Unexpected Offerings On A Return To Bali

by Don George on

Last month, I spent a week on the Indonesian island of Bali as a guest of the Ubud Writers & Readers Festival. This was my first visit to that blessed place since I’d fallen in love with it 34 years ago.

Like me, the island had lost some of its innocence in the intervening years. Unlike my earlier trip, when the Balinese I met had simply welcomed me with wide eyes and hearts, this time most immediately asked me if I’d been there before. When I answered, “Yes, 34 years ago,” their eyes opened wide for a different reason and they smiled and shook their heads. “Oh, Bali has changed much since then!” they’d laugh, though many of them couldn’t say exactly how because they hadn’t even been born 34 years before.

Of course, to my eyes too, Bali had changed. The streets were much busier, clogged with trucks and motor scooters, than I remembered, and the towns were more built up; the road from Denpasar to Ubud was lined with many more buildings and fewer rice paddies than I recalled.

But in a deeper sense, the spirit of the place seemed hardly changed at all. During a few free days of wandering, I passed a number of festival processions flowing through the streets. Every day I was enchanted as I had been three decades before by the sweet, simple canangsari offerings – hand-sized compositions of colorful flowers on green coconut leaves, some graced with a cracker – that were meticulously placed outside my door and on bustling sidewalks, off-the-beaten-path foot trails, temple thresholds and business entrances alike. And while I realize I know nothing about the difficulties of being Balinese – the need to scrupulously follow rigorous traditions, for example, or the unpredictabilities of relying on a tourism economy – the people I met exuded a gentleness, tranquility, contentment and sense of sanctity in the everyday that was as exemplary, expanding and restorative for me as it was 34 years before.

But it wasn’t until my last day in Ubud that Bali’s soul-binding offerings really came to life for me.

%Gallery-171375%I began the day with a mini-pilgrimage to a paradisiacal place I had visited earlier in my stay. I had been introduced to it by a local expat named Liza who had taken my all-day writing workshop. During the workshop lunch break, she had described a beatific organic restaurant perched among the rice paddies, a short walk from central Ubud. She kindly offered to take me there, and the following day we met at Tjamphuhan bridge, walked a few minutes uphill along Jalan Raya Campuhan, then turned left up a wide paved driveway. At the top of this driveway was a sign neatly hand-lettered: TO RICE FIELDS SARI ORGANIK.

After a few minutes following this narrow path, and frequently having to step aside for a seemingly endless succession of motor scooters, we entered what seemed an enchanted land of rice paddies, palm trees and, here and there, one-story “villas” with red tile roofs. As we threaded through the paddies on this narrow path, we passed a spa, an art gallery, a couple of “house for rent” signs-of-the-times and a fledgling neighborhood of new homes called Dragonfly Villas. After about 20 minutes, we came to a sign and a stone pathway that led to Sari Organik.

An open-to-the-breezes restaurant of some two-dozen tables blossoming in the middle of verdant rice paddies, Sari Organik has one of the most exquisite settings of any restaurant I’ve ever visited. We sat in this tranquil place sipping juice from fresh-cut coconuts, and as sunset slowly gilded the paddies, the centuries seemed to slip away.

I went back on my last day to pay homage to Sari Organik and to see if it could possibly be as magical in the harsh light of midday. Happily, it was equally lush and glorious and vibrant at noon, pulsing with the peaceful energy of the land around it. I savored an omelet of organic mushrooms, tomatoes and onions, fresh-squeezed orange juice and delicious strong coffee, and struck up a conversation with a smiling, energetic woman who turned out to be the restaurant’s extraordinary founder and owner, Nila, who told me that her goal is to help the local farmers grow a diversity of crops organically, so that they can preserve the environment and become economically self-sustaining. (You can read more about her amazing story here.)

After that serendipitous encounter, I walked back through the rice fields, feeling singularly content. I had gotten to do just about everything I had been hoping to do on Bali, I was thinking. There was just one exception – I hadn’t heard a gamelan orchestra. I’d caught snatches of gamelan music at a couple of different performances during the festival, but I hadn’t had that soul-transporting immersion in the music that I remembered vividly from my first trip to Indonesia.

Just as I was having these thoughts, approaching the end/beginning of the path, the sounds of a gamelan orchestra drifted on the air! I could hardly believe it – it was as if my thoughts had conjured those notes.

