The Medicine of Bali

By Karen Horneffer-Ginter (PhD)
Published Saturday, 24 April 2010, viewed 510 times

I used to wonder, before going to Bali, what exactly had come over people who had visited there. Whenever I would talk to someone whose feet had touched Balinese soil the similarity of their response was uncanny, even if their styles of expressing it differed. What I noticed after talking to numerous travelers to Bali ("TTB") was that there was always some change in the pace of their breathing as they'd begin to speak of their experience. Either there was a deepening of their inhalation, as if they were drawing something back into their body. Or there was a prolonged exhalation, sometimes even a sigh, as though they were letting go of something that stood between them and a magic they had once experienced.

TTB's seemed to pause before speaking, and many made a gesture towards their heart. What struck me most in these conversations was the presence of tears in their eyes, and not just among my women friends. One evening when my husband was hosting a poker game, a man came upstairs to take a cigar break. Before going outside he paused and turned to me with wet eyes,

"You're going to Bali. I just remember weeping for hours looking out the taxi window as we rode across the island. Most beautiful place I've ever seen… Most beautiful place I've ever seen."

Over the years of hearing these stories, I found myself picking up this Balinese- affect, realizing that the TTB's enthusiasm was contagious. I was not alone in this, because I also heard inspiring stories from people who had never been to Bali, but had heard the stories of those who had.

"There is no word for artist there, because in Bali, everyone is considered an artist."

"They leave offerings of flowers on all the street corners. Can you imagine?"

"No one steals stuff."

"They see children as being holy, and they don't even let their feet touch the ground until they turn one."

"When you go there you can stick a straw into a coconut and just drink it!"

So now, having returned from Bali, I have taken on all of the mannerisms of those who have gone before me: the breath, the tears, the heart-gestures. I also have pictures (490 in all) that go with my stories, as well as an awareness that these observations are both true, and tainted with the bias of someone who has gone somewhere and tasted something that she was and is deeply hungry for.

Bali holds the antidote, the medicine, to much of what is missing in our culture. What we lack, they've got. And what we've got way too much of, they refreshingly lack. I don't mean to overly romanticize their culture, or to dismiss the limitations and sufferings that exist, but there is so much we can learn from the Balinese, it's hard to not focus on these aspects of their culture.

Typically the first words out of my mouth in describing my visit are, "They don't rush there. It's just wild to see people not rushing." And then I'll go on to explain, "And they don't seem over-intellectualized. It's as though the center of their body is somewhere between their heart and their gut. They are close to the earth, and they all smile these warm, radiant smiles. They are so generous in how they greet others that their lack of fear is palpable. It's like they don't worry. " I commented to a Balinese Hindu priest how people in our country tend to pray and then worry, but people in their country seem to just pray. "It's like they really believe in it."

I realize that my fascination with their lack of rushing and worrying is based on my own life story. My mind knows how to worry and my body knows how to rush with impeccable skill and familiarity. I would say that I was born with these abilities, but I know that technically that really isn't possible. Maybe it's fairer to say that somewhere between my first breath and the time I graduated from elementary school, these ways of being had become second-nature. I could perform them with the ease of a rodeo cowboy spinning his lasso in all directions, and with the automatic reflex of a cook flipping dozens of burgers on a grill. My successes at speed were rewarded from a young age: setting records in the 50-yard dash, and bringing home certificates which boasted of how many times I could jump rope in 10 minutes. I excelled at speed reading, and quickly learned that the faster I got homework done, well, the faster it got done.

Even into graduate school, I'd watch my advisor, known for his peculiar adeptness at speed-walking, as he'd dart across campus from meeting to research office, somehow never spilling a drop of coffee from his mug. I recall munching on chocolate-covered espresso beans to help me enter dissertation data faster; an approach which worked wonderfully until someone would walk into the computer lab and startle me to the point that I'd jumped out of my chair.

Along with my track record in rushing, I also excelled in worrying. Somehow, at a young age, worry and prayer and thought became intermingled acts, and I noticed that the more I cared about something, and thus worried about it, the more likely it seemed to work out. Over time, an "IF - THEN" equation became formulated in my mind and for years it seemed too risky to test out other truths ("IF not worry.. THEN ?")

Even with the improvements I've made, I found myself feeling like a rusher in Bali in contrast to the pace of life that seemed natural to these people. Our first night out to dinner, as we were finishing our desserts, my husband asked for the check. Our waiter paused and turned to us with a puzzled look on his face, "Why you in such a hurry?"

My first thought was, "Because, sir, this is what my people do." But instead of speaking these words, I just shrugged my shoulders and half motioned to our children as though they were the root cause.

