Healing again

Dear sisters,

Back from our summer traveling, I have been catching up on healing, as if my life depended on it, and, if I am to believe one or two of the healers I have seen, maybe it does.

The massage from God.

I have so far, had two efficient 30-minute massages by
Ketut Arsana, who is the man of the Bodyworks emporium. You always have to book ahead. The massage involves waiting, until the short, long-bearded man with sparkly eyes, arrives, to lead you past the chained upside-down bat, past the fish, past the herb boxes, under the beaded curtains, up the stairs and more stairs, to the roof where you are led into his little room of dark timber, with bookcases full of books, and a single massage table. He gestures, without talking, for you to undress, completely, and so you step, in glorious nakedness, with hardly a modesty sheet, onto the table, and then he begins. No faffing around with introductory strokes. It is different for everyone, but with me it involved Ketut walking over my back a lot. Now, this is a good massage.

Aryuvedic consult with Uma.

I am a mixed body type: Vahta, Pitta, and Kahpa, ratio 1:2:3, but mostly at this time I need to balance Vahta. This means breathing exercises at dawn, lots of swimming in cool water and no strenuous yoga in the afternoons. Resting between 2 and 6 and a daily massage if possible. No dairy or spicy foods, no tomatoes or bananas. I am to avoid too much travel, any kind of stimulation or sensory overload. That will have to be after Burning man, then.

Also some energy work is suggested, as I have suspected blockages behind the heart.

Pak Man

Pak Man lives in my street. It is the second house up the path, past the laundry. Behind the walls a garden lies, with twinkling wind chimes and bird-filled cages in the trees. You sit cross-legged on the patio and make small talk with Pak Man’s english speaking female partner, who translates, as Pak man closes his eyes, chain-smoking, now and then flicking his long grey ponytail with the back of his hand, muttering a question or advice when it comes up.

We speak of the body being a car, driven by the mind. If the car crashes, it is not the car’s fault.

Pak Man at some point stands up and walks around his garden, hacks off a coconut with a big knife, walks inside, closes the glass doors, and then, brusquely, the curtains. After a long while, small talk is really done by now, I am invited inside.

Pak Man gives me the most painful massage I have ever had, cracks and clicks every bone in my body including the bones on the top of my hands and my feet, and then finally makes me eat two flowers followed by a glass of young coconut juice and then another glass of what seems like water with glycerin floating on top. “Pak Man medicine” his partner explains, with no intention of revealing the ingredients.

She continues to translate, after she lights another cigarette of her own, blowing fresh smoke into the air: "Right, so, ..Pak Man says you are not doing well"

My pancreas is blocked, there is salt in my kidneys and the root of the cancer has not gone. But! Do not despair, she says; "Pak Man can work on it."

He could not open everything in my body during this session, as it was still too painful for me, but I could return. In the meantime I should drink young coconut juice every day and have a good time.

When all else fails: eye-lash extension

I drove down to Seminyak and lay on a reclining chair, listening to French chansons for ninety minutes, while a sweet girl took great care to stick hair extensions onto each one of my measly eyelashes.

So far, but I am still processing all the information, I have recognized the need for many massages and am considering the daily coconut juice. I have also gracefully accepted the compliments for my eyes, although showering with goggles is a nuisance.

I leave for San Francisco and Burning Man tonight. When we return, I intend to go to one or two of the energy healers in and around Ubud and the recommended Chinese acupuncturist in the South. Just to get them all in before we go.

S3, I see you on this sweet island, when I return.
If you travel safe, so will I.

S1

A story about an offer puppy

Dear sisters,


Someone from school, let's call him Jim, was taking his three children to school by car, their driver behind the wheel, when they drove through a village and had to slow down for a group of puppies frolicking (nice word) in the road.

Balinese dogs excel at moving out of the way at the very, very last moment, and Balinese puppies learn early, so when the driver accelerated, the puppies scattered and jumped to safety just in time, as they had been taught. All except one. One of the puppies stumbled over his own feet and was hit by the car.

Understandably, the three children in the back seat were upset and Jim only managed to calm them down by promising to come back for the puppy after they had been taken to school, and make sure it received proper treatment.

Jim, true to his word, returned to the village with his driver, where they found the puppy lying injured in a yard. Jim watched as the driver negotiated with the villagers, who were apparently protesting, but he came back with the wounded puppy. They drove the puppy to a vet, who determined the dog had a broken leg, which could be treated. Jim would have to pay 200.000 Rhupia ($20)for the treatment, which he said was not a problem.

"Ah but this is a perfect offer dog."

Jim looked at the vet.

Not knowing that puppies were offered, he asked

" What makes this puppy the perfect offer dog? "

"The coloring; brown with black markings make it ideal for the offering."

So, basically, if Jim intended on returning the dog to where he found it, the vet would not treat the dog, as it would more than likely be offered soon anyway.

