorbikes bearing surfboards share a Zen-like right of way with each other and with those on foot. Store proprietors chortle when they see newbies startle and squeak at being brushed by such vehicles. The trick, I understand, is to walk with attitude, as if in the jungle, secure in the confidence that they wish to harm you no more than you wish to be harmed. Accidents are less frequent here than in Pattaya, after all.

This intrepid worker kept on mortaring a hole in the street, oblivious to motorbikes
brushing his shoulders. He no doubt believed the cone protected him well enough.

Kuta traffic jam, involving a jumble of motorbikes, a large truck (no longer visible), and a horse-drawn rickshaw.
Its stressed-out four-legged laborer relieved itself in the road, in which the two-legged laborer slid
about helplessly before moving on.  In case they needed it, a clinic wasn't far away.

Even the Kuta Post Office poses its own hazards. The local office is basically an open storefront with a chest-high counter where one steps up to make one's transactions. A large color poster on the wall warns you not to try mailing puppies or kittens. A single express-envelope mailing here costs $25 but is promised to arrive somewhat more quickly than the "maybe two weeks, maybe three weeks, maybe a month" time frame of normal mail. Mail deliveries arrive at the post office without warning, in great twine-wrapped plastic bales tossed with a loud thump off a passing motorbike, heedless of customers waiting at the counter. Here, too, attitude and trust are essential to one's safety.

This display, out front of the post office, is either a very blessed (note Hindu offering) pile of
packages en route to Australia or samples of how one's packages ought to be prepared. 

In Thailand are a wide variety of elaborately gilded, raised Buddhist shrines bearing such offerings as sandalwood incense, garlands of yellow marigolds, bits of food, bright-red fruit drinks, and whiskey shots, all designed to bring good karma. Taxicabs there have marigold garlands dangling from their rearviews. Bar girls drape their establishments with offerings, to ensure rich bar fines. All these are lovely--and completely nonthreatening.

A particularly elaborate shrine outside the Hua Hin Railway Station

Simpler flower offerings for sale

But here in Bali, one must beware of the seemingly harmless canang sari, Hindu offerings in baskets fashioned of palm leaves, which hold white, red, yellow, and blue or green flowers representing the major Hindu deities. These small sacrifices often also include incense, bread, candies, fruit, the intoxicating stimulant betel nut, and tobacco--thus the occasional rolled smoke or cigarette butt makes an appearance amid the other goodies. These ephemeral gifts are, daily, swamped and washed away by the shopkeepers' hurled buckets of water. By day's end, every tilted walkway turns into a treacherously slippery slope strewn with broken offerings, and new offerings are put out each morning, to appease evil spirits and trip up the unwary once more.

Rats especially delight in the candies, if not also the smokes and betel nut. They are probably higher than kites. On my first night here, I was greeted by one careless rodent who had been flattened in the road like Wile E. Coyote hitting a canyon wall. Later, I encountered more hyperactive cousins of his, skittering down the sidewalk into ragged cracks, then peeking out at me, whiskers twitching impishly.

After you spend a while there, with eyes wide open, every place on earth will show you its own charm.

"I could live here!" I exclaim, every time.