Granted, slowness is not always a convenient thing. One morning, my husband came back from an internet café groaning about how his attempt to print out an email had been stalled by over 10 minutes as the owner attempted to single space and shrink the font size of the text so that the printed email would only require one sheet of paper. As a U.S. friend who owned a business in Bali explained, "To them, paper or any material resource is more valuable than time. Remember, you are in a culture where artists spend 2 weeks finishing the details in one corner of a painting. And believe me this isn't always an easy trait to work with in the business world!"

All the same, I was enchanted by their ease with time and became adamant in my desire to protect it. As we were leaving the island, driving on a main road to the airport, we passed a billboard for McDonald's. It read, "Buru Buru?" and showed a picture of a cheeseburger. I felt the violation of our country even at the presence of the restaurant, but then I made the mistake of asking our taxi driver, "What does buru buru mean?"

"Ahh, he said, it means, 'In a hurry?'

I screamed, "NO!" so loudly that I startled him. "Don't let them take over your land. No buru buru… resist the buru buru!"

I had let out a similar scream days before during a Balinese painting class that we had arranged for our children. The instructor had arrived in his traditional clothing, carrying a backpack that contained canvases, acrylic paints, a block of Chinese ink to be diluted in water, and paint brushes of various shapes and sizes. All was well until I looked closely at the pencil he was sharpening with a knife, and noticed it had tiny yellow sponges on it.

"It's Sponge Bob!" the kids roared with enthusiasm. "They have Sponge Bob here too!"

All I could think of, as I yelped, was "I'm so sorry. To all of the Balinese people, I'm so sorry that this is what we have to offer you."

There is an expression that describes how the Balinese "treat their children like gods, and their gods like children." I had the first taste of the former as we arrived in the airport and were immediately pulled aside when our children were spotted. I assumed I was being flagged over to be reprimanded for being in the way, or carrying a bottle filled with more than 3 oz. of water, or somehow not doing something with myself or my luggage or my children that I should have been doing. But I soon realized that this was just my conditioning from U.S. airports. Here, we were being escorted in front of hundreds of people in line to get our visas. It would be unthinkable in their country to make children wait that long. As we followed the airport employee and my children began to squabble, I discovered my new approach to disciplining them: "Would you act holy?!"

I never knew it could be an advantage to travel with kids, but here the people we passed would smile at them, and smile at us, as though they were pleased by our existence. When we went to a restaurant, my daughter's chair was immediately pulled out and her napkin thoughtfully placed on her lap. I couldn't help but wonder, as a psychologist, how this must strengthen children's self-esteem. How it might foster in these children a sense of respect for others in having received such degrees of respect from a young age. Of course, I guess there are down sides to everything. As one of my friends pointed out, "Well that would be cool to be treated like you're holy when you're a kid, but then it would kind of suck to grow up and become sort of unholy."

"Right, unlike in our culture…," I had added with a chuckle.

During my stay in Bali, I also came to understand how the Balinese treat their Gods like children by offering them frequent attention throughout the day. Spirit is invited into all aspects of their day-to-day life. As a Balinese man explained to me, "Really, what we believe, is that there is one God, but that this God has many forms that serve to create, sustain, dissolve, and protect every aspect of our lives."

On the day we arrived, we noticed decorations and wreath-like objects on all the cars and motorcycles. "Today is the day in which we honor all metal objects. Giving thanks for what they offer us, and praying for their protection and blessing."

Soon after, we passed shrines honoring the rice goddess. "Oh yes, every rice field has a shrine where offerings of flowers and incense are brought daily." We saw images of monkey gods and beautiful female gods, as well as statues of fierce monsters created to protect the entrances to buildings. I was struck by how much more colorful and playful and, in many ways, accessible their images of God seemed in contrast to the image of God I had grown up with, as a white bearded man floating in heaven.

I read that the purpose of Balinese celebrations is "to invite the Gods down to earth so they can be entertained and pampered by as many displays of devotion and gratitude as the community can afford." Underlying this is the sense that "religion should be an enjoyable thing," and that there should be an abundance of delight for the Gods with enough left over for the people. Along with this lavishness, however, there is also a value placed on not being too greedy in one's desires or prayers. This is reflected in the traditional sash, which is tied around the waist before entering any temple in order to "contain the appetites." When I was there, I couldn't help but fantasize about such a wardrobe accessory being required for CEO's.

While humans would wrap themselves with these sashes, many of the temples and statues were wrapped with a black and white checked fabric, which serves as a reminder that the dark and the light are contained in all things. The Balinese view the world with a dualistic lens, believing that it is the role of humans to bring harmony between the two forces that other traditions might call "ying" and "yang". One gesture towards sustaining this harmony can be seen in the offerings of palm leaves and flowers placed around the villages. As someone explained to me, "For every offering left for the spirits, there is always an offering left for the demons. The offerings for the spirits are placed on elevated surfaces and hold the prayers for blessing, protection, and thanks. The offerings to the demons are placed on the ground, in hopes of appeasing them and requesting that they don't overtake things. Ahh," she added, "but only the spirits get Ritz crackers in their offerings!"

