A little bit about Bali

Monotonous noise at full blast – so many car horns almost rhythmic in their riotous sound. Dust was rising, potholes were everywhere, motorbikes were zooming down the streets, and whole families and their chickens were on the backs of mopeds. Cars dodging and weaving, music screeching from supermarkets, dogs barking, roosters rostering. This, coupled with the incredibly humid heat, was my first impression of Bali and, more precisely, Denpasar, a shock to the senses. The sheer volume of stimuli was overwhelming, a sensory overload that I had not anticipated. Looking through brochures of beautiful rice fields glistening in the morning sun and peaceful temples for years had somewhat impaired my vision of the reality that initially hit me.

Waiting outside the airport for my lift, I spotted a man holding a piece of cardboard with my name on it. His smile was wide, and he looked kind. I ran over; I must have looked anxious; he said, “Do not worry, this is Denpasar, not Bali; get in the taxi; my name is Wayne”. On closer inspection, Wayne looked like Tom Selleck from that 1980 TV show Magnum PI – tall and handsome with a thick dark moustache wearing a bold Hawaiian shirt. Off we sped to Ubud, Bali’s cultural centre, and the Villa Kita. 
When I arrived in Ubud an hour later, my heart rate was much better, and my body relaxed. But, alas, my hair had doubled in size with the mugginess of high levels of water vapour in the air that unfortunately followed me around for the next three weeks – I didn’t bother unpacking my hairdryer.
A couple of days passed, which I spent walking in the village, stopping to smell the roses or, in this case, blooming bright pink bougainvillaea flowers trailing down walls, other exotic-looking plants bursting through gaps in fences, jungle vines, and frangipanis. People of all ages would smile as I walked, their warm gestures making me feel like a part of their community, some becoming familiar as my three weeks passed. My pace slowed; each step I took started to feel sacred as I stopped to look at flower petal offerings and temples on every street corner.

The village was entire of life, bursting with boutiques, spas and restaurants.
As the sun rises, a local market comes to life, opening around five in the morning. The air is filled with the hustle and bustle of sellers setting up their stalls, selling hot off-the-press vegetables, morning-caught fish, aromatic spices, freshly cut sweet-smelling flowers, and locally cooked foods to take home later. This early morning energy is palpable. Followed by the tourist market- a quick change of sellers and wares to appeal to sightseers with all kinds of souvenirs, from brightly coloured clothing to any size or shaped wooden penis that you might imagine. I bought two.

Ubud had that “doors always open” attitude. Everyone I spoke to was helpful, particularly Wayne and his family, who lived in the villa beside mine. One morning, I needed a doctor. Nothing serious, just an upset stomach. Wayne’s son Wayne put me on the back of his motorcycle and drove me to the surgery. Holding on to Wayne tightly, clenched knees and eyes firmly shut, I hoped for the best. 
Later that day, his mum and grandmother called to see me with food. We chatted, and suddenly I had been invited to their cousin’s wedding that weekend. Oh my goodness, I had not packed for a wedding; what would I wear! Nipping to the market the next day, I found and fell in love with a lovely dress that I knew would be perfect for the occasion.
The wedding day was hot and sticky, which wasn’t a surprise. My dress looked lovely; I was rather pleased—it was long and flowy with straps, so I would be cool. Upon arrival, Wayne handed me a very lacy blouse, a sarong, and a sash to wear over the top of my dress. The blouse was a traditional cabana that was to be worn over the sarong and tied with a sash. I didn’t match, but I didn’t care—I looked interesting and very colourful. 

Upon my arrival, I found the groom already there, chatting and socializing with the guests. The men, in their simple attire, were carrying knives, while the women, like me, were dressed in their fancy lace blouses and carrying smaller knives for cutting coconut leaves and other offerings. It was clear that the entire village was involved in the ceremony. The groom, a mix of excitement and nervousness, shared with me that his bride was expecting a baby, which was a surprise. He then added, with a hint of humor, “We like to try before we buy, just in case it doesn’t work. It’s normal here,” and then he laughed.
The bride, Sita, looked stunning and blushed as they locked eyes for the first time. There were so many rituals to watch. Guests came and went all day, arriving with sugar, coffee, fruits, and money offerings. I heard someone brought diamonds, too. 

All around the world, weddings are celebrated with joy. Couples make a promise to love each other forever. Bali’s history is steeped in culture and spirituality, and understanding the rituals and beliefs in three weeks and one wedding stretches the mind and heart. Even though I did not understand a word being said and some of the offerings confused me, I could see the love, and that’s all that mattered. However, I noticed that children are the same at any wedding – moving chairs, laughing, and being mischievous. 
For the remaining days, I did all the things you see in glossy brochures: visiting the awe-inspiring Hindu temples with their intricate carvings and the serene rice fields that stretched as far as the eye could see, dodging macaque monkeys in the forest, and, of course, eating delicious local food. I read a book or two back at the villa and meditated, trying to forget that I had to stop in Denpasar again on my way back. 

My Tips if you go to Bali:  Don’t bother taking a hairdryer and find the biggest bottle of mosquito repellent money can buy.