Jim suggested keeping the dog himself, then.

It was the driver's turn to become upset. He had solemnly promised to return the dog to the villagers.

The vet added that, by the way, if he kept the puppy, there was a good chance it would soon be stolen, as a good offer puppy can fetch as much as 1.3 million Rhupia ($130) on the market.

It was a happy ending for this puppy. They went back to the village and paid a price- the story does not say how much - puppy's leg was fixed and puppy was adopted by a loving expat family in Sanur, who live behind walls and have security to prevent abduction.

We asked Nyoman about the puppy offering business, Yes, he said, puppies are offered to appease the demons. They are used in cleansing ceremonies. He was skeptical about the price quoted above for such a puppy, however.

We asked how many puppies his village offered each year, just to get a feel for this practice. Not each year, he said, only one every three years.

S1

Namaha

Dear sisters,

You may have got the idea we are not doing much on this island except traveling and relaxing, but we are also working. My husband and I, at this midlife stage of our life, are both working at becoming nicer people for the second half, and hope to show you the results at Christmas.

We are not flaying our arms around blindly in this attempt, hoping it will just happen by saying it out loud. We are also looking to others who have done and thought about it longer than we have. What does it take?

The Balinese for example – I do not know how they keep it up – but they show no signs of road rage in traffic that begs for it. They toot modestly when they wish to pass a motorcyclist, carrying the full content of house and family, and wait patiently when cars and coaches are backing up in the middle of the street. I did not believe it was really true, so I have been watching Nyoman closely, our patient driver, as these daily events occur, hoping to catch him at an outward sign of annoyance. I have caught him once at a cluck under the tongue, when two big hairy Australians refused to back up on a dirt road, and a nervous chuckle when a woman on motorcycle swerved in front of the car, because she was talking on her mobile phone. He laughed and waved at her, after she turned to smile at him apologetically and they went on their way, none the worse for the incident.

Allard has been impressed by this Swami guy, Swami Vagishananda, affectionately known as Swamiji, who for some reason has a large following of tall Swedish men. He lived in seclusion for a long time and has had time to ponder. Now making up for lost time he has been described as "an ever-flowing, sparkling waterfall of Mother Sruti's sacred words."

Central and essential to his teaching are mantras you have to repeat many times, until they are engrained in your person. I think it takes years of chanting. That is a lot, for which you certainly need a prayer bead necklace with a tassle to count your mantras as you say them, by itself a wonderful accessory in Ubud.




All this is retold from a second hand telling, of course, so I am not taking responsibility for accuracy. I haven’t seen Swamiji in person (apparently women are not as keen on him as men) and have yet to be seduced by mantras, but for the time being, the three guidelines for happiness that Allard brought home with him, are being repeated in our household.

The solution for happiness, as I understand from Allard’s recap is this:

1) do not try and change anyone (which means do not give unsolicited advice):
2) do not communicate in an emotional state
3) give all the rest away to Shiva, “let it go” – “namaha”.

So, the message to you sisters is; if you want to my advice from now on, you will have to ask for it. That is a good start, don’t you think?

The second one is a very good one for my marriage, assuming emotional state includes the state one is in after two bottles of wine. I now have credible back-up from Ji.

The third one is the most difficult. I am trying, with my chemically induced hormonal imbalance, to not let my nerves fray and my voice rise inverse proportionally – yes, even in Paradise - as my son lets me call his name five times as I stand beside him, before acknowledging my presence, or my daughter for running off to her room, throwing herself dramatically onto the bed and weeping for the smallest thing that does not suit her, or the internet for throwing me out at a crucial moment in the reservation process, or indeed my sloppy chakaranga’s in my yoga class this morning.

“Namaha”, we keep saying to each other, -“give it away to Shiva's thick blue neck. She can take it."

I am not sure it is engrained yet. We may need some more guidance. I think a meditation course is coming up. We have only four more months to look around before we return to the real world. Time just floats away here.

If you find me boring when I return, please give it to Shiva.

Three-day-tour to the Red centre

Dear sisters,

Gavin, our tour guide/driver/cook was a long legged, big-eared man from New Zealand. In a former life he toured Japan performing slapstick comedy, so if he needed to, he could grab our attention by setting fire to his head. He possessed a black belt in karate, but practiced non-violence as far as possible, since he knew how to kill a man with one blow.




Gavin would let one or two of the group, in turn, sit up at front of the bus, to experience the front seat view, and when he did, he talked animatedly, looking often at his conversation partners as he drove, lifting his hands off the wheel to underline a point. Nevertheless, we had full trust in Gavin, all twenty-three of us seated in the back of the bus, as we sped along the Stuart Highway.