I reached the sign for Sari Organik. To my right was the wide, paved driveway that led to the main street, but then I noticed to my left a narrow, hard-packed dirt path that paralleled a rock wall twice my height. The sounds of the gamelan were coming from somewhere beyond that wall. The wall disappeared into a densely vegetated interior, with a couple of red-tiled roofs visible in the distance. I figured that if I followed the path, eventually it would lead to a break in the wall where I could enter and discover the source of the gamelan music. I wanted to see the orchestra with my own eyes.

So I set off down this winding path, following the sinuous curve of the wall and the music’s tantalizing rise and fall.

I startled two workers who were on their way to restore a magnificent old house set among the paddies on the other side of a stream that paralleled the trail. They laughed and welcomed me to the forest. A few minutes later, a lone and lanky Western woman with a backpack passed me and pressed on into the green. After 15 minutes of ambling, I came to a lush setting where palm trees, twining vines, giant ferns and slick bushes with propeller-like leaves tangled the air. Still there was no break in the wall, and the gamelan music was sounding fainter and fainter.

I stood in the shade of that jungly patch, puzzling over what to do, wondering if I would ever find the break in the wall, when suddenly it hit me: I had already found the break in the wall; it was in my mind. Listen! I didn’t need to see the orchestra – my wish had been to hear the gamelan. And there it was, all around me. What more did I want?

I walked back down the path and the sounds of the music swelled in the shadowed air. When I reached a point where it seemed loudest of all, I stopped and closed my eyes. Gongs, flutes and drums gonged and trilled and boomed in layered patterns, lapidary high notes skipped like diamonds across a pond, bong-gong-gong-booming low notes reverberated in my ribs, rising and falling and rising, staccato and slow, each note like a drop of water from heaven, submerging me in a pool of otherworldly harmony. Time stopped.

After a while – ten minutes? twenty? – the music ceased, and the forest echoed with its silence.

Then the harmonies flowed anew, and suddenly I felt released. It was time to move on; I had a taxi to catch, a plane to board.

I realized that all day I had been regretting my imminent departure, despairing at having to lose this blessed place. Now Ubud had answered that need, bestowing one last canangsari-lesson that would allow me to leave: I didn’t need to see the gamelan to hear its music, and I didn’t need to be in Bali to have Bali in me. It was already there, gonging and trilling and booming, rice paddy blooming, and it always would be.

[Photo Credits: Don George]

Thailand’s Naga Fireball Festival

by Catherine Bodry on

“Do you believe in the Naga?” the hotel receptionist asks me as I checked in to my room in Udon Thani, Thailand.

“I don’t know,” I reply. “I’ve never seen one. Do you?”

“Oh yes!” She says, and the clerk behind her nods as well.

Across Asia, the Naga is a mythical serpent-like creature. It plays a role as a snake in the Mahabarata, takes the form of a dragon in China, and in northern Thailand and Laos along the Mekong River, the Naga is a waterborne serpent that protects residents from danger.

Once a year along the Mekong, this Naga spits fireballs into the sky. The phenomenon always occurs at the end of Buddhist Lent, on the 11th full moon of the lunar calendar. In Thailand’s Nong Khai Province, festivities are full-on, with hundreds of thousands of spectators lining the river’s banks in front of temples. Nong Khai town is the most well known spot for festivities but sees the fewest fireballs – it’s best to head out of town to either Phon Phisai or Rattanawapi, 50 and 80 kilometers downriver from Nong Khai, respectively.

This year, I set up in front of Wat Tai in Phon Phisai. Last year 100,000 spectators watched for fireballs here, but only two were observed. I’m hopeful that the Naga won’t let me down this year.The heat and humidity were stifling under the darkening sky, and the acrid smoke from fireworks coated my skin. Bats flit about overhead while flies and other insects landed on my damp neck and arms. The Mekong rippled past, wide and silent and muddy, and the night sky was dotted with dozens of floating lanterns, their flames glowing like Shakespeare’s nights’ candles. Along the water, a long boat glided slowly by, only its twinkling lights visible. It looked like a bedazzled centipede crawling through the dark.

The crowd extended as far as I can see in the night. Across the river, Laos was comparatively dark and silent, with only the occasional roman candle going off.

About an hour and a half after sunset, a line of white-robed people marched from the temple behind me, making an offering to the river. Then, we waited. Surely the Naga wouldn’t disappoint this expectant audience? After about 20 minutes a yell waved across the crowd, and everyone jumped to their feet and looked downriver. I didn’t catch sight of that fireball, but after another ten minutes I did.

