Bali – violence, mystic breeze, the miracle of the small man

Fazed out of a consistent journal, as bits and pieces come and go. I tend ro idealise the setting. As it’s luring you in. Promising a lot more than what I’ve experienced so far.
On one hand I feel like I’ve been cornered in the lower guts of this island zooming locally between energies that though fascinating, are somehow contriving a tarnished web. Hyper catchy, and sometimes deceivingly
confortable. I should risk more. Well, I actually did that over the last couple of days (scooty drove the craziest traffic back and forth between east and west of the lower island, and finally kite surfed) but not enough.
The adventure risk, yes, that’s what I’m missing, the good and the bad of it. The discovery of pure non-european/modern set-ups, the loss of control, like today when I nearly lost my keys to the bike while on the east side, with half my valuables inside the locked back seat. The desperation of “how do you manage to get out of it, while in the middle of unknown”. The edge of situations.
That reminds me:
Remember the story of my welcome party here (in Aa’s friend’s house)?, well, that feeling of perfect disconnect into it was not completely accurate. There was an edge, indeed. You remember that almost grotesque “pigull” (pig+seagull) sound at the exit of the scene there… well, THAT begins to reveal THE EDGE of life here, that tone: we were supposed to move on to another house party, at a friend of a friend of a friend, the chain of friendship flow so genuine, so welcoming, but as fluidly “stable” as every other hype around this modern-linese society of travellers. We couldn’t, however. The night had been CUT short by a machete attack (it would seem) on our house of choice. So there’s this flavour. Don’t try to mock too much around, or slam out your “civilised” arrogance or it may end up ugly. Aa had a couple of similar stories and there were also some hints in the guide book about how not to accuse someone of steeling or gross misdemeanor in public (especially on Lombok) unless you’re trully up for what can happen to the wrongdoer. Crowd/public justice on the spot is not uncommon here.

Enough warnings.
This is not what I came across. My life here has been protected for now. These girls lock everything up every night. They must know better.
We may move to a villa in the hills/mountain(?) tomorrow. I expect a recalibration of spirits and a re-edit of the night I had with MC in Pitesti. But asian way this time, tropical forest style.

Tomo (30th Dec) I’m venturing out to Ubud, the spiritual side of this life, north side of Bali. And if the wind is down in Sanur then I don’t go kiting, but explore the area around the Agung mountain a bit more.


Early eves in Canggu, a memory of my first beach day in Bali –
while coming back from the Batu Bolong sands riding behind Crina I squint my eyes in the windflow. Sunsetting curtains of air thin out into the light. Rice terraces may be building a warm intuition deep beneath the surf of our minds and as we run our gaze back to the sea they suddenly rollover into our eyes in waves of green. Glinters of shredded water lines. We slide weaving the road on. Mystifying white-grays over the horizon. Clouds of burnt crops paint an eerie evanescent drape into the slanting sun rays.

The real life which you abhore in the commercial centre “Europa” (dodgy en-gross/en-detail centre on the outskirts of Bucharest) but you… ok, I find so veritable here. I stumbled on a piece of reality that I was fascinated about when watching Jia Zhang-ke’s “Platform” (for the reasons shown in this post – down from the paragraph “a message to a sino afficionado” ) . Yesterday I was waiting in the back alley of a restaurant/shopping/repair-shop/laundry/tourism-agency centre for the money changer to show up. Had spotted the much nicer looking board out in the street with the best exchange rate in town. Lured me in. And back here I came across a boy and a couple of ladies family washing out stuff for customers. The teenager had an inexorable sad, almost absent submission to the petty life of a laundry labeller. There was a note of silent rebelling in his demure though – he took a slow almost non participatory aproach to it. Meticulously stacked up all labels taking long minutes to do it, then pulled out a plastic wire punch gun and again slowly stabbed each dress, pajama, knickers with it as if making sure the plastic hook was deadly stuck in the jugular of each item forever cealing its faith. He barely wasted a look on me, I was filming (dscretely)… “who cares!” was spelled out all over his sluggish hunch. Meanwhile a radio was casting out laid-back 80s type chinese songs somewhere lost in the track of afternoon sunny time.

Caged birds hung from the roof ledge. Stopped singing in the face of discarded beauty. Life goes on in careless disonant rainbows sometimes. În mozaic de sfinte sparte. Sacred gods all around us.


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