Gavin entertained us with stories of former tour participants, like the lady who came all the way to the desert, but did not dare leave the bus because she was so afraid of snakes and insects, and then she was the one to find an ants' nest in her sleeping bag. Or the wealthy Swiss gay couple with huge suitcases, that got so fed up with sleeping in a tent, they offered to put the whole group in a hotel for the night.

We all laughed along with Gavin, who sniggered more than he laughed, but secretly we were quite happy we were there in wintertime, when ten of the twelve deadliest species of snakes in the world, coincidentally all living in the Red Centre, were hibernating, or so Gavin assured us. Keeping all our clothes on against the cold at night seemed preferable to shaking our sleeping bags out for insects and reptiles.

Gavin made us get up at 5.30 in the morning to walk the Valley of the Winds or Heart Attack hill at Kings Canyon. He let us touch “the Rock” but would not make a detour for a cup of good coffee. We slept under the stars at Gavin’s insistence. Gavin told us he tried to set fire to his house when he was five.



Back in Alice Springs , one of the thirty-five taxi drivers in Alice Springs told us to make sure to ring on time if we wanted a taxi around two ‘clock in the afternoon, because that was when the liquor store – 'the Thirsty Camel drive-through' for example, – opened for the day, and it was then they were at their busiest.

Another taxi driver told us that there were only 47 people in Alice that had lived there for more than 20 years and he was one of them. This is not hard to understand.



The Alice Motor Inn, however, has been voted best accommodation so far by the children. We think it was has to do with jumping space.



Now just landed in Queensland. Will keep you posted, but the Rendez Vous resort in Port Douglas could be a new contender for the top spot, if it is up to Jip.
Love S1

How do you like your crocodile meat?

Dear sisters,

Random writing as I sit on the Ghan train from Darwin to Alice Springs.

I am very happy to be here for various reasons of chaos and confusion. We have, by now, made so many mini-trips, and consequently repacked our bags to store one half of our luggage and take just a few overnight bags, and then returned, preferring to keep the dirty washing together, that any order or searchability has long gone.

So far I know I have lost one blue hat from Panama (taxi) and my sunglasses twice, but the glasses turned up at in both cases, just lost long enough for a good morning of anxiety. I haven’t seen my Bali phone in a while, which is gnawing at me.

We returned late from our three day trip to Kakadu park at the Top End of Australia and as my husband picked up the rest of the luggage we had left in storage, I managed with all the confusion of being thrown out of our bus with our mini-bags, which were half open and overflowing, to leave behind my husbands toiletries bag, which included his glasses and only pairs of contact lenses. He can’t see much without them.

The next morning we had to catch the Ghan train at 9 am and the office of the tour operator didn’t open until then. We still hadn’t eaten at 9.30 p.m. and the children were hyperactive, fighting for the top bunk. We were staying in a family room of a cheapish hotel on the outskirts of town, where the phone didn’t get connected unless you paid a deposit beforehand and you would be thrown out for drinking alcohol on the premises.

The end of the story is not as climatic as you might hope, and does not truly reflect the excitement of the evening. Emergency numbers were called on Skype (at least we managed to get onto the internet), Corona beer spilled on the shiny bedspread, Thai take-away eaten on saucers at 10.30 at night, which, we all agreed, was rather good.

In the morning we heard the bag had been found and could be picked up at 7. Allard jogged into town and arrived back, with no minutes to spare, to leave for the train station, where amazingly we were all there - in the reservations system.

So here we are.



The Australians in Kakadu park lived up to their Crocodile Dundee reputation, joking about American tourists, their wives and vegetarians.

Crocodile skewers, buffalo sausages and kangaroo steak, one of the other or a combination of all three was on the menu all nights. Both kids loved it.

In the morning, fluffy white bread, toasted, with jam or vegemite.

We stayed in permanent tents at Sandy Billabong campsite, a popular one, where, several years ago, a German backpacker was eaten by a crocodile, after she and a few others decided to take a midnight dip.

Bump, bump. Bump we went down the sandy road in our four wheel drive, “Thrill me” written on the side in big green letters, bump bump, bump, before finally arriving at the parking place to join the forty other four wheel drive adventure tour buses, promising a unique and exciting adventure at the Top End.





The land and sights made up for not being off the beaten 4 wheel drive path. Swimming at Jim Jim falls and Maguk Plunge pool, after clambering over rocks and boulders to get there, were my favorite. The idea that most of this land is covered by a few meters of water during the wet season is hard to comprehend.

We saw fat crocodiles in the wetlands.




On the way back to Darwin, we stopped at a roadside bar, where men with bushy white beards, wide brimmed hats, khaki shirts, khaki hot pants and big booted hairy legs, leaned casually against the bar.

Real men. We saw them too. Alas, no photographic evidence.



Now to Alice Springs, where it can get down to freezing point at night. More kangaroo steak awaits us.

S3, I will be scouring the desert for ice cream stands.