The fireballs shoot quickly and vertically from the river, so fast they’re halfway gone before I notice them. They are wispy and faint, like ghosts or wallflowers: something difficult to see, even when you’re looking right at it. In comparison, the floating lanterns are bright, leaden suns, floating large and lazily above the river. The fireballs disappear quickly, dissipating about 100 meters up into the dark. I saw four fireballs that night, but several more were sighted after I left.

For the nonbelievers, there are a couple of explanations for the fireballs (also called “Mekong lights”). One theory holds that methane gas trapped under the river bed finds just the right conditions this time of year, and is released and ignited upon surfacing. This theory doesn’t explain why it only happens on this particular full moon in presumably varying weather conditions throughout the years.

The other theory is that the lights are simply tracer fire shot up by the Lao across the river. While compelling, the Lao vehemently deny it, and it also does not explain how the lights are shot vertically from the center of the river. When a Thai television show “revealed” this theory, residents on either side of the Mekong rioted.

For the hundreds of thousands of spectators, the Naga has made its presence known.
To see the Naga fireballs yourself, head to Northeast Thailand. Flights and trains arrive in Udon Thani, about an hour from the town of Nong Khai. Once in Nong Khai, enjoy the festivities there or take a bus further out to Phon Phisai or Rattanawapi. By the time five fireballs were witnessed in Phon Phisai, this year, 100 had already been counted in Rattanawapi. Be sure to arrive early and stake out a riverside spot before sunset; the crowds are enormous.

[Photos: Catherine Bodry]

Finding The Best Ways To Drink Beaujolais Nouveau

by McLean Robbins on

It’s time to gulp down those Gamay grapes. In the United States, many wine drinkers turn up their nose at the annual festival of Beaujolais Nouveau, which started today. Under French law, this wine may not be released until 12:01 a.m. on the third Thursday of November, just a few weeks after harvest of the grapes.

Each year, “new” wines are raced from French towns and villages to Paris and other towns, where signs proclaiming that the wine has arrived are hung outside of restaurants and bars.

The grapes, grown in the aptly named Beaujolais region of France, are light, fruity and floral in flavor, producing an easily drinkable red wine that is served cool or cold (like white wine) and consumed frequently at holiday celebrations.

Due to the quick fermentation process, the wine is generally meant to be consumed within the year, is quite popular overseas – nearly half of the 70 million bottles produced are exported, mainly to countries like Japan, Germany and the United States.

Earlier this year, we traveled through the Beaujolais region, tasting many of the area’s wines, and were pleasantly surprised by the many varieties of wine and grapes grown in the area. Beaujolais Nouveau is a specific type of wine made from the Gamay grape, and, while famous, it’s not the only type of wine grown in the region. In particular, we fell for the Cote de Brouilly wines at Chateau de la Chaize, grown near Mount Brouilly, an elegant varietal that tastes fruit and flowers. Even better … we can get them at our local Total Wine.

Rather than recap our trip, we’ll let you know how you can plan your own journey – there’s an app for that. The Beaujolais wine region has gotten social with an app for Android and iPhone. The app walks interested parties through each of the region’s distinct wines, suggests cafes and restaurants for sipping, shows off special wine deals and events, as well as allows users to save their favorites. If you’d prefer a hard copy, the local tourism office has that too.

[Image Credit: McLean Robbins]

The New New Orleans: Finally, Louis Armstrong Plays Again

by Micheline Maynard on

North Rampart Street forms the western border of New Orleans‘ French Quarter. On one side, streets named St. Louis, St. Peter and Dumaine lead to picturesque homes, elegant restaurants and rowdy bars. On the other side of Rampart sits a park that’s been both feared and beloved by residents and visitors, avoided by some, a lifeline for others.

Louis Armstrong Park has been through a series of trials in the years since Hurricane Katrina. Named for one of the city’s most famous musical sons, the park that was supposed to be a tribute instead became something to avoid.

Although it houses a historic landmark, Congo Square, where slaves came to socialize and share African rhythms, many tourists never saw it, or were told not to set foot inside. Fences kept many out, including residents of the Treme neighborhood nearby.

The worst insult came in summer 2010, when a botched facelift went awry and a contractor cracked the toe of the Louis Armstrong statue. Mayor Mitch Landrieu ordered work to stop and the park was closed. The city discovered newly poured sidewalks were cracked, curbs and manholes damaged, and a sprinkler system was improperly installed. Even one of the park’s soaring palm trees was knocked down.

A new contractor was found, work began anew, and finally, last year, Louis Armstrong Park came back to life, a symbol of the New New Orleans that’s evolved since the storm.

%Gallery-170746%Although the 32-acre space is rarely crowded on weekdays, it’s become a stop for visiting tour groups, like a bunch of French teenagers who posed for pictures and generally ignored a guide trying to explain the site’s historic importance.