Possibly it is the Balinese' acceptance of all aspects of life that allows them to co-exist so contently with the animals and nature surrounding them. It was wild to watch how taxis and motorbikes and dogs and hens use the same roads. How ducks and cats walk through public places without causing much stir. Even in my experience of using their outdoor toilets and showers, I realized how differently they hold the division between inside and outside, between human life and other forms of life. I thought of this when I returned home to a collection of ants who had found their way into our house. As a sighed and planned my trip to the hardware store for ant traps, I knew that the Balinese would have a different approach.

What was especially notable to me in talking with the Balinese people is that everyone seemed to believe in the same ideas. There was a tremendous honoring and pride in their culture, their religion, and their ways of being. There was also a notable lack of rebelliousness in any form, including graffiti or destruction of public property. Here, there is a strong sense of connection to one's family and village. This tie is seen in how people's names reflect their birth order, connecting their individual identity to their place in the family.

One day, as we were walking through a village, I saw a group of strong, healthy men cutting out decorations and making what looked to be paper chains, like my children had done in early elementary school. Our guide explained, "There is a wedding in the village this weekend, and so everyone is helping out. These men are making the decorations for the bride."

"Wow," was the only response that came to mind, as I tried to imagine my husband and his friends spending the afternoon with scissors, glue, and colorful strips of paper. Maybe this is what happens when there isn't easy access to televised sports.

Among my various questions, I asked our guide, "How would someone say, 'I'm bored' in your language?" In part, I asked this because it is a somewhat common complaint among my children, and it struck me as ironic that the children in Bali always seemed engaged in something even though I never saw them playing with action figures or video games, or any type of store-bought toy for that matter. After taking about 2 minutes to think about it, our guide explained that there really wasn't a word for bored. "Maybe we would use our word for agitated or unhappy."

"Don't people here ever get bored?" I interrupted.

"No," the man answered, "There is no reason to get bored because there are always people to talk to- always people in the village to go see." I understood, when I heard this, why an Australian living in Bali had told me that the biggest difference in his life here was that he never felt lonely.

It became clear to me that the Balinese would probably have a hard time understanding the popularity of Western books that speak to our deep need for finding a sense of meaning and belonging. As I was recently flipping through one of these books, Thomas Moore's "Care of the Soul," I thought of how Bali could serve as a case example of many of the qualities he names. In particular, their culture has a wonderful way of enlivening the senses. There is such attention paid to beauty there, with exquisitely simple arrangements of flowers tucked in unexpected places such as bathrooms and hallway shelves. There were flower petals carefully laid on the steps of restaurants, along with the scents of fresh oils, local coffee and cocoa, and the sounds of traditional music almost everywhere. The whole experience was a bit hypnotic.

I must be honest, however, that when I hold my chest and sigh, eliciting in others the curiosity I once had about TTB's, my mind often goes to the facial I received while I was there. I'll never forget the kind woman who rubbed warm honey on my face, followed by a papaya juice concoction, and then locally made yogurt. She had then returned with more warm honey, followed by a grand finale of about 40 thinly sliced, chilled cucumbers lined up from my forehead to the bottom of my neck.

"I love you," I had tried to say, "Please come home with me," but it was hard to get the words out as my lips were being covered with cucumbers.

I tell this part of my story with a groan of longing, and sometimes a pause or two to find just the right descriptive words. It was my good fortune that on one occasion a friend pointed out to me, "You know, we have cucumbers here. We even have honey. Skip the yogurt, 'cause that sounds kind of gross, but my point is, you could do this on your own. You could re-create this here."

"Hhhmm…" I thought, realizing she was right about the ingredients of my facial, and that there was a truth in what she was saying that might be applied to much of what I had experienced in Bali.

So I've been trying to re-create this magic, little by little, here at home. I've been placing thinly sliced cucumbers, at least on a salad for starters. I've been making other efforts too: giving thanks as I place fresh flowers in a vase, and reflecting, more creatively, on all of the forms that Spirit takes. I've tried to be more generous, to smile more at strangers and to kill fewer ants. I've also been worrying less and slowing down more. In moments, I've even started to offer crackers of acceptance to these tendencies within me.

The showering outside I haven't yet tried, which I think is just as well with my neighbors. But I am attempting to treat my children with more respect, hoping that they can feel as special as they were made to feel when they were in Bali.

This, they especially like.

© Copyright 2010 Karen Horneffer-Ginter
(Reprinted with permission from KarenHG.com)

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