Love S1

Czech Italy

Greetings from Moravia, the eastern part of Czech Republic. They say it is the czech Italy here and apart from the language difference and a few details here and there i can't really disagree. We had a very nice and cheap holiday here for five days , cycling around beautiful palaces , nature reserves and vinyards. We swam in lovely lakes surrounded by thick green trees and we ate lots of delicious food. What more could one wish for ? Icecream , yes. And now let me introduce you to one of my favourite czech words : Zmrzlina! What a wonderful word .





The presentation could have been a little more polished but simple is good and the message was clear .
We actually didn't get our icecreams here but around the corner where there was a little patio in the cool shade of trees. It looked much nicer but this one i found very impressive for some reason. I have decided to photograph icream parlour's around the world as my next theme. Dear sisters, would you like to join me on this mission ? Please photograph any icecream palaces you come across on your travels at home or abroad. Thankyou !


It is officially summer holiday so let us take a dip in a fountain pool to celebrate .I Will post soon and take care where ever you all are !



Love , S3

Saigon and beyond

Dear sisters,

Ho Chi Minh today is not the city I visited 17 years ago (17 years!). I think I recognized one roundabout. There are new roads, glass towers and expensive shopping malls standing next to the roadside coffee shops, where people drink together, sitting on tiny plastic stools on the pavement. Cyclists are hardly around anymore and the motorcycles have increased in numbers. The city seems to be booming, no longer hindered by the regime.




Obviously the same rules apply to crossing the road in Saigon as in Hanoi.

Wearing a helmet was made compulsory only a little while back. As a gesture, to avoid the fine, helmets are now worn in all shapes and sizes, which can be bought for less than two dollars on street corners. Safety does not seem to be the issue. The classic head covering helmet, ‘the electric rice cooker ‘as they call it here, is not in favour. The ears must be left free, so you can hear the beeping and honking of your fellow road users. Other than that, there are no limits. Helmets come in the shape of a sunhat, in the shape of a baseball cap or in the shape of a beetle. There are helmets with stripes, helmets with flowers or helmets with Winnie the Pooh. I got one with a stylish Burberry check running down the side. We also bought a bag full of mouth caps, worn against air pollution and the sun. We thought they might also protect against sandstorms in a desert at some point.




I liked the rows of ‘coffee with a hammock’ stalls on the side of the road, just after leaving the city, which allow weary travellers to drink a cup of the strong local coffee with condensed milk, and have a rest before they resume their travels.

In the bus: if Jip could keep the ice cube in his hand an ice cube until we got back to the hotel, he and his sister would be entitled to as much ice-cream as they could eat for the rest of their life. Rosie jumped up and down in her seat. Jip tried first by covering the ice cube with his hand to stop the heat getting to it and then holding it up to the blower, but he quickly cottoned on to it being a losing battle and sat grinning on the back seat, with a slinking cube in his hand, as Rosie urged him to stop it melting.

After this road game got everyone loud and excited, “the-ten-minute-of-silence for an ice-cream the next day” worked well. Rosie even stayed silent for two more minutes than necessary just to be sure, which was nice for all of us.

As you can see, ice creams are being used as a useful parental tool on our trip.
Unfortunately for the children, they cannot claim the promised ice-cream a day for the rest of the trip, "if the Dutch win the World Cup", which fortunately for us means we still have leverage.

We called the emergency number of the Dutch Consulate to find out where the Dutch contingent in HCM would be watching the Final, but ended up watching it in the lobby of our hotel with the night watchman, his friend, the receptionist and a lonely hotel guest who had also ventured down in his pajamas, as our time was 1.30 am in the morning. We brought our children dressed in orange and watched with the Dutch commentary streaming live from our computer, lagging twenty seconds behind the action, which is a little sad when you think about it.

We are now on our way to Australia, having just returned from our mini-trip to Cambodia to see Angkor and its temples. For us a highlight of our sightseeing so far; for the children not so much. “How many temples do we have to see today ?” they asked each morning. Managing expectations (“Five before lunch”) and a swimming break after lunch made it workable for us all.



How many temples can you see? We asked ourselves this question after the first hot day. But of the nine we saw, each one had something new, which we were glad to see; centuries old roots of trees growing through and over the temples looking like enormous pythons, giant squids or alien webs, made for strange viewing.




Visiting out of season has its advantages. We were often on our own, with the ruins, butterflies and grasshoppers to ourselves. Not to forget the girls and boys persistently trying to sell us bracelets, silk scarf’s and flutes. Compared to the Vietnamese, Cambodians have a good grasp of English we found.

We are now preparing ourselves for a change of scenery, diet and budget. It will be a shock to eat and drink for more than 20 USD with the four of us. No more Pho for a while and no more ice cold Tiger beer at lunch time.

On the other hand, I am looking forward to being able to understand our tour guides.

Ciao,

S1