McKenzie Coco, a new resident of the French Quarter, came to the park with her husband recently to walk their three dogs. “I always felt sad that it wasn’t being utilized,” Coco said. Now, “it’s well-lit, and safe, and it’s a real positive place for the neighborhood.”

Nobody was happier to see the park return than Ben Harwood and Emanuel Lain, the co-founders of People United For Armstrong Park.

Over the past few years, Harwood and Lain have spearheaded community efforts to bring the park back up to life. With almost no corporate backing, and using volunteers, the pair put together a summer concert series that drew 50,000 people to Armstrong Park. They just held a benefit for the concert series, and plan to expand it by more than double for 2013.

Harwood, a native of Detroit who lives in Treme, and Lain, who grew up in New Orlean’s ninth ward but who attended church near the park, met when Lain knocked on Harwood’s door to ask what should be done with the Municipal Auditorium, which sits within the park.

Quickly, the conversation turned to the closed park, and what might be done to help it. Although they were bent on seeing it come back to life, they say their efforts to rehabilitate the park were not always greeted with warmth by its neighbors.

Although they surveyed several thousand residents, and held two public meetings, “some people told us to stop doing it. This was their park,” Harwood recalls. “We had to be bullheaded, and do what had to be done.”

Disaster funds, which are less restrictive than federal block grants, were available, but it seemed like other projects in New Orleans had a much higher priority, and the park was not listed on city officials’ priority list. “Basically, it seemed like the city was just going to keep the park locked, and that was it.”

The organizers gathered 2,000 signatures demanding that the park be reopened, put together a second line parade that stretched from Congo Square to City Hall, and essentially drove home their point that the park was important to the people who lived in New Orleans. “We did a lot of knife-twisting, using the media, to get the city to admit that this park existed,” he said.

Once work got underway, the PULAP group got an unexpected surge of support when contractors cracked the Armstrong statue. “People were really pissed,” Harwood recalls. There was lingering frustration over the fact that a portion of the park remained fenced in, despite all the renovation work that’s taken place.

Although the park now gleams under streetlights in the evening, Lain says there is more to be done to bring the park back to the way it was when he was young. “Those lagoons used to be clean enough to swim in,” he says, gesturing to the ponds on the north side of the park. He and Harwood have numerous ideas, beyond the concert series, to attract more visitors, whether locals or tourists.

Wireless Internet, like the service available in New York’s Bryant Park, could guarantee users all day long, and help people in the neighborhood who don’t have Web access. Food trucks and coffee stands might attract city workers who have few affordable choices. The organizers would like to see the park used by school bands and other young musicians, who could earn their performance stripes by playing traditional New Orleans jazz.

But, for now, says Lain, the improvements will come one step at a time. “This park needed a champion and our organization is just that,” Lain said.

For more on the New New Orleans, click here.

[Photo credits: Micheline Maynard]

More Colorado Ski Resorts Open In Time For Thanksgiving

by Kraig Becker on

Hoping to hit the slopes for the upcoming long holiday weekend? If you’re heading to Colorado then you’re in luck, as many of the ski resorts will soon be opening for the season. Better yet, much of the state received fresh powder over the past few days, which means there should be some great conditions heading into Thanksgiving.

Keeping with tradition, Arapahoe Basin was amongst the first resorts in the nation to open back in mid-October. They were later joined by both Loveland and Copper Mountain a few weeks later. Today, Winter Park and Wolf Creek open their doors and on Friday of this week Eldora Mountain Resort will get in on the fun, firing up its lifts for the first skiers and snowboarders of the season.

But next week things get really interesting with Crested Butte, Monarch Mountain and Steamboat all opening on Wednesday, November 21. On Thanksgiving Day, Aspen, Cooper, Snowmass and Telluride will welcome their first visitors as well, while Purgatory joins the party on Friday, November 23.

Those hills provide plenty of options for skiers and riders looking to take their first turns of the year, but December brings more choices as winter looms ever nearer. Howelsen and Silverton Mountain both kick off the season on the first of the month, while Sunlight and Aspen Highlands will open their slopes on December 7 and 8 respectively. The following week, Granby Ranch (Dec. 12), Powderhorn (Dec. 13) and Buttermilk (Dec. 15) will round out the schedule.

If you’re itching to hit the slopes then you should have plenty of opportunities very soon. Even if you’re not in Colorado, other resorts are now opening across the U.S.

[Photo Credit: Powderhorn Mountain Resort]